Cacky arched her eyebrows. “She has to wear wedding makeup, doesn’t she, because she’s very social and entertains a great deal.”

Lucie knew only too well that for Cacky and her Boston Brahmin crowd, being “very social and entertaining a great deal” was one of the worst insults one could give. High WASPs like Cacky didn’t need to throw parties, be photographed at “society events,” or endow wings at museums to cement their social position—they simply were privileged. She realized that she had one-upped Cacky by marrying a man whose vast fortune eclipsed even hers, and Cacky was feeling sore about it. Her cousin had always been competitive and a little mean since they were kids, calling her nicknames like “Lucy Liu” and “Shun Lee Lucie.” She decided to ignore her barbed comments, even though Cacky would not let go of her strange fixation on Cecil’s mother.

“I see her all the time in those awful ‘society’ rags at my podiatrist’s. Reneé Pike is always front and center in pictures with presidents, European royals, and those overnight tech trillionaires—I assume if you don’t own a search engine that’s flagrantly violating every privacy law in the world or you’re not buying up whole islands in Hawaii, she’s not interested in hobnobbing with you.”

“Last time I checked, Cacky, you were still pretty high on the Forbes list, and don’t you own half of Nantucket?” Lucie’s great-aunt Cushing (Rippowam / Miss Porter’s / Radcliffe) cut in. “I think you just might scrape through Reneé Pike’s hobnobbing requirements, har har har. I, however, do not. Don’t worry, Lucie, I shall stay out of sight.”

Lucie looked at her mother for some support, but Marian seemed totally checked out—as she always did around her father’s family—and was fixated on picking the bits of dill off her smoked salmon crostini. Annafred, thankfully, leaped to her defense again.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Aunt Cushing. Reneé Pike may be social with a capital S, but she’s actually done quite a bit of good. The Times listed her as the most charitable individual in the country last year! Speaking of which, Teddy, we really need to get her involved with the Prince’s Trust. I’m told she’s singlehandedly keeping the oldest lace maker in France in business, thanks to her commitment to only wear couture.”

“My, my, Lucie, are we dressed up enough for your new family? I hope you won’t be too embarrassed of us,” Cacky teased, as she adjusted the cuffed sleeves of her floral Carlisle jacket.

“Who’s embarrassed?” Lucie’s grandmother asked, entering the drawing room with a gin and tonic in her hand.

“Granny! My goodness, how pretty you look!” Cacky exclaimed.

Great-Aunt Cushing fingered the collar of her silk jacquard blouse and said, “Yves, isn’t it? That looks like it must have cost a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Two, actually. Yes, I may be an old lady with outdated clothes, but I decided to try to smarten up for Lucie’s new family, so she won’t be ashamed of us now that she’s marrying money,” Consuelo quipped, giving her granddaughter a sideways glance.

Freddie came into the room sucking on a lollipop and smiled at his sister. “Chupa Chup?” he said, offering the one from his mouth.

“No thank you, but could you go find me a shovel?”

“What for?”

“I need to dig a hole and bury myself in it right now.” Lucie sighed. She glanced at her watch again. Where the hell was Cecil, and why was he late to his own engagement party?

Seventeen floors down on Fifth Avenue, Reneé Pike (Saint Cecilia / Port Neches Middle School / Central Senior High / UT / Harvard Business School) peered at the handsome burgundy awning outside the building and said to her driver, “Circle the block one more time.”

Reneé gave her son a tight smile. “I don’t want to arrive until at least six forty-five.”

Cecil glanced at the new watch that he had commissioned Rexhep Rexhepi to create just for tonight and noted that it was 6:32 p.m. He hadn’t seen his mother this nervous in a very long time, not since right before she gave her TED Talk, and observed quietly as she fidgeted with the clasp on her JAR pink-sapphire-and-diamond bracelet, before finally taking it off and putting it in her Moynat clutch.

“Well, I think you finally struck the right note with the Oscar,” Cecil said.

“Yes, thank you for making me change,” Reneé said. “These high WASPs just love Oscar, don’t they? I’m paying tribute to Lucie’s kin by wearing a dress that’s twenty years old.”

“Wasn’t that when you were first named to the International Best Dressed List? Twenty years ago?”

“It sure was. You have such a faculty for dates, son.”

“I remember because WWD published a photo of you wearing this houndstooth pantsuit when they announced you on the list. I still have the page somewhere.”

“Well, I think it’s a timeless look, very restrained. It won’t offend anyone, and they can’t accuse me of trying to put on airs.”

“They will be the ones putting on airs, Mother. You know how these Old Guard types are. Their fortunes have dwindled down to practically nothing, so the only thing they have to cling on to is their snobbery.”

Reneé nodded. “Annette did warn me: ‘Consuelo Barclay will be judging you from scalp to toenails the moment she sets eyes on you, and she doesn’t miss a thing.’”

“I don’t know about the grandmother, but frankly, I don’t think anyone will notice what you’re wearing. My God, wait till you meet them. You can practically smell the mothballs. I met most of them at this godforsaken affair they called a clambake in Bar Harbour last summer. Lucie’s mother—you already know the situation there. The rest of the lot take great pride in looking like they haven’t bought new clothes since Eisenhower was in office.”

“They need to make extreme efforts not to look entitled,” Reneé said with a throaty laugh.

Cecil chuckled. “Lucie has a cousin who, I believe, shops only at that horrid place in midtown that closed down last year? Lord & Swift?”

“Lord & Taylor, you mean. I bought my prom dress at Lord & Taylor.” Reneé shook her head, as if she didn’t quite believe her own words. “I made my mother drive me two hours all the way to the Galleria in Houston. It was a peach-colored dress with big bouffant roses at the shoulder, and it reminded me of an Ungaro I had seen in Vogue. It cost my mom two months’ salary, but it was worth every penny—I was voted prom queen. No one in Beaumont had ever seen a dress like that!”

“You had such a flair even back then,” Cecil said.

“That was the night Ronnie Gallen asked me out, and if it wasn’t for Ronnie, I never would have met your father.”

Cecil turned away from his mother and looked out the window onto Park Avenue. It made him slightly uncomfortable whenever his mother talked of her past. In his mind, he liked to imagine that she was born on an elegant plantation in Louisiana, the descendant of a family with roots stretching back to the Valois kings of France. In truth, his mother may have been born Reneé Mouton in Lake Charles, Louisiana, but she was the illegitimate daughter of Charles Mouton, who owned a trio of Conoco service stations, and Marcia Nuncio, who worked the front register at one of the stations and hailed from a family of oil refinery workers from Corpus Christi.