“Hush, Mama! Stop jumping up and down or you’ll ruin everything!”

Cecil (Kiddie Kollege Preschoolfn1 / South Elementary / Kinkaid / Aiglon / Oriel College, Oxford) could be spotted emerging from a gleaming Meteor over Fountain Blue Bentley Mulsannefn2 in a sharply tailored navy suit and pink shirt. He was what one would describe as Armie Hammer Handsome™—he had the perfect swoop of sandy-blond hair and the perfect glacier-blue eyes accentuated by his perfectly square jaw and aquiline nose, the sort of jaw and nose that on Cecil could only have been crafted by a very pricey Wilshire Corridor surgeon. Cecil held Lucie’s hand affectionately to help her out of the car, and the two of them proceeded up the steps of the museum looking like they were just having a Sunday stroll.

But then Cecil turned abruptly and gestured toward the hot dog cart parked in front of the museum. Lucie looked confused but followed him down the steps toward the row of food vendors. Suddenly out of nowhere, Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello’s “Señorita” started booming onto the street from hidden speakers. The “random strangers” milling about the steps stood up in unison and began a complicated choreographed routine to the tune as Lucie’s jaw dropped.

“Boo! Flash mobs are so lame. Didn’t they stop doing them around 2010?” Freddie remarked, before realizing that the spectacle was turning out to be much more than a flash mob. A troupe of street dancers emerged from a passing tour bus to join the party, throwing themselves into the air in unison from the four corners of the steps and executing improbably precarious somersaults before landing safely in the arms of the other dancers, while dozens of ballerinas in pink tutus appeared from the front entrance and began pirouetting around the plaza as if they were doing a scene from Swan Lake.

“Jeeeesus, what did he do, hire the New York City Ballet?” Marian exclaimed.

“And from the looks of it the Big Apple Circus as well! Check out the rooftop!” Freddie said excitedly. At the roofline of the museum’s imposing facade, a row of acrobats in gold sequined bodysuits appeared and began shimmying down the front of the building on long silk cords. Flicking back the wispy golden-wheat hair from his forehead, Cecil grabbed a hot dog from the vendor, joined the dancers in the middle of the steps, and started singing into the bun as if it were a microphone:

I love you when you call me señorita,

I wish I could pretend I didn’t need ya.

Marian frowned slowly. “Wait a minute … is Cecil actually singing that he loves it when she calls him señorita?”

Freddie grimaced a little. “Ye-aah, apparently. Wouldn’t have been my first choice for a proposal song, and I’m not sure the weiner mic was the right move either.”

Marian chortled in agreement. “Can you see Lucie’s face? That damn umbrella on the bulgogi cart is blocking my view.”

“Lucie’s freaking out! Her face has turned bright red.” Freddie laughed.

“She’s mortified, isn’t she?” Marian said.

“Sooooo mortified. I love it!”

As if the spectacle of a hundred dancers on the steps of the Met wasn’t enough, a marching band in full regalia suddenly emerged from the Central Park entrance off Fifth Avenue, backing up the tune with its enormous brass instruments as it snaked around the dancers in front of the museum. Hundreds of tourists were now on the scene filming excitedly with their phones as the song ended and six gold-sequined dancers carried the tall yet surprisingly slight Cecil aloft and twirled him down the steps Esther Williams–style right to where Lucie was standing.

While Cecil was still propped horizontal in the air by the dancers, he reached into the breast pocket of his bespoke Attolini suit, fished out a blue velvet box, jammed it right under Lucie’s nose with one hand, grabbed a real microphone with his other hand, and announced in his distinctive accent—a vaguely Central Texas meets Draco Malfoy meets pretentious French auctioneer accent that he claimed came naturally from having gone to high school at Aiglon—“Lucie, mon ange, innamorata mia, would you do me the greatest honor of becoming my señorita—Mrs. Cecil Pike?”

“Goddamn it, I should have worn my Bottega boots! I can’t see a thing! What’s Lucie doing?”

“Her hands are on her face, but she’s nodding. She looks … stunned.”

“Ha! I’ll bet she does!” Marian said.

The crowd roared in approval, as Cecil took a bow and announced, “I’d like to thank everyone who helped make this spectacular moment possible. The president of the Met, the chairman of the board of trustees, everyone on the board—especially my mother—the mayor, everyone at the mayor’s office, the board of the New York City Ballet including Sarah Jessica Parker, the executive director of the Alvin Ailey Dance Foundation, choreographer Yanira Castro, Telsey and Company for casting, Great Performances for catering, and, of course, Laurence Graff of Graff jewelers. Thank you all!”

“Um, did he thank any of the performers or the band?” Freddie wondered out loud.

“He’s probably too nervous. I’ll give him a pass on that,” Marian said, as they crossed the avenue toward the newly engaged couple.

“You didn’t cry, Mama. I thought you’d be bawling your eyes out.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a Mr.-Darcy-getting-down-on-his-knees-in-a-muddy-field kind of moment,” Marian remarked, although she was rather moved by the whole spectacle. Who would have imagined that her Lucie would be proposed to in such a grand manner by the man that Vulture, BuzzFeed, and The Skimm had proclaimed “The Most Eligible Gentleman on the Planet.” She almost teared up at the thought. If only Reggie could have been here to witness this day—maybe now her mother-in-law and all those Churchills would finally stop judging her parenting choices.

“Mom! Freddie! Were you here the whole time?” Lucie shrieked excitedly as she hugged her mother and brother.

“Of course they were. I arranged everything so that they wouldn’t miss a second of our special moment,” Cecil said, beaming proudly.

“Is your mom here too?” Lucie asked, looking around.

“Very funny, Lucie. You know she’s at her couture fittings in Paris.”

“Yes, how could I forget?” Lucie said apologetically.

Breaking the awkward silence, Marian announced, “I promised Freddie his favorite apfelstrudel at Café Sabarsky. Won’t you both join us?”

“I have another idea … why don’t we all celebrate with champagne and scones at the Carlyle? It’s Lucie’s favorite,” Cecil suggested.

“Sure!” Marian and Freddie gamely agreed.

The four of them strolled over to Madison Avenue together, and before long they were seated at what Cecil insisted was the “prime table” in the jewel-box-like gallery of the Carlyle Hotel.

“My bride deserves the best seat in the house! We can see absolutely everyone entering and exiting from here, and more importantly, they can see us. Are you comfortable, Mrs. Churchill?” Cecil said as he tried to fluff up the silk pillow behind Marian with a series of needless karate chops.

“Very comfortable, thank you. You can stop hitting the pillow, Cecil,” Marian replied.

“Don’t you love this room and its superb stenciled walls? You know it’s all inspired by the sultan’s dining room at Topkapi Palace in Constantinople. Mongiardino at his best. You know my mother tried to get him to design the interiors of our first plane, but then he died. I’m so glad those Chinese owners knew well enough to leave the gallery alone when they bought the place …”