Chapter Seven Damion #3
“Sure she won’t,” I said, smiling triumphantly as I turned to go back to the kitchen. “Because no one gossips about anything at Gardenwood.”
I left not long after that, but when she closed the door behind me, something about her hand shutting me out of Remi’s house, leaving me standing on the stoop like I didn’t have any right to be inside, sparked my irritation.
Irritation that only grew at dinner, because all my mom wanted to talk about was the Lowells and the season.
My two least favorite subjects.
“You’ll never guess who came to the planning meeting today,” my mom said as she speared a beet in her salad with a fork.
“Who?” my dad asked, moving his fish knife through the salmon like a skilled surgeon.
“Shawna Lowell,” she said, shaking her head like it was unbelievable. “Not only are the Lowells here and all moved in at Remi’s, but she wants to be involved in the PTA. She actually volunteered to help with the planning of the season.”
“You’re kidding,” my dad replied, setting his utensils on his plate with a clink before reaching for his brandy. “You met her?”
“Oh yeah,” my mom said, lifting her fork to her mouth. “Shawna is just as permed and eyelinered as you would’ve expected from a woman with that name, and she seems utterly enchanted by the idea of the season.”
You could tell by the mockery in her tone that my mother was quoting Shawna Lowell.
“God help us,” I said under my breath.
“And get this,” she said to my father, sounding outraged.
“Claire had barely touched on potential themes for this year when Shawna jumped right in and said, ‘What about New York literature?’ I was ready for everyone to shoot her down because we were all leaning toward a color-themed masquerade with a midnight reveal—I mean, what a brilliant idea—but then she starts going off about books and how a specific book would be a great theme. Apparently she taught English back in Nebraska, so she started listing off all these famous novels and authors from the city.”
I reached for a roll and thought it actually sounded like an interesting idea. I mean, I still wouldn’t attend the overblown ball, but at least it wasn’t something inane like a color-coded masquerade.
“Nobody looked interested until she said The Great Gatsby, and then—”
“Dear God, Mimi lost her mind, didn’t she?” my dad supplied.
“Oh, you have no idea,” my mom said with a dramatic sigh. “The woman was very nearly cackling with glee.”
“I can imagine.”
Mimi Carter was allegedly a descendant—through marriage—of F. Scott Fitzgerald himself, which for some reason drove her friends crazy.
“Then someone suggested Breakfast at Tiffany’s, which made everyone lose their collective minds because of all the jewelry ramifications and the fashion possibilities, so now it’s a done deal.
The season’s general theme is New York literature, the ball will be book-specific, and there’s nothing I can do about it. ”
My mom sounded so disappointed, it was almost funny.
“What’s the third book option for the ball?” I asked, and took a bite of the heavy hearth bun in my hand.
God, I love bread.
“What?” my dad said, not looking up from the phone, which had just beeped with a notification.
“Aren’t there usually three choices the committee votes on?” I asked.
My mother talked about the season way too much if I knew how it worked.
“No one could agree on the third title, so we’re reconvening tomorrow to brainstorm,” she said, reaching for her wineglass.
“But I’m really mourning the masquerade idea because it was so deliciously otherworldly.
Mysterious, like something from Bridgerton.
I’m terrified we’re going to get stuck with something depressing like A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. ”
Yeah, not exactly a banging ball idea, I thought. Have to agree with Mom on this one.
“What about Edith Wharton?” I said, thinking through New York authors.
My mom said, “Honey, I can’t remember who wrote wha—”
“The House of Mirth? The Age of Innocence?” As soon as I said the titles, though, I knew they wouldn’t work. Both novels were basically just scathing critiques of New York’s upper class, so it definitely wasn’t a fit because Gardenwood did not engage in self-deprecation or irony.
We were far too elite to have a sense of humor about ourselves.
Also, why am I offering ideas for the thing I LOATHE?
“Wait—Edith Wharton wrote The Age of Innocence?” My mother set down her glass, her eyes going all big in her face. “Oh my God, I think that movie won the Oscar for best costume design!”
“The movie—”
She grinned and clasped her hands together. “I loved that movie. The bustles, the corsets, the fabrics—what an idea!”
“I thought it was supposed to be about the literature,” I said. “You know, the book itself?”
“Oh, come on, Damion, artistic license,” she squealed, beaming. “This is amazing; I can just see it now. The Age of Innocence ball. The hats, the parasols, the gloves… oh my God, I cannot wait to show up tomorrow and blow everyone’s mind with this idea!”
“You know it’s kind of a depressing book, right?” I said, wondering if anyone on that planning committee, aside from my mom, would see this as a good idea.
“You can’t stop her now, Dame,” my dad said, his eyes still on his phone. “Just let her go.”
“But—”
“Eat another roll, dear,” my mom said, grinning from ear to ear. “You’ve earned it.”