Most of the time, he forgot this bit of trivia about his mother, but tonight he was reminded of it as they prepared to meet the members of Lucie’s tribe. He suddenly noticed that his mother’s shoulder-length blond bouffant hair had extra highlights tonight and silently cursed her hairdresser, Fabrice. He too was racked with nerves and had obsessed over his hair and his outfit, changing several times until he finally just put on his oldest navy pin-striped suit, the first one he ever had made at Huntsman, with his simplest Argenio tie. He didn’t want the men in Lucie’s family thinking he was making too much of an effort, and besides, he knew they wouldn’t understand the Rubinacci.

Why was it that he and his mother felt far more comfortable among their international jet-set friends than a bunch of WASPs? Was it because even the Texas WASP contingent had turned their noses up at them all those years ago, when they tried living in that house on Lazy Lane? Oh well, it was all ancient history as far as he was concerned. For heaven’s sake, he had more than three hundred thousand followers between all his social media platforms, they had just dined with the King and Queen of Jordan two nights before, and his mother had the pope on speed dial. They could handle cocktails with the Churchills. The Bentley pulled up in front of the building again.

“Ready, Mother?”

Reneé gave Cecil a wink. “Let’s slay ’em!”

CHAPTER THREE

The Seventeenth Floor

821 Fifth Avenue

The chauffeur opened the door, and Reneé and Cecil stepped from the Bentley onto the burgundy carpeting, passed through the revolving doors of 821 Fifth Avenue, and found themselves in the hushed, elegant Belgian Art Nouveau lobby. A pair of doormen dressed like deserters from the Franco-Prussian War gave them the once-over.

“We’re going up to Consuelo Barclay Churchill’s. I’m Cecil Pike,” Cecil announced.

The older doorman checked a list in a leather-bound logbook before giving them a curt nod. “Seventeenth floor, Mr. Pike. Ivan will show you the way.”

Even the doormen are snooty, Reneé thought, as they were shown to the elevator by the younger doorman. She remembered walking past the building years ago when she first began house hunting in New York and admiring its splendid facade.

Danielle, her property agent, had shaken her head and declared, “Don’t even think about this one. It’s a good building.”

Reneé was confused. “If it’s a good building, why can’t we consider it?”

“Sorry, let me explain … A ‘good’ building is realtor code for the few buildings left in Manhattan with co-op boards that will never allow people of a certain, ahem, background in.”

Reneé’s jaw tightened. “What do you mean by ‘background’? I have an MBA from Harvard and letters of reference from the governor of New York, Cardinal O’Connor, and Barbara Walters. Are you telling me we aren’t qualified?”

“It has nothing to do with your qualifications or references, Mrs. Pike, which I can assure you are sterling.”

“Then what is the problem?”

Danielle lowered her voice to a whisper. “No Jews, Mrs. Pike. And that means no one with a drop of Hispanic blood either. You need to have come over on the Mayflower to get into this building.”

Now, Reneé scrutinized herself one last time in the inlaid mirror of the elevator. With her expertly balayaged hair and her expensively sculpted nose, did she still look like she had any Hispanic blood coursing through her veins?

“I can’t wait to see this place,” Cecil whispered in his mother’s ear. “How much do you want to bet it’s decorated like Frank E. Campbell’s?”

The elevator opened onto an entrance hall, and both Reneé and Cecil were taken aback by the sight of the enormous pair of Assyrian sphinxes that were at least ten feet tall flanking a faux marbre set of doors in vibrant malachite and turquoise. They could hear the murmur of the crowd just beyond the doors. This wasn’t the typical Sister Parish meets Mark Hampton decor they had been expecting; the place had a sumptuous, exotic flair that exuded a relaxed grandeur.

“Can you believe it? Old money with actual style,” Cecil whispered to his mother.

Reneé scanned the room quickly, quietly impressed, as Cecil wondered if he had time to sneak a few pictures. “Stand there, Mother. I’m going to take a picture of you before anyone sees us.”

Cecil took a few covert shots on his phone before clearing his throat and asking in a loud voice, “Now where’s everyone?”

“There they are!” Lucie said, the relief evident in her voice as she caught sight of Cecil poking his head into the drawing room. She steered Cecil and his mother to the corner where her grandmother was perched on the edge of a deep-buttoned ottoman, chatting animatedly with her friends Jeannette and Alex. “Granny, here are Cecil and his mother, Reneé Pike,” Lucie proudly announced.

Lucie’s grandmother stood up quickly, her posture still ramrod straight after more than eight decades. “Howdoyoudo?” Good, good, Cecil is taller than I would have thought. And the mama’s wearing Oscar from one of his last couture collections for Balmain. I almost bought that suit. She’s much prettier in person than her pictures. No wonder she hooked her pike.

Reneé flashed her signature million-watt smile and said in her unabashed Texan drawl, “Mrs. Churchill, it’s such a pleasure, at long last! I’ve been wanting to thank you in person for over fifteen years now, for rescuing the Württemberg tapestries and giving them to the Cloisters.” Grandma looks like Vanessa Redgrave! And she’s wearing an Yves Saint Laurent dress with … holy moly … are those Tina Chow rock crystal cuff bracelets? Not what I was expecting—this is one cool dame.

“You are much too well informed, Reneé. That was supposed to be a secret,” Consuelo said, a bit taken aback. I’m going to get everyone fired at the Met tomorrow.

Cecil bowed ceremoniously. “Mrs. Churchill, I can finally see where Lucie gets her artistic flair. Just. Look. At. This. Room! I’m dying for these moss-green stamped velvet walls! And those Giacometti end tables! May I ask if Geoffrey Bennison was somehow involved in this mise-en-scène?”

“Stéphanefn1 did the original work for me, but, yes, Geoffrey gave it a bit of a refresh in the late seventies,” Consuelo replied, eyeing him curiously.

“He really did a marvelous job—it holds up beautifully. Tell me, that portrait of you over the fireplace, is that by Magritte?” Cecil asked in amazement, staring at the painting of Consuelo’s face half obscured by clouds.

“Indeed it is. It was the last portrait he did, so I’m told,” Consuelo said in the blasé tone of someone who’d uttered that statement a thousand times. Despite this, Cecil was genuinely awed. He couldn’t quite believe he was engaged to the granddaughter of a woman so fabulous.

He was about to ask Consuelo if she wouldn’t mind posing with her Magritte portrait and him for an Instagram shot when a portly man with a bushy silver mustache cut in front of him and gave Consuelo a hug.

“Ah, Harry! Come meet Lucie’s beau, Cecil Pike. Cecil, this is Harry Stuyvesant Fish, a dear family friend. He’s about to become our ambassador to Norway.”