JANICE STARED AT HER DAUGHTER, her eyes blazing. “Morgan,” she barely managed. “What have you done?”
Morgan raised her chin. “I couldn’t let Betty go out there and make a fool of herself. And the dress fit, so I told her to wear it.” She grimaced. “Though I didn’t think much beyond that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be stupid.”
Her mother sucked in her breath, then stepped forward, taking her daughter’s hands in hers. “I’ve never been so proud of you in my life.”
It took a second, but eventually Morgan’s stiff shoulders eased. When they stepped apart, the girl dashed at her eyes. “I guess you’re getting your wish after all.”
“What wish?”
“That I’m not a debutante. I sure can’t go out there like this.”
Janice took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Do you want to be a debutante, sweetheart?”
She shrugged, almost shyly. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then you’re going to be a debutante. In fact, dress or no dress, you are going to be the best damn debutante this freaking town has ever seen.”
Morgan looked terrified. “Mom! I can’t go out there in my slip!”
Janice muttered, “No, I guess not.”
Mother and daughter turned to me. “What do we do?”
This, it occurred to me, I could fix.
“I have an idea, but we have to work fast.” I scribbled a note. “Slip this to Yolanda so that India changes places so Morgan can go last. We need time.”
“What?” India demanded. “Morgan is going last? She can’t go last! I’m going last!”
“India,” I said, “we have no choice.”
She looked over at Morgan who was nearly naked. “That isn’t my problem! I’m supposed to go last.”
“I’m sorry, India, but this is an emergency.”
She stood very still and her lip started to tremble. “It isn’t fair. Morgan has everything.”
Her whole body shuddered and I watched, stunned, as the shell around India finally broke away.
“She has a mother,” the girl choked out. “She has a father. And sisters and brothers and aunts and uncles. All living together in one house.” Tears streamed through her makeup. “She can’t have this too.”
“India—”
“India,” Morgan said, cutting me off.
My niece walked over to her, then glanced at the other girls. “You guys better get in line or you’re going to miss your cue to go on.”
The remaining debs leaped and raced to the stage.
Morgan’s nose wrinkled as if she were trying to figure out what to say. “You have a totally cool life, India. God, you have like the most amazing house and car and clothes.”
By now India was crying into her hands, her gloves smudged with blush and lipstick. “But my dad hates me.”
I felt my heart twist.
“Oh, man,” Morgan said, “he doesn’t hate you.”
“He’s never there. Nothing I ever do is good enough. It’s like he wants some perfect daughter, someone like you.”
“Me?” Morgan glanced uncertainly at her mother, then leaned close. “Look, I am so not perfect, believe me. And it’s not like my life is so perfect. Hello, my dad is hardly ever around either. But don’t get stupid about it like I did.”
“What do you mean?” she sniffed.
Morgan hesitated, then I watched as right before my eyes my niece grew into herself. “India, listen to me. I got kicked out of just about every school in San Francisco trying to get my father’s attention. And all it did was mess me up.” She struggled to find words. “It was a waste of time and my dad didn’t even notice. But I figure one of these days he’ll see how great I am.” She smiled wryly. “The point is, we deal with what we got.” Her mouth tilted at one corner. “Plus, if it helps, when I was in the wings getting Betty into my dress, I saw a woman come in with your grandmother and your dad and some other man. I’m guessing they’re your mom and stepdad.”
“What?” She jerked her head back and forth between me and Morgan. “My mom’s here?”
I didn’t say anything about how I’d called her father and suggested (strongly) that for his daughter’s sake it might be nice if the woman were made to feel welcome by the man she left. I peeked through the curtains.
“Yep, she’s here,” I said, feeling tremendous relief. “I think your dad called her and asked her to come.” I squeezed her hand. “Your dad loves you, sweetie. Let him in.”
“Oh, my God! I’ve got to see her.”
India bolted, getting three steps away in her ball gown before she stopped, raced back and gave me, Morgan, and even Janice a hug. Then she dashed out into the audience despite the fact that she wasn’t supposed to be seen until the moment of her debut. Though truth to tell, India had always been a rules-optional sort of girl.
“The clock is ticking,” Yolanda barked at me.
Crap.
I followed India out into the audience on a separate mission. My footsteps came up short when I saw India’s mother stand awkwardly in a gown I suspected she had purchased at a thrift store, but India didn’t even notice. She threw her arms around her mother and started introducing her to everyone who was within earshot.
I knew things weren’t perfect, but it was a start.
Unfortunately I didn’t have time to linger. As discreetly as I could, I grabbed my aunt and pulled her backstage.
“Oh, my,” she said when I told her I needed her billowing undergarment.
Just as I yanked the dress over my aunt’s head Savannah appeared. “What is going on?”
Janice filled her in while I continued to work. Aunt Penny covered herself with Morgan’s white satin cape while I hurriedly got my niece into the slip that was made of white organza and taffeta that in the current millennium looked something like a dress. The bodice was thick, smooth, and tight with thin spaghetti straps, and the skirt was full and flowing all the way to the floor, the crinoline underneath giving it a beautiful bell shape.
Savannah took one look and said, “It doesn’t look finished.” She glanced around, focusing on our aunt. With one yank, Aunt Penny was capeless.
“I can’t wear that!” Morgan said.
“Not this,” Savannah offered, retrieving a pair of scissors from my emergency sewing kit, and fiddling with the fur trim.
“You’re going to cut Mother’s cape?” I gawked.
“I only need the fur.”
With an expert’s touch, she made a single snip, tossed the scissors aside, then pulled the white fur trim away from the satin in one easy tug.
Aunt Penny, despite her barely clad state, understood what needed to happen next. She stepped up with a needle and thread. “I’ll tack it on in a jiff.”
Working like a race crew at a Nascar pit stop, Janice and I whipped the slip off Morgan, Savannah snipped away the spaghetti straps, then Penny tacked the fur along the new strapless bodice, before we shoved the stunned teenager back into the new, improved “gown.” After one last inspection, Savannah whipped off her own white sash and tied it around Morgan’s waist with a big bow. A little Linda Evans Dynasty action, but amazingly, Savannah made it work.
“There,” she announced, “you’re ready.”
My mother bustled backstage. “Where is everyone?” she demanded.
When she saw her eighty-year-old aunt standing close to naked, she nearly fainted. “What’s happened?”
Morgan stepped forward and extended her arms. “How do I look?”
My mother’s hand came to her chest. I couldn’t tell if she was going to have a heart attack or smile with joy.
“Morgan. You look like a Russian princess.”
With Janice’s dark hair and the Wainwrights’ violet-blue eyes and alabaster skin, she truly was stunning.
“Here,” I said, reaching for the clasp on my pearls. “Wear these.”
My mother stopped me. “Keep those on. It’s taken long enough for you to finally wear them.” She reached back and unhooked her own pearls. “Here,” she said, coming up behind her granddaughter. “Wear mine.”
When she was done, we stood back to admire our handiwork. “See, Mom,” I said to Janice, “being a debutante didn’t ruin your daughter.”
My sister-in-law’s eyes shone. “She’s a good kid.”
“Yeah, she is.”
Janice hugged her daughter. “I’m so proud of you.”
This time Morgan held tight. “Maybe I have some of that Pulitzer Prize stuff in me after all.”
My mother scoffed. “Of course you do. You’re a Wainwright.” But this time my mother wasn’t scowling.
“You’re up next!” Yolanda called.
Holding her long skirt, Morgan raced to the stairs where Henry waited, the puff of white fur around the top of her bodice gently fluttering.
When I got back to the wings, I arrived in time to watch India. Standing at the top of the stairs with Hunter, she looked like a princess.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Miss India Elizabeth Blair. She is the daughter of Mr. Hunter Blair of Willow Creek. She is escorted by her father and Master Sergeant Derek Clash of Willow Creek Academy.”
They came down the stairs with elegance, stopping at the bottom where India struck a superior pose. Then she began her formal bow. The entire room held its breath as she sank toward the ground. For a second I thought she would stop as the violins held a long expectant note, but then she kept going until her forehead nearly touched her skirts. She had done better than anyone so far.
Unlike any other deb crowd I had ever witnessed, this one gave India a loud cheer of applause. Her father looked stoic while her grandmother openly wept in the audience. Her mother had tears in her eyes in what I could see was both pride and regret.
I expected India to accept the admiration as nothing more than her due. Instead she waved at her mother, then threw her arms around her father. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Hunter Blair stood very still, awkward, uncomfortable. The crowd felt the tension, the cheers dying down. India felt it too and she let go, her angry arrogance starting to resurface.
But Hunter stopped her, tilting her chin to look at him. “You did a great job.” Then the man who had gone from abject poverty to staggering wealth by means of fire and the danger inherent in manipulated crude oil flaunted convention and picked his young daughter up and twirled her around.
The crowd cheered as Hunter led India to the side to join the line of debs. Then the music swelled one last time. This time Morgan appeared at the top of the stairs.
Where India had been a princess, my niece looked like a young queen as she stood with my brother. Her white gown of organza, taffeta, and satin trimmed in white fur was simple in its elegance, her dark hair swept back to tumble down her shoulders in soft curls. She smiled confidently, her gloved palm placed formally on the back of my brother’s extended hand, Wainwright family pearls resting against her collarbone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Miss Morgan Wainwright Cushing. She is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Herbert Cushing the Fourth, descendant of Duke Ridgely Wainwright, founder of the Willow Creek Symphony.”
I could see that my mother had tears in her eyes at the sight as they came down the steps. At the bottom of the staircase Morgan smiled at her escort and her father, then began her slow descent. She had been the first to tumble on the Wainwright black and white marble entry hall floor, so no one was more surprised than me when she hit that midway point where most girls ceased, and kept going. She sank lower and lower, my breath held until, I kid you not, she bowed her head so low that she touched her forehead to the voluminous folds of her makeshift debutante skirts, her arms extended on either side of her like wings.
The audience erupted, this less than proper crowd cheering for a less than proper group of girls who had proven they were perfect just as they were. And standing there, I realized this wasn’t about money, my family’s history, my past, or even my grandmother. It was about eight girls, and what was just one of many ways of making them feel capable of taking on the world.
The orchestra flared, the crowd roared its approval, and I fell back against the wall in relief when the girls and their fathers began the traditional waltz. It was done. The girls had shone and right then I didn’t care about symphony finances or family legacies. All I cared about was my girls. It might not have been the most traditional of debuts, but I was proud of what they had accomplished in three short months.
The escorts exchanged mothers for daughters, and I decided it was time to head back to my family’s table. But when I walked out from backstage I saw Jack with Racine wrapped around him like a cheap spandex sweater.
I veered off in the opposite direction, but Janice was there, catching my arm. “What’s up with you two?”
I considered my sister-in-law, then grimaced. “You know that thing you said about having sex in the men’s room?”
Her eyes went wide as saucers. “You and Jack?” she squeaked.
“Yep. Me and Jack in the courthouse men’s room, with Racine sitting in the gallery, no less.”
She burst out laughing. “You bad, bad girl. And to think we gave Savannah trouble about the country club men’s room!” She hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends. “Come on. You can’t let a little slut action scare you off.”
We wove through the tables, people stopping us every step of the way.
“It was a beautiful presentation!”
“The girls were lovely.”
“Congratulations!”
But more than the praise, I noticed that my mother was sitting at our table all by herself. Aunt Penelope wasn’t there. Vincent was gone.
Ridgely sat stiffly in her seat, surrounded by empty chairs, her smile plastered on her face. She wore the perfect expression, pretending to adore sitting there alone while everyone else danced and the women of Willow Creek, old and new to the society ranks, whispered behind her back.
We might not have had a disastrous ball, and I might have proved that she wasn’t an adulterer, but she would not soon be forgiven for lying about her looks.
I felt that age-old need surge up to save her and I beelined it to the table. But before I made it, Jack stood and walked over to her.
Oh, no! Don’t confront her here, I wanted to holler.
But before I could get there, before I started to call out to them, I saw him extend his hand and ask my mother to dance.
She looked from his hand to his face, then said something I couldn’t hear. But when I practically slid to a stop at the table, I heard his laugh.
“Mrs. Odgen, when it comes to you, hate isn’t what comes to mind. Beautiful. Larger than life. Willing to go after what she wants. That’s what I think when I think of you.”
“Why, Mr. Blair,” she cooed.
“Now, are you going to sit there all alone or are you going to dance with me?”
She took his hand, and when they walked past me, she smiled and whispered, “I can’t imagine why you ever let him go.”
I gaped. But all gaping was cut off when the music did the same.
Confused, I saw India, Morgan, and the rest of the debs talking to the conductor. After a furtive shake of his head, then more whispering from the girls, I saw the man relent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “We have a special request.”
He whirled back, said something to the orchestra, who hurriedly whispered among themselves, and launched into a new piece.
“What?” I whispered.
I watched with the rest of the audience as my group of eight debutantes linked their arms at the front of the room and started singing along… to the orchestra, no less, playing the Dixie Chicks’ “Not Ready to Make Nice.”