Page 47 of The Stolen Queen

“Brad called. He wants to meet.”

After everything that Annie had done to finagle a ticket and alter one of Joyce’s dresses to her exact specifications, she couldn’t even be bothered to go? Annie had even fought to get her an invitation to theVIP tour. Until now, she hadn’t understood how desperately she wanted her mother to see her in a new light, not as her homely daughter but as an integral part of the team behind the Met Gala.

“He’s just going to break up with you, Mom,” said Annie, not caring how mean she sounded. “Are you really going to skip this amazing event, which anyone in their right mind would be dying to attend, in order to get dumped by Brad?”

Joyce’s eyes began to water, and she twisted the wishbone necklace that lay in the hollow of her throat. The necklace had been Annie’s father’s last Christmas gift to Joyce, and she never took it off. “You’re a cruel child, do you know that?”

“I’m not. I just think you’re making a mistake. Can’t you put him off for one night?”

“He leaves for the West Coast tomorrow. And I want to see this through. Ihaveto see this through, for my own sanity.”

Sanity would be not getting involved with a stranger from Nashville in the first place. “He’s probably married. Why do you allow him to treat you like this? You deserve better.”

“Watch it. Remember who you’re talking to, Annie.”

Annie threw up her hands. “Fine. Do what you like. I don’t care.”

“Is that how you’re wearing that dress?” asked Joyce. “Don’t you want to belt it?”

Annie stifled a scream. “I really don’t want to talk to you right now. I’m very disappointed.” She grabbed a clip that lay on top of the sink and hastily put her hair up in a messy bun.

Joyce sat on the bed, working herself up to a good weep. “Please don’t be mad at me. I really like Brad, and maybe I can change his mind.”

“I’m leaving.” Annie grabbed her handbag and coat. “You are unbelievable.”

Normally Annie wouldn’t even consider leaving her mother whenshe was crying or upset. In the past, she’d drop everything to comfort her, do whatever it took to make everything okay between them. But not this time. She was too angry.

Outside, Mrs. H called out from her window. “Girl! Let me see that dress.”

Annie opened her coat, letting it fall to her elbows.

“It’s smashing. I see Mrs. Vreeland is rubbing off on you.”

Annie pulled her coat back up and smiled. That was exactly the boost she needed. “Thank you.” She gave a quick salute and was gone.

Outside the Metropolitan Museum, a red carpet spilled down the front steps like a river of merlot, and the first of the limos was pulling up to the curb, where a clique of photographers waited patiently for their prey.

Annie watched with bated breath as Lee Radziwill alighted from the back of a limo wearing an ivory silk dress that was fitted at the waist, with an enormous white stole slung over her shoulders that threatened to swallow her whole. Diana Ross turned heads in a long-sleeved black gown that shimmered with sequins and sported a plunging neckline as well as a matching veil. The dress was stunning, but Annie wasn’t so sure about the choice of a veil. She’d have to ask Mrs. Vreeland her thoughts on the subject tomorrow.

They were followed by fashion photographer Mary Ann Miller and model Dymphna Kerrigan. Mary Ann, a petite redhead, wore a sparkling pink toga dress with a large bow over one shoulder, while Dymphna was squeezed into in a bright red sheath that accentuated her curves. Her wrists and neck glittered with diamonds.

The crowd of bystanders gasped as the downtown artist Jenny Pyle spilled out of her limo in a beaded jumpsuit and platform heels, her famous curls dyed jet-black.

Annie could’ve stood there for hours, marveling at the stylishness of each celebrity. Instead, she marched over to the employee entrance, where the security guard greeted her with a scowl.

“You’ll have to open the box.”

“If I open it, it’ll be ruined,” she explained. “This is a very special package for Mrs. Vreeland, and she needs it tonight, right away.”

After the argument with Joyce about the gala, she’d taken the bus across the park to the Museum of Natural History and spent far more time than she’d expected running from office to office in search of the entomologist who’d promised her butterflies. Finally, she was handed a box that was ungainly in size but light in weight and caught a taxi to the Met, setting the box gently on the seat beside her and steadying it with one hand as the driver raced along the 79th Street Transverse.

The exhibition was about to open, and she should be by Mrs. Vreeland’s side, but now the security guard was insisting she open the box, which would not do at all. Her feet hurt from running in heels and a drop of sweat slid down her chest. Just her luck, it was an unusually warm day for late November.

The security guard appeared to be unimpressed by her fancy outfit and her association with Mrs. Vreeland.

“Nope. Open it up.”

“Hey, Carl. She’s okay. I’ll vouch for her.”

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