“Oh, I think one is appropriate, Rosemary. Corrine’s old enough to toast the Wexlers.”

My mother shook her head but said nothing more.

My eyes went everywhere, evaluating the dresses other women wore, searching for someone who was young and pretty enough to be my competition. I was heartened by how many girls my age were still dressed like young girls, some still looking more like bleary-eyed children, too unsophisticated to be anything but bored, even here with all this.

My father held out his right arm. My mother was on his left. We’d do the stairs that way. My father looked prouder than a peacock with me and my mother at his side, and he looked more like a Roman emperor surrounded by an adoring crowd. I could feel the eyes turning our way and thought most were looking at me. For many who knew my father and mother well, there was an obvious moment of curiosity: was I their young daughter?

I froze my soft smile the way I had practiced before the vintage mirror, to be another Mona Lisa. In a moment, everyone, especially the men, would realize that I was miles past being a child.

Simon and Lucy Wexler were just inside the front entrance. Simon was stout, with a small potbelly, graying dark-brown hair, and a graying brush mustache. Lucy was an attractive woman with chestnut hair that complemented her strikingly green eyes. I thought she looked at least a decade or so younger than her husband. She was so bedecked with jewelry that I thought she resembled a walking Christmas tree with all those diamonds twinkling in the light.

Simon Wexler might have ten times the wealth my father had, I thought, maybe even twenty times, but he was nowhere near as handsome and as distinguished-looking. My mother, although prettier than Lucy, was so plainly dressed in comparison that she looked like she would quickly fade into the background and become more like a party favor than a guest.

But not me, I thought.

“Rosemary,” Simon Wexler said, taking my mother’s hand. “Thank you for coming to celebrate with us.”

He spoke to my mother, but his eyes were on me.

“Harrington? Is this who I think she is?”

“Yes, my daughter, our daughter. Corrine,” my father said, stepping back so I could step forward to take Simon Wexler’s waiting hand.

I saw Lucy Wexler’s arrogant expression fade into curiosity and then envy. I wasn’t surprised. What woman her age didn’t want to be as pretty and as young? Beauty for such women faded like an aging rose. But not for me, I thought, not for me.

“Welcome,” Simon Wexler said. He was practically drooling. “You’ll certainly help dress up our gala, young lady.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wexler. Congratulations, Mrs. Wexler,” I said, and nodded ever so gently, with a slight curtsy, keeping my eyes down. That’s enough poise to please my mother, I thought.