Chapter 5
November
Five Months Until The Wedding
I check my watch. Ten minutes till the start of the women’s luncheon, but not a Coldwell in sight. Tapping my foot on the floor, I scan the lobby and fiddle with the gold chain around my neck.
This pristine winter wonderland Christmas is a favorite aesthetic of the Upper East Side. My old classmates’ families would bring in professionals to literally deck the halls of their townhomes, till they were glistening with picturesque holiday merriment.
It’s night and day compared to memories with Babcia in our two-bedroom apartment, rolling golumpki at the kitchen counter with sauce on the stove.
The smells filling the room were rich and the slightest bit sour.
She would pop CDs of classic holiday crooners into the old CD player that held six different discs, even though I’d told her many times Bluetooth speakers were a thing and she could store music on her phone.
“I like the crackle,” she’d say.
I’d roll my eyes and remind her that was records. The small bubble of our apartment—the warmth, the smells, the sounds—my peers would’ve probably laughed at the simplicity of it compared with their own celebrations.
“Elizabeth!” A willowy woman with a short, platinum-blond bob and pale skin further accentuated by her collarbone-to-toe black clothing strides across the lobby toward me, heels clicking.
Cynthia, Carter’s mom. No matter how many times we’ve met, she calls me by the anglicized—and incorrect—version of my name.
Still, my heart melts at the sight of her.
She wraps me in a hug surprisingly strong and warm for her bony frame and whispers in my ear, “I’m so glad Carter convinced you.”
My muscles loosen in her embrace. “Well, I wanted—”
“Oh please, I know this isn’t your thing. Now hush, here they come.”
A clack-clack-clacking over her shoulder indicates the arrival of several more relatives, huddled in a uniform mass of black and beige.
Then the crowd parts and there she is—my rival turned…
obligatory friend? Beautiful auburn hair in the same low chignon as at the engagement party.
She’s wearing a silk olive-green jumpsuit that somehow manages to look both festive and subdued.
Shit, how do we greet each other? Is she a hugger?
She’s British, so probably not. Should I curtsy?
Give a royal wave? But then her lips part in a dazzling smile and she steps toward me, arms outstretched.
My brain fails to process a proper response as her arms come around me and my body is something akin to an uncooked spaghetti noodle.
“Libby!” She says it as though I were her long-lost puppy, rather than a woman she’s barely ever spoken to.
But as she pulls away, arms still resting just above my elbows, there’s a hint of something in her eyes—a plea? Is she wondering if I’ll sign on to this bizarre request of Carter’s and play the winning role of best friend to the bride?
“Sabrina.” I return her warm smile. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Nominate me for the Oscar.
—
We make our way into the Palm Court—a different sort of forest set against the shining marble columns. The palm fronds stretch toward the domed glass ceiling, and mirrors reflect the buttery soft light across the space. Even though I’ve seen this room before, it still takes my breath away.
Carter’s mom hooks an arm through my elbow and whispers, “Tea service at the Plaza? I thought Judith was kidding. A bit gauche, to be sure.”
Perhaps it’s a bit too on the nose to be taking the British fiancée to a high tea service.
We probably look like a bunch of giddy seven-year-olds on the way to our first tea party.
But even as I nod along with Cynthia, my insides bubble.
I’m a teenager again, and this beautiful room with its golden accents, cream-colored tablecloths, and ruby red garland wrapping the stone columns gives me no shortage of wonder.
At some point it became uncool to feel anything, to be awed by things.
I learned to train my face into indifference years ago. But joy blooms inside me all the same.
The Coldwells have rented out the entire space, so we have the Court to ourselves with a table set for thirty. Each setting has a tiny place card. My lips turn down slightly when I see “Elizabeth Lakoski.” Really, would it have killed them to look my name up?
“Looks like we’re next to each other.” Sabrina comes up beside me.
I’ve had blind dates less stilted than this. Forcing a smile, I nod.
Servers come around to take our drink orders.
The relatives chatter among themselves, grasping at each other’s sleeves, remarking on this one’s new dress, that one’s haircut.
I fidget with the napkin in my lap as Sabrina and I sit in silence made all the more noticeable by the conversation flowing freely around us.
Thankfully, I’m saved when a server leans in to take my drink order.
I ask for a glass of champagne and Sabrina follows suit, winking at me.
If I weren’t morally opposed to her existence, I might be warming to her.
“And Elizabeth, what do you do?” one of Carter’s aunts asks me across the table.
“Libby,” I cough through a swallow of water. “Libby’s fine. And I work as a program manager for a foundation. Mostly working with grants in the education sector. Primary and secondary education, that is.”
“Ah yes, Richard is involved in philanthropy. Sits on the board for several foundations. Is yours a board position?”
“Nope,” I say through a forced smile. “Just a program manager. I help recommend initiatives the foundation might be interested in funding.”
“And is that a typical role for an attorney?”
I have ceased to be fazed by this question, having answered it numerous times—primarily, for my own grandmother—so the answer comes easily.
“I’m still an attorney. I got my start in juvenile law and did that at the beginning of my career.
It was very rewarding, and I enjoyed working with the young people I represented.
” I take a sip of champagne. “Ultimately, though, I realized I could make a much greater difference in these young people’s lives by organizing programs, funding, and the right advocacy. ”
What I don’t say is how I became a one-woman campaign, advocating for increased funding, attending every open meeting held by the public-school board.
I used my connections to reach influential donors, and when I found the decisions were made by the folks on the inside of their foundations, well, it was a matter of if you can’t beat them, join them.
And maybe one day, with Carter’s help or on my own, I’ll have even more resources to change the system that fails so many.
Another one of Carter’s relatives gives me a pitying look. “That sounds difficult, dear. I’m sure a lot of those young folks are pretty…troubled.”
“Could do with some discipline, if you ask me,” Aunt Number One chimes in. “Do any of these programs you’re recommending take a disciplinary approach?”
“Please tell me I was adopted.”
I wobble on my chair and nearly lose my seat at the baritone voice behind me.
Trip stands to my right, just behind Sabrina—who is now giving me a concerned look, no doubt from the fact I just jumped three inches off my seat.
I should be used to it by now, given it’s the third time he’s popped up unannounced.
I clear my throat loudly and try to shoot him dirty looks without drawing further attention from Sabrina, which turns out to be entirely impossible. Opting for charades instead, I wrap my arm around the back of my chair and do a shooing motion with my hand.
“Going to have to try harder than that.” Trip’s tone is bored.
I turn an inch to get a better view of him in my periphery. His hair is gelled back in the same style Carter uses to tame his. I prefer it mussed, the way he had it at my apartment. No, that’s not right. I don’t have any preferences when it comes to Trip Coldwell except that he stop haunting me.
A beautiful white porcelain teapot is set in front of each guest. Next come the tiered cages—each level adorned with savory sandwiches, scones, and sweets.
Dishes of caviar are placed between us with serving crackers arranged with more care than I put into my own appearance.
It’s an obscene amount of food, none of which these women will eat, and all of which I hope the kitchen staff will enjoy before tossing to the curb.
I, however, plan to do my part. I reach for one of the sweets on the bottom tray.
“Not the lemon verbena, trust me,” Trip says behind my back. “You’re better off going for the foie gras macaron.”
“I’ll decide what I eat myself, thank you,” I say under my breath.
“What’s that?” Sabrina turns to me.
I stuff the lemon custard into my mouth and nod enthusiastically, giving a thumbs-up and a moan of delight for added emphasis.
“Smooth, Elz.”
If only I could kick him in the shin. His lack of physical form is truly annoying.
“I think it’s great. The work you’re doing with young people.” Sabrina ignores my barbaric chewing. “I’d love to discuss it more with you, if you don’t mind.”
My mouth is still full of the sticky custard, so I can only nod. Damn, he was right. It’s really not that good.
“I’ve been trying to get my father to consider more philanthropic efforts. I know the organizations you’re looking at are likely US-based, but I’d be interested in learning how we might be able to apply what you’ve learned globally.”
I take a big gulp of champagne, and the sticky sweetness and bubbles create a weird sensation as they travel down my throat.
Or maybe it’s the fact that Carter’s fiancée just showed more interest in my work than he has in the fifteen years I’ve known him.
Sure, he’s always amenable to reviewing information I send him, but having someone actually want to learn more, to apply this work at a larger scale—it’s… new.
“That—that would be great,” I say.
“It’s a plan.” She clinks her glass of champagne against mine. “Cheers.”
The meal drags on with Aunt Number One talking about so-and-so’s new house in the Hamptons, Aunt Number Two ranting about how Melanie—you know the one, with the horrendous chandelier—showed up to her birthday party uninvited.
My tray is nearly depleted, and I’m pleasantly surprised to see Sabrina’s is too.
After two glasses of champagne and an assortment of rich food, I’m in desperate need of a nap. I stifle a yawn with my napkin.
My ears perk up, however, when Aunt Number One says, “And Richard said they really should postpone, what with Trip in the ICU.”
Aunt Number Two weighs in. “Such a shame. What a beautiful young man.”
“Ah, yes. The only thing I was any good for. A pretty portrait to hang above their antique hunting knife collection.” Trip’s been over my shoulder the whole time, the raised hairs along my neck and his occasional commentary the only indication he’s still there.
I chuckle to myself, until I realize the conversation has gone silent and everyone’s eyes are turned my direction. Oh, crap. That was not an opportune time to laugh.
Aunt Number One pins her gaze to me. “What, dear? Do you not think Trip Coldwell an attractive man?”
This feels like a trap. “No, he—well, I. I’ve never met him—”
“Liar,” he whispers behind me.
I continue. “But I’ve seen photos, and yes. He has some nice qualities.”
“Like a movie star, if you ask me!” Aunt Number Two proclaims. “Got the best combination of the Coldwell genes. A young Paul Newman.”
“No, different coloring,” Aunt Number One chimes in. “Theo James?”
“Marlon Brando?” I offer.
“That’s it!” Aunt Number One claps her hands in delight.
“Gee, I’m flattered.” His voice is right next to my ear now, and I’ve never had a bigger desire for the ability to elbow someone in the ribs.
“Anyway, I told Cynthia they might want to wait till things had…resolved. One way or the other.”
“Anna!”
“What? It’s true. They can hardly expect him to wake up at this point.”
“Well.” A third woman dabs at her mouth with a napkin before setting it in her lap, milking the pause for maximum impact. “Gwen’s told the family she plans to end life support after the wedding, so as not to interfere with the happy occasion. They will quietly say goodbye to Trip soon after.”
I feel blood rushing to my cheeks for Trip’s sake, but he’s behind me, so I can’t see his reaction. Mutters and gasps bubble their way through the group of women.
“As she should,” Aunt Number One asserts.
“The poor woman is wasting away. And it’s already been six months, for heaven’s sake.
First her husband, now this. Gwen deserves a bit of peace.
We can only hope Trip hangs in there a bit longer.
God forbid he takes a turn just before the wedding.
It would hardly be in good taste to continue with the nuptials.
Something to consider, dear.” She turns to Sabrina.
To her credit, Sabrina doesn’t engage in their conversation, instead turning to ask a server for water refills.
“Would Trip be invited to the wedding?” Aunt Number Two asks.
“Don’t be ridiculous—he’s a cousin!”
“Yes, but that whole business with the inheritance. And the way he and John screamed at each other the night of his ninetieth birthday party. Like a pair of howling dogs! No one heard from Trip for months before his accident anyway.”
John. Carter and Trip’s grandfather, who passed away about a year ago. The namesake Trip is determined to abandon.
“Can you imagine the blowup that might have happened if John were still alive and the two of them had to be in the same room again?”
“Maybe it’s fortunate, the timing of John’s passing.”
I still can’t see Trip, but there’s a palpable tension behind me, as though the air is tightening like a rubber band.
“Odd they both would pass within the same year.”
“Heavens, Rosemary. Trip is still alive!” one of them whispers.
“And all that anger unresolved between them. Trip really should have—”
Whatever she says next is lost as everyone’s attention turns to the chandelier hanging above the Palm Court, which is flickering wildly, sending strobe-like patterns flying in the mirrored reflections.
Like a starburst, a surge of light spreads from the chandelier to the recessed lighting at the perimeter, then to the floor lamps lighting the tea tables.
Everything goes dark. All the women look up, gripping the table for dear life even though nothing is physically shaking.
All the women, that is, except me. My eyes are on a tall figure in a gray suit running through the dining area archway.