opposite side of the table from Joanne. I pulled my notes and files out of my shoulder bag, pretending not to notice the other woman buttoning up her blouse. Evidently, Joanne hadn’t felt the need to wear a bra today. I couldn’t help hoping my breasts looked that good when I was her age. Whatever it was. Joanne’s face was so smooth and unlined it was hard to tell exactly how old she was, although I would guess she had to be at least forty.
“Sorry if we shocked you, Bella,” Joanne said, fluffing out her mass of raven-colored curls. “Newlyweds, you know. We just can’t seem to get enough of each other.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Think nothing of it.”
I didn’t really mind Joanne and Berkley’s open display of affection. After all, it was better than watching superhero-propelled glasses float past me.
3
While Joanne applied a fresh coat of lavender lipstick and powdered her nose, the rest of the committee trickled into the library—Grace Caleb, Abby Appleby, and Hannah Harmon.
I greeted each in turn, shaking hands with them. “Grace. Abby. Hannah. So glad you could make it.”
Grace Caleb was a seventysomething widow and one of the bastions of Bigtime society. She came from money so old no one could remember how she’d gotten it in the first place. Grace was the sort of genteel lady who grew roses and drank tea and played bridge. She wore a sedate flowered dress topped off with a knit mauve sweater set with pearls. Grace never went anywhere without a sweater or shawl of some kind.
Where Grace was sweet, pink softness, Hannah Harmon was all bright, hard lines. Her glossy auburn hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob, ended at her chin, highlighting her killer cheekbones. Her thin lips were a red slash in her face, and her brown eyes slightly pointed, like a cat’s. A heavy gold chain flashed around her neck, contrasting with the coffee color of her silk blouse and skirt. Gold rings set with rubies sparkled on her fingers, and a gold filigree bracelet encircled her wrist. Hannah was from new money, and she liked showing it off.
Abby Appleby was somewhere in between, although much farther down on the income ladder. Her brown hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail, and clear gloss covered her lips. She wore olive-colored cargo pants and a white, lacy camisole topped with a green plaid, button-up shirt. A thick, wide watch clamped across her wrist and looked like it could tell you what time it was in New Zealand, Thailand, and Madagascar—all at once. My attention went to the bag slung over Abby’s shoulder. It resembled a large suitcase and had more zippers and pockets and hidey-holes than a box full of purses.
The three women took seats around the table, murmuring hellos to me and each other.
I took my own chair across from Joanne and flipped through the files I’d brought. “I thought we’d start with a quick recap of what we decided on last time.”
Given my rabid love of art, I’d been elected chairperson of the Friends of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art a couple months ago. My main duty as madam chairperson was to plan and organize the museum’s annual fall fund-raiser. The museum, which relied heavily on public donations, had opened up a new wing and needed money to finish paying for it.
Joanne and Grace were also involved in the Friends group. Joanne, because she was the richest woman in the city and that’s what rich women did, and Grace, because she was one of the best-loved society matrons and actually liked art. They’d both volunteered to help with the benefit.
Abby was the professional event planner in Bigtime. Whether you were having a wedding, a funeral, or a convention, you called Abby to plan it. She’d built her reputation and her business, A+ Events, on her ability to pull off complicated events in a matter of weeks, or sometimes, days. Abby fronted just about every fund-raising committee in the city, and I’d drafted her for this one too.
Hannah had also
“Sorry if we shocked you, Bella,” Joanne said, fluffing out her mass of raven-colored curls. “Newlyweds, you know. We just can’t seem to get enough of each other.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “Think nothing of it.”
I didn’t really mind Joanne and Berkley’s open display of affection. After all, it was better than watching superhero-propelled glasses float past me.
3
While Joanne applied a fresh coat of lavender lipstick and powdered her nose, the rest of the committee trickled into the library—Grace Caleb, Abby Appleby, and Hannah Harmon.
I greeted each in turn, shaking hands with them. “Grace. Abby. Hannah. So glad you could make it.”
Grace Caleb was a seventysomething widow and one of the bastions of Bigtime society. She came from money so old no one could remember how she’d gotten it in the first place. Grace was the sort of genteel lady who grew roses and drank tea and played bridge. She wore a sedate flowered dress topped off with a knit mauve sweater set with pearls. Grace never went anywhere without a sweater or shawl of some kind.
Where Grace was sweet, pink softness, Hannah Harmon was all bright, hard lines. Her glossy auburn hair, cut in a razor-sharp bob, ended at her chin, highlighting her killer cheekbones. Her thin lips were a red slash in her face, and her brown eyes slightly pointed, like a cat’s. A heavy gold chain flashed around her neck, contrasting with the coffee color of her silk blouse and skirt. Gold rings set with rubies sparkled on her fingers, and a gold filigree bracelet encircled her wrist. Hannah was from new money, and she liked showing it off.
Abby Appleby was somewhere in between, although much farther down on the income ladder. Her brown hair was pulled back into a sensible ponytail, and clear gloss covered her lips. She wore olive-colored cargo pants and a white, lacy camisole topped with a green plaid, button-up shirt. A thick, wide watch clamped across her wrist and looked like it could tell you what time it was in New Zealand, Thailand, and Madagascar—all at once. My attention went to the bag slung over Abby’s shoulder. It resembled a large suitcase and had more zippers and pockets and hidey-holes than a box full of purses.
The three women took seats around the table, murmuring hellos to me and each other.
I took my own chair across from Joanne and flipped through the files I’d brought. “I thought we’d start with a quick recap of what we decided on last time.”
Given my rabid love of art, I’d been elected chairperson of the Friends of the Bigtime Museum of Modern Art a couple months ago. My main duty as madam chairperson was to plan and organize the museum’s annual fall fund-raiser. The museum, which relied heavily on public donations, had opened up a new wing and needed money to finish paying for it.
Joanne and Grace were also involved in the Friends group. Joanne, because she was the richest woman in the city and that’s what rich women did, and Grace, because she was one of the best-loved society matrons and actually liked art. They’d both volunteered to help with the benefit.
Abby was the professional event planner in Bigtime. Whether you were having a wedding, a funeral, or a convention, you called Abby to plan it. She’d built her reputation and her business, A+ Events, on her ability to pull off complicated events in a matter of weeks, or sometimes, days. Abby fronted just about every fund-raising committee in the city, and I’d drafted her for this one too.
Hannah had also
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