If there’s one thing that’s true about my family, it’s that we sure as hell know how to throw a good party.
A server in an all-black ensemble weaves through the horde of bodies stuffed into my grandmother’s great room. I snag a flute of champagne from the fleeting tray, the pale liquid quaking thanks to the heavy bass thumping through the speakers mounted to the corners of the room. In the foyer, the DJ is set up, playing everything from ABBA to Harry Styles. We could have hired any band we wanted, of course, but Gram’s not exactly big on dishing out more money than she has to.
I raise the glass to my lips, eyes darting over the crowd. I’m perched on the back of my favorite cognac leather love seat, the perfect place to oversee the many familiar faces mingling. Everyone in town showed up tonight. They always do.
Near the fondue fountain, the reporters for the Rosetown Chronicle, our newspaper that will likely provide party highlights tomorrow, laugh while dunking assorted fruits in the melted chocolate. Directly under the glimmering chandelier of Swarovski crystal is the committee for the Rosetown Museum of Fine Art, headed by Angeline Murphy and her fellow art fanatics, probably discussing the next exhibit to feature in the museum.
Even the police make an appearance at the infamous parties Gram throws. Chief Blaine Claremon hovers with two deputies around the charcuterie table piled high with Italian meats and aged cheeses, their uniforms and handcuffs replaced with sharp tuxes and gilded cuff links. It’s as if a town-wide whisper scatters through the streets. Don’t mess around on June fifteenth, it hisses. You know what night that is.
And everyone does. It’s Gram’s birthday, also known as the official kickoff for summer, a.k.a. the season of Rosewood parties.
Besides, it’s not like Rosetown is exactly a crime magnet, save the few rebel teens who like to sneak into the abandoned factory at the edge of town once in a while. And anyone who’d ever do anything they shouldn’t is here anyway. Because that’s the beauty and the curse of parties at Rosewood Manor. A wax-sealed invitation gets dropped off at each and every house.
I take a swig of the champagne just because I can, downing nearly the entire flute in one gulp as the music mixes with the cacophony of chattering party guests, washing over me like one big, chaotic tidal wave. When I lower the glass, Chief Claremon eyes me, a slice of prosciutto almost falling off the cracker in his hand. He’s not used to seventeen-year-old girls blatantly defying his authority, especially in a sea of people we both know.
I quirk a brow, holding the glass up defiantly. My ruby lipstick is stained on the edge. What are you gonna do about it?
He turns away, stuffing the cracker into his mouth. Absolutely nothing.
For a moment, I let a smirk ghost across my face. Of course he isn’t. He can’t. Because I’m—
“Lily Rosewood!”
My name is tinged with a faint English accent, the voice unmistakable. I had hoped I wouldn’t hear it tonight. No wonder Chief Claremon was eyeing me. His daughter was coming up on my six.
“Ell, hi!” I spin around once my most dazzling smile is stapled to my face—only to drop it as I take in Ell Claremon, barely recognizing her, except for the beauty mark by her lip. She’s dressed to the nines in a stunning black cocktail dress and bright scarlet heels, freshly dyed platinum hair cascading over her right shoulder. She’s only four years older than me, but her time at the London College of Fashion has transformed her into something of a model, complete with plump pouty lips and teeth so white she could be the poster girl for a Colgate commercial. She looks nothing like the demure brunette teen I grew up following around like a puppy.
“I’m so glad you could make it.” The lie is bitter on my lips as she presses twin kisses to my cheeks. The thing is, I want to be happy that Ell is home. Back when we both used to bond over our love of fashion and she treated me like a little sister, I was distraught at the thought of her leaving for college. But every time she’s home, she’s always chatting Gram up about Rosewood Inc., our luxury-coat business that was started over a hundred years ago by my great-great grandmother. When Ell expressed interest in going to college in London, she struck a deal with Gram that if she worked at our London headquarters while studying fashion, she could have a permanent place with Rosewood Inc. after graduating.
Since then, Gram’s been obsessed with teaching her the ins and outs of the company via Zoom calls. Especially in the past year, since she’s gotten closer to graduation. And that’s fine and all, but Gram was supposed to be spending this year teaching me about her role as chair of the Rosewood Inc. board.
“I missed you, Lily,” Ell says, moving closer to me as a tipsy couple staggers across the polished marble floor of the great room. Her eyes shine with concern. “Have you been okay? I know it’s been tough for you since . . . everything happened.”
Understatement of the year right there. My throat threatens to close, and the feelings I’ve been shoving down all day bubble up. When I was carefully applying my makeup earlier, I promised myself I would keep my emotions reined in tonight. It’s just another party. I can make it through one night. I have to.
“I’m fine,” I force out, irrationally mad at her for saying anything. “Besides, living with Gram has been great.”
The last part thankfully isn’t a lie.
Ell brightens, glancing around. “Speaking of Iris, have you seen her?”
“Uh—”
It’s a good question. Gram made a spectacular appearance at the beginning of the party over an hour ago, descending the grand staircase in the foyer in a chic floor-length emerald dress and her signature necklace—a twenty-five-carat teardrop-shaped ruby the size of my thumbnail hanging from a delicate gold chain at the base of her throat. I have yet to see her since, although with nearly the entire town packed onto the property, it’s easy to disappear. Desired, even. Because when you’re the matriarch of the richest family in southern Massachusetts, everybody wants a piece of you.
A quick scan leaves me helpless, although a server catches my eye and thinks I’m looking for hors d’oeuvres.
“Shrimp cocktail, ladies?”
“No, thank you,” Ell says quickly, backing up a couple of steps. “I have a shellfish allergy.”
I’ve already had more than enough appetizers, but I grab a shrimp from the tray anyway and pop it into my mouth. Anything to help rush this conversation along. Suddenly, everything feels too much. The music too loud, Ell’s expression too knowing, people too close. I need some air.
Ell warily watches me chew and swallow. I plaster on a smile, the kind that I’ve worn all night. Easy, breezy, I feel like I’m dying inside, but I can’t let anyone know.
“I’m sure Gram is around here somewhere,” I say. “I’m more than happy to pass along a message.”
“Oh, no worries. We have business things to discuss.”
“Right.” I keep smiling, but annoyance churns in me at her evasiveness, as if I can’t be privy to business things. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have to check on things in the kitchen.”
“Absolutely. Nice to see you, Lily.”
I make it two steps when her voice stops me. “And, by the way, your dress is absolutely beautiful.”
I bristle but muster one last smile.
I quickly move through the warm bodies standing between me and the two-way doors leading to the kitchen, thankful the lights are dimmed so no one can see my flaming red cheeks. If the comment had come from anyone else, I’d be elated. The dress is beautiful, a rich shade of crushed teal velvet. I thrifted it from my favorite vintage shop three towns over, chopping the gorgeous gown at the knees and stitching the hem into a flirty swing skirt. The bust was a little snug, but nothing I couldn’t fix by attaching a cream corset to the back to disguise the half-up zipper. By the time I finished, it looked nothing like the original gown I bought.
But Ell lives and breathes high fashion. I bet she recognized the dress as a vintage design that, in her eyes, I butchered by making it my own.
Well, she can mind her own business.
I’d love to tell her so, but there’s far too many prying ears around. Besides, then I’d have to explain why I had to thrift a dress and make it my own. Why couldn’t I just tap into the enormous Rosewood fortune and buy a brand-new number for myself?
It’s a question I’ve been trying to answer for the past year.
With a sigh of relief, I burst through the doors to the kitchen, nearly taking out a server carrying bite-size caprese sandwiches in my haste. “Sorry,” I mumble, my rigid posture slouching now that I’m away from the eyes of the guests. I love being a Rosewood, but sometimes having to be on all the time in front of townspeople gets exhausting.
“You look like a girl on a mission,” a familiar voice says, entering the kitchen behind me.
“A mission to get away from Ell Claremon.” I turn, taking in my friend Miles, whose cheeks are tinged pink with exertion. “You look like you’re on a mission.”
“Yeah, to find you,” he pants. “I’ve been looking for you for ten minutes. Finally spotted you and was yelling your name across the great room while you blitzed over here.”
“Sorry, just needed some air.” My heels click across the spotless white tile floor toward the sliding glass door leading to the pool patio. It’s open so only the screen stands between us and outside, but between the stuffy heat of the kitchen and the muggy summer weather, it’s not much of a reprieve.
Miles follows me, smoothing the wrinkles from his khaki dress pants and navy button-down. His blond waves dip into his blue eyes, the color complementing the robin’s egg shade of paint on the wall behind him. He peers through the screen at the packed backyard of the manor, quirking a brow. “Lily, what looks strange about this scene?”
I take in the guests in the pool and lounging on chairs. “There’re too many people on the flamingo pool floatie?”
His laugh is bright. “Okay, two things.” He points to a boy about our age sitting to the side in an Adirondack chair.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“I was hoping you would know.”
“I should know,” I say.
The boy’s dark brown skin glows teal from the reflection of the chlorinated water. He nurses a bottle of water, wearing khakis and a sweater. Overdressed compared to everyone else on the patio in only swimsuits.
“I know every face here and addressed every invitation. I got hand cramps for these people.”
“Thank you for your brave sacrifice,” Miles says solemnly.
I elbow him in the side, glancing back at the boy. His eyes behind his square black glasses are the tell-all kind. It looks like he’d rather be anywhere than here.
“He does look familiar,” I say, trying to place him but coming up short.
“He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?” Miles asks.
I hum in agreement, just happy for a couple of moments of peace with Miles, who’s taken up the role as my sole best friend for the past year.
He’s all carefree optimism and easy distractions, and now’s no different as he gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Dare me to go talk to him?”
“You’ll do it even if I don’t,” I point out.
“No fun.”
“Fine, I dare you to sweep mystery guy off his feet. Bonus points if he falls in love with you by the end of the night.”
“And how many points if I fall in love with him?”
“I will let you sleep in tomorrow and open the deli by myself,” I swear, a risky gamble because DiVincenzi’s Deli is hopping on Sundays with people visiting after church. It usually takes both of us to handle the rush.
That said, I don’t think too many townies will be going to church tomorrow, given they’re getting wasted here.
“Deal.” Miles opens the door, then stops, pulling something from his pocket. “Oh, I almost forgot. The entire reason I was looking for you. Your gram told me to give you this. She said something weird.” He pauses, puzzling over it. “‘Not all in one bite,’ I think? And also, ‘to eat it ASAP so it doesn’t melt.’”
He drops a marble-size orb wrapped in green foil into my palm. I frown at it. “‘Not all in one—’”
He’s already striding across the patio, tossing one last bright smile over his shoulder at me with a thumbs-up. I glance behind me at the chefs still busy at the enormous range passing new plates off to servers. Delicious aromas waft around me, sweet and savory and everything in between as full and empty trays are traded left and right, the vast kitchen feeling tiny from the number of workers crammed in to keep up with the flow of food. I don’t recognize any of them. Gram must have given the usual crew the night off.
I roll the orb between my fingers, looking for anything that would make this one special. There’s an entire tray of chocolates by the fireplace—Gram knows I could have just gotten one myself. Peeling off the green foil reveals a dark chocolate truffle. I check the inside of the foil because it’d be on brand for Gram to put a message in there. But it’s just shiny silver. Nothing unusual.
I dig my teeth through the exterior. Pieces spill into my mouth, melting as they hit my tongue. Sweetness explodes, followed by the usual delightful bitter tinge of dark chocolate. But then something else falls onto my tongue, rough and—
“Ack!” I spit it out into my hand. A piece of paper was hidden in the chocolate. Because of course it was. Classic Gram. I snag a napkin to wipe my saliva off it, unfolding it as Gram’s familiar cursive script slowly appears.
Disappearing ink, an old staple that Gram has always used when writing notes. It used to be how she secretly communicated potential business deals back in the day before email, but now it’s become a special thing between the two of us when leaving silly notes around the manor, like, Saved this last eclair for you and Pizza and Project Runway tonight? There’s always a bit of a smudge on the paper, which signifies the special ink has been used. It reappears when wet, and in this case, my spit did the trick.
I should have known the note wouldn’t have been on the foil. That would have been too easy.
Dear Lilylove, it reads. Meet me at our spot at eight.
I glance at the clock above the sink. Two minutes. I was almost late.
The party in the backyard is no less raucous than in the manor as I step outside. If anything, it’s worse because this is where the youth congregate. I descend the grand stone steps leading to the patio, passing the pool to get to my destination. Nearly my entire class is stuffed in the turquoise water, my younger cousin Daisy precariously balancing barefoot on the end of the diving board. With only three months separating us, we could be twins thanks to our fair skin and matching dark red hair, a staple Rosewood gene. But that’s the end of our similarities, since she inherited her mom’s brown eyes and slight frame. Meanwhile, I got Gram’s ivy-green eyes and curves.
We’re different in other ways besides our looks, too. While I’m held in high esteem throughout the town as the firstborn for our generation of Rosewoods, Daisy’s kingdom is high school. To our classmates, she might as well be an A-list celebrity. It doesn’t help that she’s a TikTok star with nearly half a million followers.
She throws her hands into the air, her short silver bodycon dress dangerously riding up, and cheers rise from the water. Someone hands her a flute of champagne. Half sloshes over the side and onto the head of Gram’s yard boy as she pretends to use it as a mic.
“‘Sweeeeeeeet Caroline!’” she belts off tune.
“BUM! BUM! BUM!” they scream back.
“Jeez,” I mutter, hurrying away. Only second-borns can get away with being publicly ridiculous like that. If it were me, I’d be eaten alive by the Rosetown Chronicle.
A pang of jealousy thrums through me. Unlike me, Daisy doesn’t have to worry about being perfect for anyone, not Gram and certainly not the town. It must be nice not carrying that pressure around and always being surrounded by friends who would do anything for you.
The music and laughter fade as I curve around the side of the manor. Everything is meticulously manicured, roses lining every inch of the exterior, red blooms vivid against the pristine white brick walls that tower three stories up. Their scent is sweet, and I pause for a moment to take it in and shake the envious thoughts away. Streaks of sunset paint the sky gold, navy infringing. For this one moment, I’m alone, something I’ve been longing for all night.
The peace is broken by the velvet timbre of a voice I’d know anywhere.
“Hell of a party, isn’t it?”