Page 15 of Acquiring Ainsley
“No way. I fully plan on speeding up.” I motioned to a passing server and grabbed my second glass of white wine off his full tray. I raised it in Brooke’s direction and almost drank it, but the sour expression on my best friend’s face warned me not to take an immediate sip. “Fine.” My shoulders slumped. “You win. Let’s mingle.”
The club had opened the area around the main pool for the party, allowing guests to drink cocktails and eat small appetizers against the gorgeous backdrop of the lighted water and the private beach. White lights twinkled overhead, socialites gathered in designer dresses around black-clothed tables, and clusters of red poinsettias created a festive ambiance against the tropical air.
“Come on.” Brooke led me to a large sponsored step-and-repeat near the entrance to the beach. We posed for a few photos, ready to tell the world that we didn’t have anything to worry about besides our next cocktail or which outfits appeared the best under what filters. She unlocked her phone and waved it at the setup. “Let’s upload it. I’ll send it to you.”
I stopped at the edge of the backdrop. “I don’t know, I—”
She lowered her phone, and her shoulders slumped. “What? Why not?”
“I just—” I took a sip of liquid courage. “It doesn’t feel the same. Not since… everything.” I drank some more wine. It needed to take effect, and soon. “It’s just not the same. Nothing is.”
She pursed her lips. “I understand. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“Just not right now, okay?”
“I get it.” She shrugged. “Sometimes I think life was better before the world of social media, anyway. It was certainly simpler.”
“You’ve got that right.”
I peered over my shoulder at the rest of the party, which was filling up fast with people. When I looked back at her, I wore a fake grin. Maybe if I did a little acting, I’d be able to get through the night. “Now, what did I say about mingling?”
Brooke and I knew about seventy-five percent of the people at the event, standard for us during a night in Palm Beach. We made the rounds, greeting most of them and making small talk about the winter social season and all the pending charity balls people made a habit of attending. I did my best to keep the smile plastered across my face and a springy jaunt in my walk, part of the mask I knew I had to wear in order to make sure that no one suspected that my family and my dad’s company teetered on the edge of disaster.
Keep it up, Ainsley, keep it up…
“There you are, Ainsley,” Mitzy Reese called out as she approached our cocktail table. I was mid-sip when she said my name, and I hastily put down the wineglass. She gave my dress a long appraisal; it was a bespoke one I’d had designed in Paris a few months before. Now, considering my brother’s revelations, it seemed stupid and extravagant. “You look impeccable, as always.” She leaned in so that I could oblige her contour-coated cheeks with two air kisses. “Is that a Javier LePree?”
“It is. I got it in Paris after fashion week.” I glanced down at the mountain of red tulle that encircled my waist. Maybe I should resell in on eBay and raise some funds. I’d paid $1700, but maybe it would fetch a thousand or so. “I love his work. The craftsmanship is in a class all its own.”
“I’m having him do my evening gown for the Children’s Fund gala this year.” She drank some of her champagne. “You’ll be coming, of course.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, though the idea of paying $750 just to get in the front door of the Phillips Estate now also seemed silly and frivolous. In a few weeks, I’d have to find a believable excuse when she called, asking me which tickets I wanted to purchase.
Perhaps I should conveniently go to New York again during that time…
“Mitzy, call my father’s office next week,” Brooke said, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts. “I’m sure he’d love to sponsor a table this year.”
Mitzy’s eyes brightened and she placed a manicured hand on her arm. “Oh, Brooke, that is so generous of you.” She said this as though my friend had just offered to save one hundred HIV-positive children in Africa from certain death. “We’re so excited about the continuing growth of our Read with America program. I just think…”
The two of them slipped into a superficial yet endless conversation, and I took that as a cue that I could extract myself from the situation before it became more awkward. I picked up my wineglass, downed some more, and wandered closer to the large pool. When I reached the edge, I began counting the white lights that ran along the pool deck, rimming the edge.
Five lights. Ten. Forty. Forty-three.
“Don’t tell me you’re so bored that you’re counting the pool tiles?” a deep voice said behind me.
I jumped and held in a gasp. I didn’t turn around right away. I let the tenor in his voice settle in my ears and suffuse into my blood first. It mixed with the wine and made me heady, intoxicated. Could I be dreaming? Maybe I’d had too much wine. Or maybe I’d fallen asleep counting white lights. I gripped the wineglass, drew in a long gulp of fresh, manly air, and spun around.
And there he stood, wearing a dark suit with a crisp, white shirt. A cocky grin pulled at his lips.
“W-what are you doing here, Trevor?”
“Drinking.” He raised what appeared to be a Manhattan in my direction before his attention floated down to my glass. “Which is what you seem to be doing, too.”
I scoffed. “I beg to differ. I’m circulating.”
“With the pool?”
“Yes. With the pool.” I glanced around at the rest of the party, and the clumps of people engrossed in small talk that they, no doubt, thought would lead them to better marriages, business opportunities, and higher social statues. “You happen to have caught me in between discussions.”
