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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY JAMIE BRENNER
  3. PART ONE
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. PART TWO
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. PART THREE
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. Acknowledgments
  81. About the Author
  82. What’s next onyour reading list?

“So you made the trip after all,” Elodie said, her pale cheeks shiny with perspiration. Her faded silver-blond hair was pulled up in a clip, large solitaire diamonds in her ears. “Why didn’t you contact me?”

“So you could waste more of my time? No thanks,” Gemma said. “Why did you lie to me? Celeste doesn’t know anything about the Electric Rose.”

“You should have told me you were coming,” Elodie said.

“You should have told me you were here!” Unbelievable. “Are you playing games with me? Is this some sort of payback for showing up at your party?”

“No,” Elodie said. “But we do need to talk. All three of us.”

“I’m leaving,” Gemma said, flashing her the ferry schedule on her phone. She turned and walked back toward Celeste’s house, Elodie close behind on her heels.

“Oh no, you’re not,” Elodie said. “This conversation is a long time coming. And I’m not waiting another minute.”

22

Celeste, 1993

Bryn Mawr College was only two hours from Manhattan, but felt like a world away. That, along with its excellent graduate program in art history, was its selling point for Celeste.

The Philadelphia suburbs were the perfect place for her to lose herself in her studies. There were only two main newspapers, The Philadelphia Inquirer and the Daily News, and neither devoted much ink to gossip pages. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t one of the Pavlin sisters; she was just Celeste. She even went by her mother’s maiden name, Lowe, to stay under the radar completely. But she didn’t have to worry; the Main Line functioned like its own universe, with its local celebrities and socialites and big-money power players. And in her academic niche, her neighborhood populated primarily by health food stores, yoga studios, and coffee shops, no one cared about even local notables.

She lived in an apartment building just off Lancaster Avenue, shedding her Manhattan socialite skin like a chrysalis. She wore Birkenstocks and flannel shirts and hadn’t picked up a mascara wand in ages. She spent most of her time on campus or down the road at Ludington Library. Sometimes she ventured out with friends to hear indie bands play in Center City or passed entire afternoons at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. And best of all, she hadn’t gone to a Pavlin & Co event for at least a year. She told her parents she was studying or working and couldn’t get away. Her mother always quipped, “When you’re ready to be a member of this family again, you let me know.”