“But,” I said, bewildered, “he was really nice to you tonight…”

“Exactly,” Sofia said venomously. Another sob. “Like a Disney prince. And I let myself pretend it was real, and it was w-wonderful. But now it’s over, and tomorrow he’ll turn into a pu-pumpkin.”

“The prince doesn’t turn into a pumpkin.”

“Then I turn into a pumpkin.”

I reached for the paper towel stand and tugged one off the roll. “No, you don’t turn into a pumpkin, either. The coach turns into a pumpkin. You end up walking home with one shoe and a bunch of traumatized rodents.”

A laugh quivered out between Sofia’s fingers. She took the paper towel. Wadding it against her wet eyes, she said, “He meant those things he said. He cares about me. I knew it was the truth.”

“Everyone knew, Sofia. That’s why Luis got pissed off and left so fast.”

“But that doesn’t mean Steven wants a relationship.”

“Maybe you don’t either,” I said dryly. “Sometimes starting a relationship is the worst thing you can do to someone you love.”

“Only one of Eli Crosslin’s children would say that” came her voice from behind the paper towel.

“It’s probably true, though.”

Sofia glared at me over the sodden white pulp of the towel. “Avery,” she said vehemently, “nothing our father ever said to you was true. Not one promise. Not one word of advice. He’s the worst half of each of us. Why does his half always get to win?” Crying, she jumped up and went to her room.

Sixteen

To my satisfaction, not to mention Sofia’s, Bethany Warner loved the concept of the Jazz Age wedding at the Filter Building. Hollis was slower to be convinced, worrying that the Art Deco elements might seem too cold. However, once Sofia showed her sketches and samples of lavish details, including fresh flower arrangements ornamented with strings of pearls and glittering crystal brooches, Hollis became more enthused.

“Still, I always imagined Bethany in a traditional wedding gown,” Hollis fretted. “Not something trendy.”

Bethany frowned. “It’s not trendy if it’s been around since 1920, Mother.”

“I don’t want you prancing around in something that looks like a costume,” Hollis persisted.

I intervened quickly, grabbing a sketch pad from Sofia and sitting between the Warners. “I understand. We need something classic but not too theme-y. I wasn’t thinking about drop-waist for you, Bethany. More something like this…” I picked up a pencil and sketched a slim, high-waisted gown. On impulse, I added a split-front skirt draped in panels of sheer silk and tulle. “Most of the bodice would be done in linear beading and sequins.” I filled it in with a light geometric pattern. “And instead of a veil, a double-strand headband of diamonds and pearls going across the forehead. Or if that’s a little too dramatic —”

“That’s it,” Bethany said in excitement, jamming her finger directly on the design. “That’s what I want. I love that.”

“It’s beautiful,” Hollis admitted. She gave me a pleased look. “Did you just come up with this, Avery? You’re very talented.”

I smiled at her. “I’m sure we can have something similar to this made —”

“No, not similar,” Bethany interrupted. “I want this one.”

“Yes, you design it, Avery,” Hollis said.

I shook my head, disconcerted. “I haven’t designed for a few years. And my old contacts are in New York.”

“Find someone to collaborate with,” Hollis told me. “We’ll take the plane up to New York as often as we need for the fittings.”

After the meeting was over and the Warners had left, Sofia exclaimed, “I can’t believe they liked the Jazz Age wedding. I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance they’d choose the country club.”

“I was pretty certain that Hollis would go for the more stylish option. She wants to be seen as forward-thinking and fashionable.”

“But not if it offends the old guard,” Sofia said.

I grinned as I went to get Coco from her crate. “I’ll bet some of the old guard were there during the original Jazz Age.”

“Why did you keep Coco in there while the Warners were here?”

“Some people don’t like having a dog wandering around.”

“I think you’re embarrassed by her.”

“Don’t say things like that in front of the baby,” I protested.

“That dog is not my baby,” Sofia said with a reluctant smile.

“Come on, help me do her nails.”

We sat side by side at the counter while I held Coco in my lap. “One of us should call Steven and tell him that the Warners liked the Gatsby wedding,” I said. I uncapped a puppy-nail-polish pen, the same shade of pink as her rhinestone collar.

“You do it,” Sofia said.

So far, Sofia and Steven had been at a stalemate. He had been unusually nice to her the past couple of days, but there had been no sign of the tenderness he had shown the night of Alameda’s visit. When I had urged Sofia to say something to him, she had confessed that she was still trying to work up the nerve.

“Sofia, for heaven’s sake, go talk to him. Be proactive.”

She took one of Coco’s delicate paws and held it steady. “Why don’t you take your own advice?” she retorted. “You haven’t talked to Joe since he took you out to lunch.”