Chapter 8
8
A n impressive spread of patriotic-colored food is on display when I walk into the dining room for breakfast on the morning of July 4.
Cinnamon rolls with white frosting. Blueberry coffee cake. Raspberry muffins. Waffles piled with strawberries and blackberries. Vanilla yogurt. Slices of watermelon. Crepes topped with whipped cream.
My grandmother’s favorite holiday is the Fourth of July, and she celebrates it to the fullest extent. Breakfast is just the opening act for a full day of activities.
First up, the parade in town. Followed by the family tennis tournament. Then lunch at the yacht club. Finally, the grand finale—the Red, White, and Blue party that predates my existence and is tonight’s most exclusive invitation.
The chairs surrounding the table are empty, except for one.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, taking the upholstered chair next to Dad and grabbing a muffin from the pile on the lobster-patterned plate. They’re still warm, steam curling from the tops.
“Good morning to you too, dearest daughter.” His eyes stay on the newspaper he’s scanning.
I roll mine as I reach for the carafe of coffee. “Good morning, favorite father. Where’s Mom?”
“Still sleeping,” he replies, flipping a page.
“Really?”
Mom’s normally an early riser.
Dad folds the paper and tosses it onto the table. “Well, first, she got up at three a.m. for a two-hour conference call with Milan and Paris. Then , she came back to bed and is still sleeping.”
That sounds about right.
“She works too hard,” I say.
“Agreed. But she promised she’d take the rest of the day off, even though ‘it’s not a holiday anywhere else.’”
“Gigi will be happy to hear it.”
Neither of my grandparents is very supportive of my mom’s jobs, but my grandmother is especially dismissive. It’s one of several reasons I’ve never been close with Mom’s parents. They’re both hyperaware of appearances and perception—a prime example being Gigi’s worry that Mom working will make people think she’s not as rich as she is. And it’s also why my grandmother insists my brothers and I call her Gigi since that sounds “chicer” than Grandmother.
I wonder, not for the first time, if my dad’s mom would have cared what her grandchildren called her. I know very little about the original Elizabeth Kensington, aside from that I inherited her name. She died when my dad was five. One of my earliest memories is asking my father why I only had one grandmother. I don’t remember his exact response, but I do remember the haunted look on his face.
I never asked again.
“Did you and Mom decide how long you’re staying?” I ask.
Dad’s forehead wrinkles as he helps himself to some waffles. “Not for certain,” he replies, which is a bizarrely vague answer from the man who plans his calendar months in advance.
Both of my parents do. It was a necessity as they juggled two high-powered careers and three kids. Even now that Bash is in college, neither of my parents shows any sign of slowing down.
“Will you still be here when I get back from Chloe’s wedding?”
“Yes.”
The concrete response should reassure me. But there’s a distant patter of uncertainty that sticks in the back of my head. I won’t be back from Chloe’s wedding for two weeks. That’s a lot longer than my parents typically stay in one place. They jet between meetings and movie premieres and fashion shows and galas and conferences and shoots.
Before I can press my dad for more details, Mom sails into the dining room, wearing a white sundress and her signature red lipstick.
“Morning!” she greets cheerily, squeezing my shoulder as she passes by the back of my chair before kissing Dad on the cheek.
He pulls her in for a real one.
I mime vomiting into my coffee cup. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad are too busy making out to appreciate my acting skills, and my brothers aren’t here to share commiserative looks with. They’re probably still both hungover and asleep.
Kit and Bash went out last night after we got back from Atlantic Crest while I was hunkered down in my bedroom, reviewing potential projects. I purposefully timed the Claremont Park project so that I could take most of July off around Chloe’s wedding. But I’ve never not had a next project lined up, and the lack of future direction is making me anxious. When I’m busier, it’s easier to shut up the self-doubt.
“You turned in early last night, Lili,” Mom says, taking the seat on Dad’s other side. “Everything okay?”
“Mmhmm. I was just tired.”
“Must have been the polo,” Dad comments.
Since my impulsive decision to participate in yesterday’s polo match, I’ve endured no shortage of commentary from my family. Taunts from my brothers about losing. Worry from my dad about the number of fouls during the game. Thinly veiled disappointment from my grandmother about my “unladylike” behavior.
Sometimes, I’m not sure how Gigi and my mom are related. But I’m very grateful I was raised by Scarlett Kensington instead of Josephine Ellsworth. My mom’s the only one who acted like me playing was completely normal while everyone else was staring and whispering.
Kit appears in the dining room a few minutes later, yawning, decked out in American flag board shorts and nothing else. Barefoot and sporting bedhead, looking like he just rolled out of bed and is headed straight to the beach.
Mom takes one look, then says, “Christopher. Shirt. Now.”
Kit casts a longing look at the spread of food, then drags a palm down his face. “It’s the Fourth, Mom,” he whines, looking to Dad for backup.
“No shirt, no service,” Dad tells him. “Listen to your mother.”
Kit groans, then walks back out of the dining room.
“If only Josephine were here,” Dad muses.
Mom gives him a side-glance. “Yeah? You’re in the mood for a lecture on how we’re raising our kids?”
“There wouldn’t be any lectures if we were staying in our own house.”
“Don’t start, Sport.” Mom grabs the carafe and pours some coffee.
My dad is civil with Gigi and Grandfather, but I wouldn’t call them close. I suspect it has a lot to do with their disparaging attitude toward Mom’s work, but I’ve never directly asked.
“Leah sent an email this morning,” Mom tells me. “The dresses just arrived at Carys Park.”
My mom’s fashion label, rouge, designed the bridesmaid dresses for me, Bridget, Fran, and Gwen—Chloe’s older sister—to wear to Chloe’s wedding.
“I’ll let Chloe know. Thanks, Mom.”
“Of course,” she replies. “I want to see lots of photos.”
“You will,” I assure her. “Chloe’s handing out disposable cameras to all the wedding guests.”
Bash wanders into the dining room. He has a shirt on at least, but it’s a wrinkled one that he’s wearing with basketball shorts.
“You never texted last night,” Mom scolds as he sits down across from us.
Bash yawns before apologizing. “Sorry.”
“You were with Kit?”
My youngest brother glances around the chairs before answering, “Yep.”
Bullshit .
I take a dainty sip of coffee, glancing between Mom’s narrowed eyes and Bash’s bleary ones. My parents were equally strict with all three of us, but Bash is the last one partially living at home. He has two years left at Dartmouth.
Dad intervenes. “If you’re out past midnight, your mother and I expect a text. Understood, Sebastian?”
“Uh-huh,” Bash says as he reaches for a cinnamon roll.
He’s always been the smartest out of the three of us. Unlike me, who hated school because of my dyslexia, and Kit, who was more interested in being the life of the party than getting straight As, Bash’s the sort of student teachers see as a future judge or surgeon. He’s more easygoing too. Kit or I would have argued for a one a.m. curfew.
Gigi enters the dining room next. Everything about her appearance is pristine, and her expression is as animated as I expected on this date.
She and Mom might not act a lot alike, but they look it. Meaning I resemble Gigi too, aside from the blue eyes Mom once confided are her favorite feature of Dad’s.
My grandmother smiles approvingly at my outfit. Her smile drops a little when she spots a slouched Bash, then another centimeter when Kit returns to the room. He pulled on a white T-shirt, but he’s still barefoot with messy hair.
“I’m not sure when breakfast became so … casual,” Gigi remarks.
“They’ll change before we leave for the parade,” Mom tells her.
Kit opens his mouth—to protest, I’m positive—but Dad shuts him up with a hard look.
“What time are you expecting Oliver and his family to arrive?” Gigi asks Dad.
He checks his watch. “They should be here in twenty minutes, Josephine.”
Gigi and Grandfather’s house is plenty large enough to host Uncle Oliver, Aunt Hannah, and my two cousins, but they’re staying at my parents’ house instead. A house I suspect Dad bought to avoid staying here, but Gigi always insists we keep them company to make up for “all the time spent on the West Coast.”
“Where’s Dad?” my mom asks her.
Gigi sighs. “He took an early tee time. He promised he’d be back by …” She glances at the clock above the mantel. “Now.”
My parents exchange a loaded look. Mom appears exasperated. Dad amused.
Gigi takes a seat at the table and fills a crystal bowl with yogurt and berries. A maid delivers a steaming cup of tea in front of her as she writes in the leather portfolio that was tucked under her arm. Her penmanship is the type of precise cursive that looks like it was drawn by a machine, the perfect loops evident from across the table. Her to-do list for today, I’m guessing. The Red, White, and Blue party is not a small event. In years past, the guest list was around a thousand.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the room is the clink of silver against china. Breakfast with my parents and brothers is normally a much noisier affair, but we’re mostly on our best behavior here.
Gigi closes the portfolio a moment later, taking a careful taste of her hot tea. “I hope you’ll refrain from any unrefined activities today, Elizabeth.”
My mom’s parents have always called me by my full name. My dad’s father is the only one of my grandparents who calls me Lili.
“I just felt like doing something different,” I say, grabbing another muffin.
Playing yesterday felt like a golden opportunity to corrupt conventionality a little. Most of Atlantic Crest’s members probably think I’m a “vapid heiress.” At least I showed them I’m also proficient with a mallet. That I’m more than my last name and my looks.
“Events at Atlantic Crest aren’t meant for making bold statements, darling.”
There’s a cacophony of responses to that statement.
“Who cares? She’s a fucking Kensington.” Kit.
“If polo is unrefined , why do they play it at the club?” Bash.
“Lili played well.” Dad.
“Perhaps we should stop going to events at Atlantic Crest then.” Mom.
My family members all leap to my defense, and their support coalesces into a warm glow in my chest. Kensingtons are allowed to give each other shit, but no one else is.
Gigi dabs at her mouth delicately. I know her expressions well enough to tell that she’s regretting mentioning yesterday.
My grandfather’s booming voice alleviates some of the tension in the room. Even in his seventies, Hanson Ellsworth has the kind of presence that can’t be ignored. He’s had two heart attacks, and he sometimes walks with a cane, but his mind is as sharp as ever. He sold Ellsworth Enterprises eight years ago and has spent most days since golfing and telling other people how to run their businesses. The only two people I’ve never heard him dole out advice to are Mom and Dad. He draws better boundaries than Gigi does—barely.
“You’re late, Hanson.” Gigi gives the mantel clock a pointed look.
“Apologies, Josephine.” Grandfather takes one of the few remaining seats—the head of the table, of course—then surveys us all with a proud smile. “Busy morning. Had a hard time getting away.”
“Great breakfast, Gigi,” Bash says, grabbing a waffle.
We all murmur our agreement, even Grandfather, who hasn’t touched a thing on the table.
Gigi beams. “Thank you, Sebastian.”
I swear he milks being the baby of the family every chance he gets. Mom’s an only child, so the three of us are Gigi’s only grandchildren.
“I invited a few more guests, Josephine,” Grandfather declares.
We all glance at Gigi, whose lips are tightly pursed.
“You did what?”
“I was playing golf with William Waldorf, and he invited Derek Barclay to join us. Tonight’s festivities came up, and it would have been rude not to extend an invitation.”
Gigi huffs dramatically, then reaches for her portfolio and makes a note.
Grandfather sighs. “You ordered enough food for the entire East Coast. A few more people won’t be much of an imposition.”
My family is entirely silent. This is Gigi’s day. And her Red, White, and Blue party is the event she prioritizes over everything else. Everyone—most of all Grandfather—knows she doesn’t take well to last-minute changes made without her explicit authorization.
“ A few more ? How many people did you invite, Hanson?” With each word, Gigi’s tone climbs closer to shrill.
Another heavy sigh from Grandfather.
For the most part, he and Gigi have a symbiotic relationship. He has his priorities, and she has hers. This overlap is equivalent to her showing up on the fairway and telling him which club to choose.
“He said his wife would be coming. And that his stepson is visiting from England and would likely join them.”
“The duke?” Bash asks.
A cold weight drops in my stomach. Fuck no .
“Elizabeth!” Gigi exclaims. “What unbecoming language.”
That loud exclamation that was supposed to stay in my head? Turns out, I said it aloud.
“Sorry, Gigi,” I mutter.
Bash’s staring at me. So is everyone else. “You know Charles?”
“ You know Charles?”
“I met him yesterday at the club,” Bash tells me. “Seems like a cool guy. Only knew he was a duke because his cousin talks about it.”
“How well acquainted are you with this aristocrat?” Gigi asks me, tilting her head to the side. Her neat chignon doesn’t so much as wobble with the movement.
“Could we not discuss Lili’s se—I mean, love life while I’m eating?” Kit drawls.
“ Christopher ,” Mom chides.
Following her disciplining, I don’t miss the flash of curiosity on her face. I told Mom I broke up with Lawrence—the lawyer I was dating in Chicago—but haven’t mentioned anyone since. Because there’s no one to mention.
“I’m not acquainted—I hardly know him. Not even hardly. I don’t know him.” The truth comes out more defensive than emphatic.
“He ghosted you, huh?”
“ Christopher .” Dad this time.
“He did not.” I glare at my brother.
It should have occurred to me that Charlie might wind up at my grandparents’ party tonight. In the past two days, we’ve ended up in the same place three times. There was no advance warning at Kensington Consolidated or Number 34 or Atlantic Crest though. And those encounters were all prior to me informing Charlie I’d overheard him insulting me last summer.
I saw the look on Charlie’s face before I walked away yesterday—he got the message loud and clear. Rather than my feeling triumphant, the thought of seeing him later fills me with trepidation. Any outcome is far from ideal. Either he addresses what happened and I lose the armor of categorizing him as a smug snob, or he ignores it and I’ll have to act the part of polite hostess while watching everyone else fawn over him.
None of it should matter. After tonight, there’s a good chance I’ll never seen him again. According to Fran, he’s in a relationship— poor girl .
But I’m still bothered.
“If you don’t know him, why don’t you like him?”
I glower at Bash, who’s decided to battle Kit for the title of Most Annoying Brother this morning. “I find him … pretentious.”
And rude and condescending and entitled and haughty and … fascinating.
“Well, he is a duke,” Gigi says, as if that’s a reasonable excuse for any character flaw.
Two servers enter the dining room with fresh plates of food. Once they return to the kitchen, Gigi launches into today’s schedule.
I try to pay attention, but mostly focus on my plate.
Hundreds of people will be attending the patriotic party tonight. If I decide to, I’ll be able to avoid Charlie entirely.