Chapter Twenty-Seven Julia
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Julia
Julia had to hand it to Tara; the woman could really throw a party, even if this party wasn’t like anything Julia would have planned for herself.
Guests spilled through the solarium, a room whose wide-planked wooden floors were covered in antique furniture and Venetian lamps, onto the back lawn of the Mayfair house.
White hydrangeas floated in the plunge pool like tiny stars.
Waiters passed canapés on silver trays—fresh figs with goat cheese, steak tartare on little wafers, seared scallops in delicate porcelain spoons.
She was amused to note that Harry’s cousin Dylan was stationed firmly at the bar, where men in jackets poured the specialty cocktail, a vodka and lavender thing with sprigs of mint.
And inside, an entire wall had been filled with photos of Julia and Harry in silver frames.
Julia had paused at the pictures, wondering where Tara got them all, before the event coordinator grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her outside.
Now she stood next to Harry in a receiving line, shaking hands with an interminable number of strangers who all asked her the same questions: Where was she from, where did she go to school, were her parents the Dodds who had chaired Charity: Water’s gala last year?
It stung a little, knowing that they were all trying to assess her worth—trying to decide whether she was a gold digger who had targeted Harry or someone who actually deserved him.
Julia stole a glance across the lawn at her aunt and uncle, who were clustered at a high-topped table. Catching her gaze, they waved cheerfully, but Julia could tell they were overwhelmed by all of this. How could they not be?
“You okay?” Harry asked, drawing her back a step, away from the line of guests waiting to get their attention.
Julia gave a rueful smile, wondering just how many people were left in the receiving line.
“I’m good. Though I have to admit, I would rather do the Tower of London ghost tour again than face these crowds.
” Her eyes drifted to Tara, who was still greeting her guests with the cool condescension of a queen deigning to speak with her lowly subjects.
“I know it’s a lot of people.” Harry’s gaze lit up as he caught sight of someone behind Julia, and he put his hands on her shoulders to spin her around. “Go. I’ll man the ship for a while.”
Julia’s entire body flooded with relief as a figure in a gold-fringed dress marched forward, dark bob swinging.
“Abby!” she exclaimed, looping her arm through her friend’s and guiding them toward the house.
She hadn’t seen Abby since their adventures, or misadventures, at the club several nights ago.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Julia went on. “I’ve been wanting to thank you for the bachelorette party.” It had been worth it, even if it did get her in trouble with her mother-in-law.
Tara had cornered Julia at breakfast the next morning and shown her the paparazzi photos. She had been graciousness itself, assuring Julia that the situation was “being handled,” whatever that meant. But Julia couldn’t help but feel that the whole situation was a mark against her.
“I don’t understand. How did the paparazzo even know who I am?” Julia had wondered aloud.
“It’s their job to know,” Tara had said simply. “I’m sorry to say that you’ll have to get used to it. Be more careful moving forward.” In other words, Ellene family members did not dance on tables in a sweaty, sloppy mess.
It had shaken Julia, knowing that she was now someone the tabloids would keep tabs on. That she could be the subject of one of those ridiculous “baby bump” headlines on display in the grocery store checkout aisle.
“About the bachelorette.” Abby lowered her voice meaningfully. “I want to make sure you’re okay. That’s why I called you yesterday. Did you black out the way I did?”
Julia guiltily recalled that Abby had tried her yesterday, while Julia had been in a last-minute meeting with the party planner. Not that anyone listened to her opinion. But after her dressing-down from Tara at the breakfast table, Julia had felt obligated to show up.
“You blacked out?” Julia repeated. “You did have a lot to drink at the club. I mean, you got us vodka Red Bulls.” And all those shots.
Abby made a face at the mention of Red Bull. “I don’t remember the club at all. My memory cuts out at the Four Seasons.”
“What? But—we only had two drinks at the Four Seasons, and you didn’t even finish yours,” Julia protested, as if this might change things.
It made her unreasonably sad that Abby didn’t remember any of it: singing Spice Girls, walking through the streets arm-in-arm in their cheap hen-party gear, kicking off their heels at the club and dancing barefoot because their feet hurt.
Laughing as they reminisced about all the foolish things they had done in college.
“I must have been drugged. It’s the only explanation that makes sense,” Abby mused.
The hairs on the back of Julia’s arms prickled with a strange sensation. A sort of vertigo, as if something uncanny had tilted the world like a fun-house mirror.
She hadn’t felt this sensation in years. Not since the summer her mom died, the summer everything got strange and unexplainable.
That is, until recently.
Until Harry’s family had entered her life.
“I can’t believe something like that would happen at the Four Seasons! We should report it,” Julia began, but Abby reached for her hands and squeezed them reassuringly.
“It’s okay, really. Nothing bad happened. I checked my Nest cam, and I made it home perfectly fine by myself a little after ten.”
“You mean two,” Julia said, correcting her. No way had Abby made it home at ten; they had barely arrived at the club by then.
Abby didn’t seem to be listening. She took a step back, letting go of Julia’s hands. Her brow creased a little as her eyes traveled up and down Julia. “I have to say, you look very…”
“Bridal?” Julia supplied, attempting to sound lighthearted.
Tara had picked out this dress: a long-sleeved one with buttons up the bodice, all the way to her throat. It was designer and very expensive, composed of multiple layers of lace that swished pleasantly over one another. But it was just so demure, so prim.
“You look like Queen Victoria,” Abby said bluntly. “What’s with the historical vibe?”
“Tara gave me this dress,” Julia admitted.
Her friend sighed. “We talked about this. I’m sure Harry’s mother means well, but you can’t let her walk all over you.”
“It’s just a dress,” Julia said swiftly. “You know I never really care about what I wear. When there’s something worth fighting about, I’ll stand up for myself. I promise.”
If this had been Abby’s engagement party, her friend would have probably shown up in a hot-pink jumpsuit, just to make a statement to her future mother-in-law. But Julia had no desire to make waves.
Whatever issues Harry might have had with his family, she felt certain of one thing. He loved his mother. The last thing Julia wanted was to create conflict with Tara, especially over something as trivial as a white cocktail dress. Even if it was a bit frumpy.
She braced herself for another protest from Abby, but her friend was staring across the party, wide-eyed. “Oh my god. What is he doing here?”
Julia followed her friend’s gaze and blinked.
No, it was impossible. Surely Preston Hayes, her college boyfriend, wasn’t at her engagement party.
“Who is that woman he brought?” Abby demanded.
Julia shook her head, still reeling. “That’s not his date; that’s Valentine. She’s married to Harry’s brother.”
Valentine looked impossibly beautiful, almost ethereal, in a flowy dress with an uneven hemline. As if she heard them talking, she turned to stare directly at Julia, an eyebrow raised mockingly.
Could Valentine know, somehow, about Julia’s history with Preston? What if she’d brought him here to mess with Julia—as a challenge, as an attack?
But that was impossible. Julia hadn’t even told Harry about Preston.
“He’s going to meet your future in-laws,” Abby warned as Preston started toward the Ellenes. Belatedly, Julia realized that Preston was accompanied by his father, a genial and red-faced man wearing an American-flag pin on his lapel.
Julia cursed under her breath. “Sorry, I have to go handle…whatever that is.”
She arrived in time to hear Bruce exclaim, “Senator Hayes! How lovely for you to join us this evening.”
The senator nodded. “It was no trouble at all. When your assistant called a few days ago and explained the error, I was all too happy for an excuse to get across the pond. I hate DC this time of year,” he added bluntly.
“And while I’m grateful that you were willing to fly us over, you know I can’t accept corporate gifts of that nature. ”
“Of course,” Bruce replied, though something in his expression made Julia think he hadn’t known his assistant offered the senator a transatlantic flight.
“This is my son Preston,” the senator added, gesturing for Julia’s ex to step forward.
Julia’s heart thudded in her chest as Preston shook Mr. Ellene’s hand, then Harry’s. “Congratulations, man,” he said, too loudly. “Julia is a special woman.”
Harry frowned. “I’m sorry, have you met?”
“I’m Preston,” her ex said, as if that should explain everything.
Julia stepped in hastily. “Preston and I went to Harvard together,” she explained, before Preston could divulge their past. She was aware of Abby bobbing along in her peripheral vision, probably trying to decide whether to intervene.
“Harry’s sister Alina went to Harvard, too,” Julia offered, trying to draw Preston away from Harry. “I should introduce you.”
Preston refused to budge. He was still staring at Harry, trying to get the measure of him. “Alina, you said? I feel like I would have remembered an Ellene overlapping with us.”
This was surreal. The last time Julia had seen Preston was six years ago, when she’d gone to confront him at the Porcellian Club’s house—which club members called the Barn, as if to mock how ornate it all was.
Their motto was inscribed over the front entryway, Dum vivimus vivamus. While we live, let’s live.
She’d found him sprawled on a leather couch downstairs, his arm around a girl with long hair and a short dress.
“Julia?” Preston hadn’t even bothered to shift away from the blonde nestled against him. “What are you doing here? We aren’t officially on tap, but you can grab a beer if—”
“You copied my essay.”
There was an uncertain moment of silence. Then Preston stood. “Julia, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You stole from me!” Julia insisted.
Preston laughed. It twisted his handsome face into something ugly. “I stole from you? You have nothing I could want.”
Seeing him now, those words echoed nastily through Julia’s brain. You have nothing I could want.
No. She wasn’t that girl anymore—the girl who’d been so desperate for approval that she’d allowed a man to use her and discard her. She had seen too much to ever be that na?ve, that trusting, again.
“Harry, you were at Harvard with us too, right?” Preston went on, in that easygoing, chummy way of his. “I was a porkie.”
“A porkie,” Harry repeated flatly. Julia loved him so much in that moment, for making the term, breathlessly coveted at Harvard, sound diminished and small.
“The Porcellian Club.” Preston sounded miffed at having to explain himself.
“No. I didn’t attend Harvard.”
Harry must have sensed Julia’s unease, because his arm slipped around her waist, reassuring and perhaps a touch proprietary. As if to warn Preston not to push his luck.
“My mistake.” Preston chuckled. “I thought I recognized a fellow brother, but I guess the only thing we have in common is Julia.” He said her name meaningfully, making it abundantly clear in what context, exactly, he knew Julia.
Heat flooded Julia’s cheeks. She felt Harry’s arm tighten around her waist. To her relief, Bruce and Tara had entered their own conversation with the senator, so they were unaware of the drama unfolding among the young people several feet away.
“You two…,” Harry began.
“We dated, all of senior year,” Preston said, too loudly.
“Funny. Julia and I have been together for some time. She’s never mentioned you.” Harry’s voice was casual, but Julia heard the knife-edge of warning beneath.
Preston’s swagger seemed to fade a little, but then he flashed that smile again—the one that had always opened doors, made girls fall into his lap, made professors rush to forgive him.
Except Julia knew, now, that it wasn’t really about his handsome smile.
Things fell into his lap because of his family’s money and power.
Both of which the Ellenes had in spades.
“Congratulations,” Preston said again to Harry. “I’ve always thought Julia was the one that got away. Or maybe I’m the one that got away?” he added with a laugh. “I guess the jury’s still out!”
Finally, Julia found her voice.
“I think I’m the one who was lucky to get away, given your history of cheating.” Julia spoke lightly, but she saw Preston’s eyes flash. She felt perversely glad to have pissed him off.
Then, summoning her most Tara-esque voice, she stepped back. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find the event planner.”
Julia had to leave this conversation now, before she did something she might regret. Slapping a senator’s son at an engagement party was hardly the careful behavior that Tara had requested.
“Jules,” Harry murmured, but she brushed past him.
That was when she saw Valentine watching her again. The woman gave a pleased little smirk and tilted her head in Preston’s direction, as if to say, You’re welcome.
Julia nearly stumbled in her high heels.
She thought back to the other night, at the Four Seasons bar, when Abby had asked her about Preston.
Could Valentine have eavesdropped on them somehow?
Julia hadn’t seen her there, but she recalled how the waitress had awkwardly lingered near their table.
Was it possible that Valentine had bribed the woman to listen in on their conversation, maybe even record it?
The very notion felt outlandish, but Julia was starting to realize that there was nothing these rich people wouldn’t do.
Maybe it was time she and Valentine had a conversation. An honest one this time.