I repeated the ten digits of Rebecca Shaw’s phone number in the dark until the rhythm of the numbers put me to sleep.
The white paper lanterns on the terrace hummed with the heat of eighty lightbulbs, casting pale circles over the linen-covered tables of my eighteenth birthday party. I stood near the stone balustrade, twirling my grandmother’s gold signet ring around my pinky finger while the caterers carried away empty champagne flutes.
On the small glass table next to me, a dozen white roses in a crystal vase sat beside a silver cake server. The card attached to the roses had my mother’s elegant handwriting, though I knew she had simply called the florist on Greenwich Avenue and charged the eighty-dollar arrangement to my father’s corporate account.
Across the stone tiles, my mother, Beatrice, laughed at something a neighbor said, her silk dress catching the amber patio light. A pair of diamond earrings, each the size of a hazelnut, caught the reflection of the pool water and threw tiny, bright needles of white light across her collarbone. They were a gift from my father last Christmas, purchased during their brief trip to St. Barts when the business was supposedly thriving.
My father, Charles, stepped beside her and adjusted his heavy gold wristwatch, his chest puffed out under his tailored tuxedo. He whispered something into Beatrice’s ear, his boisterous smile vanishing for a fraction of a second as his eyes scanned the yard. He did not look at the guests, but rather toward the driveway where the caterers were loading their van.
“Emma, sweetheart, you are hiding in the shadows,” Beatrice said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness as she stepped away from the crowd to reach me.
“I was just looking at the lawn, Mother,” I said, speaking softly and in the precise sentences my grandfather had always encouraged.
“Well, do not look too long,” she said, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off her sleeve. “Your father wants to have a brief word with you in the study before the guests leave, just about some simple papers for tomorrow.”
“What papers?” I asked.
She did not answer, only patted my cheek with a cold, dry hand and turned back to the guests. I watched her go, the heavy scent of her perfume lingering in the warm night air.
