Page 95 of The Lost Heiress
August 28, 1982—The Night Of Saoirse’s Birthday Party
Sometime around 10:30 p.m., the rain started. It was no more than a light sprinkle, but the strong, late-summer gale that accompanied it sent all the guests inside. The girls patted at their damp hair and flocked to the bathrooms to apply fresh powder to their noses; the men shirked out of their wet jackets and left them hanging on the backs of their dinner chairs to dry.
Saoirse grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing tray. She wasn’t of legal drinking age yet, but hell, it was her party, and no one was going to tell her that she couldn’t enjoy herself.
She waved across the room at one of her old school friends from Choate. In her alcohol-induced haze, she couldn’t remember the girl’s name, but they had been on the equestrian team together, and once, the girl had shared her cherry lip balm with her when it was cold and Saoirse’s lips were chapped. The intimacy of the gesture had struck Saoirse at the time, as she had pressed the slick balm to her lips and then handed it back, and the girl had, without hesitating or thinking twice about it, applied it to her own lips and then slipped it back into her coat pocket.
“Don’t worry,” Jacqueline said, appearing by her side, her red dress noticeably speckled with raindrops, “we have the tents in the garage. We can have them up in no time.”
“No, no, I already told you we don’t need the tents,” Saoirse said.
Jacqueline had tried to set up the tents before the party started as a preventative measure, but Saoirse had argued to have them taken down. The tents were ugly. You couldn’t see the stars through them. Besides, Saoirse couldn’t help but feel that putting up the tents was unlucky, as if the gesture would manifest the rain.
“Okay, but the storm—” Jacqueline said, clearly confused.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Saoirse said. “It’s only misting.”
Saoirse took a swig of her champagne. She felt gloriously warm and elated, buoyed up. It was her birthday, and everything was—would be—perfect. The mist would stop soon, and they would all go out and enjoy the fireworks.
“So that’s a no to the tents, then—you’re sure?” Jacqueline asked, sounding concerned.
“Yes,” Saoirse said happily. “No tents!”
“All right, dear, it’s your birthday,” Jacqueline said resignedly before wandering off.
No sooner had Jacqueline left her than Bass was at her side, leaning forward to give her a kiss on the cheek. She could smell the brandy on his breath, sweet and nutty.
“Happy birthday, my dear,” Bass said cheerfully.
“Yes,” Saoirse said, raising her glass to toast herself. “Happy fucking birthday to me!”
She took a swig.
“I didn’t care for how we left things the other day,” Bass said.
For a moment, Saoirse didn’t know what he was talking about, and then she remembered—the financial plan that Bass and Ransom had drawn up, the one that she had unceremoniously deposited in the trash can.
“Oh, that,” Saoirse said. She didn’t want to think about that now. It was her birthday. She wanted to think only about happy things.
“I believe it was a misunderstanding, on both of our parts,” Bass said. “I think, if we could just sit down, the two of us, and talk—”
“Yes, but not now,” Saoirse said, trying hard not to slur her words. Her mind was warm and fuzzy; she couldn’t think straight. “This is a party.” She gestured to the room around them. “Let’s drink. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
She raised her glass a little too heartily, and champagne sloshed over the edges and onto the floor.
Bass didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, yes, of course,” Bass said. “You’re right. Actually, I just came over here to give you your gift.”
He fumbled in his suit jacket, and the anticipation rose in Saoirse’s chest. Bass was great at giving gifts. Masterful, even. For her thirteenth birthday, he had taken her to Studio 54, and she had seen Bianca Jagger ride a white horse across the dance floor in an off-the-shoulder red evening gown. For another birthday, he had gotten her a navy blue Hermès bag in crocodile skin, just like the one Grace Kelly owned. Of course, Saoirse couldn’t bring herself to use the bag anymore, but she also couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it. It sat on the shelf in her closet like a prized art exhibit, its beauty bringing her joy anytime she saw it.
Bass pulled out a thin, long box and opened the lid. Inside was a bracelet with a delicate gold chain, and from it hung several charms: a sun, a moon, and a dozen stars.
“I wanted to give you something to go with your necklace,” he said.
Saoirse’s hand went subconsciously to the pendant at the base of her neck, the one she always wore. Its inscription was emblazoned in her mind—the celestial bodies named there, echoed now in the charms of the bracelet Bass presented her with: the sun, the moon, the stars.
“Mother gave me this,” Saoirse said. “For my fourteenth birthday.”
A lump rose in her throat at the memory.
