“I thought you weren’t that fond of her.”

“I’m not, but it is their anniversary, and I wouldn’t want any woman, even a Lucy Wexler, to be mistreated.”

She turned to me, her eyes too familiarly cold and angry.

“You mind your manners, young lady, and remember what I told you about being modest, especially in the company of unmarried men. You make sure you are properly introduced to strangers and always by an adult.”

“Oh, yes, Mother. Thank you. I certainly wouldn’t want to make a terrible social faux pas and embarrass you and Daddy after you’ve taught me so much about social etiquette from your own experiences,” I said. I was dripping so with sarcasm that my father risked a smile. My mother ignored it.

“Shall we go, then?” my father asked my mother.

My mother nodded, looking more like she was about to attend a funeral than a celebration, while I could barely contain myself.

Even if I hadn’t had new, more sophisticated clothes and believed this was my coming out, I would have been excited to attend a gala at the now-famous Wexler mansion. The nearly 15,000-square-foot house was built on 180 acres that featured a half-mile-long lake. The mansion had grand Doric columns and a triangular pediment that resembled a temple. There were over fourteen grand-sized rooms and a ballroom. It had originally been built and owned by a large slave owner. The rumor my father told me was that Simon Wexler had outmaneuvered another bank that had foreclosed on the property to buy it all for almost half its value.

Although the gala had been advertised as a gathering of close friends and relatives, it was quickly apparent from the line of carriages as we approached that this was no small gathering. The moment my father turned into the long entry drive, over which grew very old oak trees creating a dramatic green tunnel, my mother gasped.

“There must be over a hundred people!” she exclaimed.

“Most likely close to two hundred, Rosemary,” my father said. He turned to look at me. “Lots of cousins.”

I smiled at his laughter. We were only halfway down the long entry when we heard the music. It sounded like a very big band with more than three banjos.

“They’re playing ‘Oh, Them Golden Slippers,’ ” I cried. “And that’s my shoes!”

What a good omen, I thought.

The entry drive curved at the front of the mansion. As we drew closer, we saw it was swarming with carriages unloading and men and women in the most elegant clothes stepping out. There were dozens of servants taking care of the horse-drawn carriages. As we drew even closer, the music was louder, and I could see that people were being greeted at the front entrance by help serving glasses of champagne as they entered. The festive atmosphere was explosive.

“May I have a glass of champagne, Daddy?” I quickly asked.

“Of course not,” my mother said.