The Season (25 page)

“I can't believe this.” But I did. I believed every word.

“Me either. I wasn't capable of it. I thought the
whole world had landed on me—I couldn't get out of bed. But Andrew and Mom, they were determined to finish it.”

“So they charged him?”

“No. Remember, Mom was desperate to avoid a scandal—so they . . . they offered him a deal.”

“A deal?”

“He could sell them his laptop, or they would prosecute.”

“I don't get it.”

“It was the lawyer's idea. If they bought his laptop, they wouldn't have paid him off, exactly—they were buying something from him. Something tangible.”

“How much did they offer?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Wow.” A quarter of a million bucks for a laptop?

“I know,” Georgie said.

“And he had to sign a paper stipulating that there were no copies, anywhere, no downloads, nothing. And finally, that he would leave Harvard voluntarily and never return, and never contact anyone in our family ever again.”

“What did he do?”

“He handed it over. And she wrote him a check.”

“And he took it and went to Texas and enrolled at A&M, joined the Corps. That sly bastard.”
Paid for his education. Probably paid for that car. And the suits.

“Yeah.”

Telling me took a lot out of her. She was sniffling.

“I am so, so sorry, Georgie. But thanks for telling me this.”

“I'm glad I did.”

There had always been something too good to be true about Hank, something too perfect. But there was still one thing I didn't understand.

“Georgie—why didn't Andrew tell me any of this?”

“Oh, he would never tell anyone this. He's loyal and honest, maybe to a fault. He sees this as my private thing, only for me to tell. Look, if he has a flaw it's that he's a little . . . socially awkward. He has trouble talking to people, getting to know them. But he's one of the good guys.”

“I am such an idiot,” I said. Though I wasn't sure exactly how, I knew Hank had played me, since the beginning. And Andrew had tried to warn me—how many times? Three at least. But I was too smart for that, so stubbornly, immovably certain of my judgment.

“Megan,” Georgie said. “Has he done something
bad
to you?”

“I'm not sure. But I've got a bad feeling.”

“Trust that feeling, please,” she said. “Trust that feeling.”

Twenty-Five

In Which Megan Attends a Ball Packing Live Ammo

IN THE HOURS SINCE I'D SPOKEN WITH GEORGIE, I'D FELT
like I was holding a grenade with the pin pulled. I'd held it during the three hours while Margot piled up my towering wig and sewed me into my gown. I'd held it during the limo ride with my family. Sure, I wanted to throw it, dispose of it safely, or at least pass it off to someone. But who? Mom? She was hosting a party for nine hundred. Julia? She was preparing for an evening of well-meaning but intrusive questions about the case and Tyler. Dad? He had just made the deal of a lifetime and was exultant. Why would I do that to him? Cat would have been perfect, but we hadn't spoken since the blowup in the locker room. No, I had no choice but to hold on to it. It left me anxious and sweaty, worried I would drop it and it would go off during the party.

I felt sure Hank had targeted me somehow. But why? I wasn't the hottest deb. I wasn't the richest. I doubted he had filmed us having sex, as that held no prospect for real
scandal—who would be interested? No, it had to be the land deal—but I couldn't see anything nefarious about it. We had brought him into it, he had done the drawings on spec—so what was the catch? Knowing I would see him at my party made me sick to my stomach. What would I say? Would he sense something wrong? At least he wasn't my date. Mom and Aunt Camille had made an early pact for Abby's brother Simon to escort Julia to Abby's party, and me to ours.

Fortunately, all my pent-up anxiety about our party being a dud evaporated with my first glimpse of Mom's Venetian Masquerade. The entry plaza at Turtle Creek Country Club had been transformed into St. Mark's Square, circa 1760. Lit by torches and fiery lamps, it was shadowy and mysterious, a fantastical world that was part street fair, part magic show, with jugglers, an organ grinder with a live monkey, contortionists, fire breathers, and weird and grotesque performers of every stripe and color all braying in Italian at the startled guests. As they moved through the crowd to the heavy doors, pickpockets fleeced guests, then amazed them with returned jewels, watches and wallets, tsk-tsking their victims with a shake of their fingers and a warning to “beware.”

Inside the Georgian ballroom a seedy chamber orchestra played mischievous period music. Tumbled stone walls framed the whole balcony, and lavish pink frescoes—of fat, naked angels blowing trumpets—adorned the vaulted ceiling. The lighting here was courtesy of a huge real candle chandelier hung from the ceiling. Hundreds of
flickering lights reflected off huge turning and twisting masks suspended from the ceiling.

Outside, guests descended from the veranda and walked along a misty cobbled street to a boat dock, where three long gondolas bobbed in Turtle Creek. From there they set out in parties of two and four and six, snuggled under fur blankets, while gondoliers sang love songs and rowed them out into the dark green water, a perfect match for the Venetian Lagoon. They crossed under the arched stone bridge—made over to resemble its Italian cousin—to the eighteenth green, and when they turned back they saw the moon hanging. It wasn't the real moon, but it looked like it.

From the moment you arrived it was like being whisked back three hundred and fifty years. So what if Mom had gone over budget? We'd sold the ranch and would soon sell the cows. It was enough to erase our debt and provide a comfortable retirement.

Of course everyone wore extravagant costumes, and this was Margot's finest hour. Inspired by Titian's portraits, she dressed us as a ducal family. Dad was in a rich orange marmalade coat over a woven brown shirt, with breeches and high boots and a small black hat and mask. Mom and Julia both got high period wigs and thick, dramatic makeup. Margot dressed Mom in a full-sleeved blue velvet gown with a high ivory linen front. Her lorgnette mask on a stick mirrored her dress and sported a single blue feather. Julia and I were the innocent daughters. For Julia she chose a heavy
burgundy brocade with a sky-blue shawl, and for me a plain emerald silk encrusted with thousands upon thousands of pale yellow glass beads. Both gowns were off the shoulder, with a tight bodice over a wide skirt. Julia's mask, which covered her eyes and nose, was burgundy and gold, and a single burgundy rose perched on one side. Mine, a little wider, was gold lace filigree in the shape of a butterfly. All of our fabrics were bold and luminous, and standing side by side in the receiving line we shone.

In the end the head count breached nine hundred, so Simon and Julia and Mom and Dad and I spent two hours greeting guests, who all wore masks too—some small and easy to see through, others larger and more elaborate. Some guests had full head masks; often I didn't recognize them until they removed them, usually with a shriek of “Guess who?” My aunt Camille and uncle Dan wore gorgeous owl- and eagle-head masks. Sydney, escorted by Hunter, went simple with a small lorgnette, while Hunter chose the expected and lame Phantom of the Opera mask
.
Ann Foster flew solo, in a classic and simple midnight blue gown and a pearl mask. Ashley Two and Stephen Cromwell arrived, and then Abby and her date—Abby wore a feathered Carnival mask, and her date went the full commedia dell'arte jester.

Even more fun than seeing the other debs, though, was the sight of our ranch staff and my soccer team all gussied up. Silvio and his wife came dressed as rustic European cattle herders, and Cat and her sister and her parents came too, as Spanish royalty. We comped them, of course, as they had
to spring for the costumes, and I could tell the extravagance of the party shocked them.

“I didn't think you'd come. But I'm glad you did,” I said to Cat. It was a little uncomfortable, but there wasn't time to clear the air. More couples passed, and when I next looked up a wolf and cat waited.

“Surprise!” Ashley One said, tipping up the kitty cat mask with whiskers. “I brought something for you.” She motioned to the wolf beside her, who I knew to be Hank.

He lifted his mask.

“You. Look. Amazing,” Hank said, smiling widely.

“Thank you.” I kept my voice even, hoped it wouldn't betray me.

He leaned in for a kiss on the cheek.

“Meet me in the woods later,” he growled. Knowing what he'd done to Georgie, it made my skin crawl. I wanted to run to the bathroom and scrub my cheek. I chuckled instead.

“Have fun.” They moved on, and he fawned over Mom, glad-handed Dad. I wondered how I would avoid him for the entire evening.

Couple after couple after couple passed—I thought it would never end. When it dwindled to the stragglers, Lauren and her date finally arrived. She wore a turquoise silk gown and a matching jeweled eye mask with a peacock feather headdress. She carried a peacock feather fan.

“So excited to be here,” Lauren said mildly. She offered a hand. We greeted each other with the bare necessities, but I could tell she wanted to peck my eyes out. Neither of us
mentioned the article or pictures in the
Daily News.

I steeled myself to greet Andrew, but when Lauren's date lifted his Guy Fawkes mask I was shocked to see Zach. Julia's head snapped in his direction. Neither of us had seen him since her arrest.

“Zach. Hi,” I said. He cut his eyes to Julia.

“I hope it's okay that I came,” he said nervously. He hung his head sheepishly.

“For Christ's sake, Zach,” Lauren said. “
Of course
it's okay you came.” She stomped off, dragging him along in tow.

There was an obligatory dance with Simon, and one with Dad. From across the room I saw Hank looking around, trying to find me. I did not want to be found, but it's hard to disappear at your own party, so I just kept moving. Cat found me at the bar.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Your party is really amazing.”

“Thanks. But you know, it's not really my party. It's my
mom's
party.” Just then a performer with a torch took a swig from a bottle and spewed fire into the air.

“I mean, look at this. This isn't me.”

“Definitely not,” she agreed. “Listen, I'm really sorry for what I said. I know this is a big deal to your mom—my mom was a maniac before my quinceañera.”

“Thanks. I'm never getting married,” I said. “And you were right. I've completely taken our friendship for
granted, and I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Give me a hug?” she asked.

I gave her a long hug.

“I have to confess something really horrible,” she said earnestly when we broke apart.

“What?”

“My mom has, like, four doggie bags in her purse.”

I burst out laughing and we hung on to each other until we regained our composure.

The doors opened and teams of servers wheeled in the food: whole roasted pigs and guinea fowls and sea bass, gorgonzola-braced polenta, fig and arugula salad drenched in olive oil and fresh lemon juice. To drink, guests chose Prosecco, white Soave or red Valpolicella wine, or Peroni beer jacked from wooden barrels and served in frosty mugs with a thick stick of cinnamon. Desserts were handcrafted tiny fruit tarts, blackberry and raspberry, with dollops of crème fraîche, sprinkled over with raw cacao, and bricks of tiramisu with made-from-scratch ladyfingers drenched in espresso. With the desserts served it was time to address the guests, and I stepped to the microphone.

“Welcome and good evening, everyone. Thank you so much for coming. First, I have to thank my mom. This is the craziest party, and I am just so overwhelmed by everything she pulled together.” The crowd clapped and whistled in appreciation, and Mom took a small bow. “If it had been up to me, we'd have had a kegger at the soccer stadium.” That got
a huge laugh. “But it's unlikely we could have convinced you nice people to pony up five hundred a person for a red Solo cup and Dickie's Barbeque, no matter how good it is.” More laughter. “And I want to thank my dad for, well, for just being my dad. I love you so much.” Lots of “awwws” here. “I also want to thank my sister, Julia, for loving me no matter what and for being the one person who understands me completely—which is not an easy job.” Julia smiled and waved.

“But most of all I'd like to thank her for inspiring tonight's event, which is held in honor of Refuge
,
a safe house and counseling center for women who have survived domestic violence. I must admit I didn't know that much about Refuge or this issue a month ago, but finding out who they are and what they do, and being a small part of that, has changed my life forever. I want to say thank you now to each and every one of you, for reaching deep and making a significant commitment to helping women in need. It is my great honor to announce that we have raised more than four hundred and sixty thousand dollars!” The crowd broke into massive cheers, but I wasn't done, and waited for them to quiet down. “I am proud to have helped raise that much money, but honestly, I think I can do more. Between us, Julia and I have a grand total of fifty-six designer gowns and cocktail dresses that have been worn exactly once. So we've asked our stylist, Margot, to arrange a dress auction, and we are donating our Season wardrobe to raise additional funds for a new Refuge Safe House. I'd like to challenge the other 2016
Bluebonnet Debutantes to do the same. Basically, I'm asking you for the dress off your back—after the party, of course.”

Abby was the first to stand, sticking her hand in the air. “I'm in! They're all yours!”

Then Sydney and Ashley One were up, shouting, “Me too!”

I hadn't expected to get answers on the spot, but the crowd was in a fever. Sydney's mom stood up, Mom and Aunt Camille too, and after that it was a blur. Lauren and Ashley Two eventually stood, but you could tell it pained them. Within a few minutes we had more dresses pledged than I could count, and our small idea had blossomed into a huge new donation source.

“Thank you so much,” I said when the crowd quieted. “Now I'd like to introduce Maggie Copeland, the executive director of Refuge, who is going to say a few words while I go work on renting a warehouse. Maggie?” I gestured toward our table, and Maggie Copeland stood up. She was in her midforties, and it turned out she was a close friend of Aunt Camille's. I handed her the microphone and stepped away to give her the stage.

Standing ten feet away as Maggie spoke enthusiastically about how they planned to use the funds raised, I smiled, but felt sure I would crack open and crumple to the floor. I scanned the room. Mom, Dad, and Julia sat with Aunt Camille and Uncle Dan at one table, all blissfully unaware of my predicament. In the back I noticed a man by himself. He wore an elaborate, gorgeous horse mask and he must
have come in late because I would have remembered that amazing mask. Hank and Ashley were at a table of six, with two couples I didn't recognize. Hank's wolf mask lay on the table, and he winked at me. I crinkled a smile. So far I'd kept it together, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to if we spent much time alone. I just had to hang on until the party was over.