Chapter 1: The Woman in the Wine-Red Dress
Faith Delano shoved me onto the lawn in front of two hundred wealthy guests, laughed as I hit the ground, and told everyone I was too old to know where I belonged.
So I stood up, slapped her across the face, buried her designer-blonde head in a $4,000 cake, and smiled.
“Oops.””
What Faith didn't know was that she'd just humiliated the one woman in Los Angeles who could take away everything she believed she owned.
And I hadn't even begun.
The annual spring luncheon at the Beverly Hills Country Club was supposed to celebrate philanthropy, tradition, and the kind of generosity wealthy people liked to photograph themselves performing.
White roses spilled from crystal vases. Champagne flutes glittered beneath the California sun. A string quartet played near the fountain while servers in immaculate white jackets carried trays of smoked salmon, miniature quiches, and desserts decorated with edible gold.
I had attended the luncheon for thirty years.
I knew which members donated quietly and which needed their names printed on the largest possible banners. I knew which couples stayed married for appearances, which husbands maintained apartments in New York, and which women could turn a charitable donation into a business negotiation before dessert.
At seventy-one, I had learned that wealth was rarely as interesting as the people who used it to conceal their insecurities.
My name is Eleanor Whitmore.
I wore a wine-red dress, low pearl earrings, and the necklace my late husband had given me on our fortieth anniversary. My silver-gray hair was pinned neatly at the nape of my neck.
I arrived alone.
That was apparently the first thing Faith Delano found amusing.
She stood beneath a striped canopy with three friends, holding a champagne flute between manicured fingers. At twenty-eight, Faith had the glossy appearance of someone who had never carried her own luggage or heard the word no without immediately demanding a manager.
Her father, Richard Delano, had recently become one of the city's most talked-about real estate developers.
His new luxury project had made headlines for months.
And Faith had apparently mistaken her father's success for a royal title.
"There she is," Faith whispered, not nearly quietly enough.
"The club's resident antique.""
Her friend Madison covered her mouth.
"Faith, stop.""
But she was smiling when she said it.
Faith tilted her head toward me.
"Seriously, look at her. Does she even know this isn't a retirement home?""
I heard every word.
I kept walking.
My husband, Charles, had always told me that a person who needed an audience to feel powerful was usually the weakest person in the room.
Charles had been dead for six years, but his advice remained useful.
I passed the fountain and paused near the flower beds to admire a cluster of pale pink peonies. The gardener had arranged them beautifully, and I was considering asking his supervisor for his name when Faith stepped directly into my path.
"Excuse me," I said.
She looked me up and down.
"Are you lost?""
"No.""
"Then perhaps you should find somewhere else to stand. This area is reserved for the luncheon committee.""
I glanced at the small gold sign beside the flowers.
It listed the committee members.
My name appeared third.
"How interesting," I said.
"I'm on that committee.""
Faith laughed.
"Oh, please. My father practically runs this place now.""
"Does he?""
"He's investing in the club's future. You should be grateful people like him are keeping places like this alive.""
I looked at her champagne flute.
"People like him?""
"People who understand that everything has to move forward.""
"And what, exactly, do you think needs to move forward?""
Faith's smile hardened.
"People who don't belong in the past.""
Her friends fell quiet.
I could have walked away.
I should have walked away.
Instead, I looked at her and said, "My dear, youth is a temporary condition. Character is a choice.""
Madison's eyes widened.
Faith's face turned crimson.
"Did you just lecture me?""
"I believe I answered your question.""
She set her champagne flute on a nearby table.
Then she stepped closer.
"You know what your problem is? Women like you think showing up for thirty years makes you untouchable.""
"No," I replied.
"I think thirty years gives me an excellent memory.""
She glanced toward the guests gathering around the dessert table. Several were watching us now.
That was when she decided to make a spectacle of me.
"Maybe you need help finding your way out.""
Before I could answer, Faith planted both hands against my shoulders and shoved.
Hard.
My heel caught the edge of the lawn.
I fell backward onto the grass.
The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. One palm scraped against the ground, and my right shoe twisted beneath me. The wine-red fabric of my dress collected a dark smear of damp earth.
For one long second, I couldn't hear anything except the rushing of blood in my ears.
Then Faith laughed.
"Oops! Watch where you're going!""
Her friends giggled.
Someone near the fountain gasped.
A waiter stopped with a tray suspended in midair.
Nobody came to help me.
I looked up at the woman standing over me.
Faith leaned down, pretending concern.
"Oh, God. Are you all right? Maybe someone should call your nurse.""
Madison whispered, "Faith, that's enough.""
"Why?"" Faith snapped.
"She was standing in my way.""
I placed one hand against the grass and pushed myself upright.
My knees hurt. My palms stung. My dress was ruined.
But something inside me had become very still.
I brushed the dirt from my skirt.
Straightened my necklace.
Then I walked toward Faith.
Her smile faltered.
"What's wrong with you?"" she demanded.
I stopped directly in front of her.
And slapped her.
The sound cracked across the lawn.
The quartet stopped playing.
A champagne flute slipped from someone's hand and shattered against the stone terrace.
Faith stumbled backward, clutching her cheek.
"You hit me!""
I said nothing.
She lunged toward me, but I caught her by the hair and drove her face into the enormous white-frosted cake on the table behind her.
The tablecloth slid sideways.
Cake toppled.
Cream and sugar flowers collapsed across her designer dress.
Faith screamed as I released her.
I stepped back, smoothed my skirt, and adjusted my pearls.
Then I looked into her stunned, frosting-covered face.
"Oops.""
Nobody laughed this time.
Faith wiped cream from her eyes.
"You crazy old woman!""
I met her gaze.
"Careful, Faith. You have no idea who you're speaking to.""
Her expression twisted with fury.
She reached for her phone.
"My father is going to destroy you.""
I almost smiled.
"Then I suggest you call him.""
Faith jabbed at her screen with shaking fingers.
"Daddy? Daddy, you need to get here. Right now!""
She listened for a moment before shouting, "No, you don't understand! An old woman attacked me!""
I watched the color drain from her face as her father apparently asked a question.
Then she turned toward me.
"What did you say your name was?""
I didn't answer.
Faith slowly lowered the phone.
Because suddenly, she wasn't looking at a helpless old woman in a ruined dress.
She was looking at someone she had seen before.
Someone from a photograph.
Someone her father had warned her never to offend.
May you like
And when Richard Delano finally spoke through the phone, Faith heard six words that made her stop breathing.
*"Faith, get away from that woman.""*
