“You know what?” I decided to let myself be cheered by present company. “I should get my makeup done, if Jules wouldn’t mind.” No, Jules assured me, she didn’t mind at all. I took Maggie’s former seat on the director’s chair. “At least my mug will be decent now, and distract people from the fact that my outfit is wrong.”

“You’ll look amazing in whatever you wear,” Maggie said in a way that suggested she wanted to convince me as well as herself. “And you’re the famous photographer. People expect you to be avant garde.”

“Give me some small-talk prep,” I said as Jules slathered primer on my cheeks. “What are Susie’s guests chatting about these days? Farrow and Ball paint? Boat shoes?”

“Dolly Parton is playing the Folk Festival this year,” said Miss Fawn. “People are losing their minds.”

“Big debate in town council about short-term rentals,” added Jules.

“An oil guy wants to buy the old Henry place on Ocean Avenue,” said Maggie.

“I can imagine that’s going over Newport like a cash bar,” I said, laughing. “But it actually doesn’t matter. No one is going to talk to me, anyway.”

Chapter 3

My outfit was decidedly not flapper-esque—black wide-leg pants and a cream tank that clung to my stomach. I’d brought my camera, which was hanging from its strap on my shoulder. Perhaps people wouldn’t recognize me, or would think I was the staff. Perhaps I could slip by largely unnoticed.

“Newport’s prodigal daughter!” Archer called immediately, striding up the drive. “She’s single! She’s sexy! She’s promised to transfer some of her frequent-flier miles to me, and still hasn’t done it!” My brother’s hug, when he arrived, lifted me off my feet.

“I will, I will,” I told him. Once he set me down, I gave him a once-over. He looked well, I was grateful to see, still with his skinny legs and torso like a minifridge, still holding himself with the type of confidence reserved for favorite children. He was shaggy-haired, baby-faced, and under his blue sport jacket, he was wearing a T-shirt of Chicago starring—who else?—Lisa Rinna as Roxie Hart.

“What are those, Archer? Board shorts?” asked Maggie, frowning at his legs.

“I know Susie doesn’t like synthetic fabrics lurking around her property, but this isn’t a ball. Hey—Cass—why can’t we ever be evicted?” He flipped up the edges of his swim trunks. “Because I be squattin’!” We moved aside in the drive, letting an SUV pull forward and dump out a car of chattering Daisy Buchanans. Maggie waved to them, elegant flicks of the wrist, the aristocratic practices of a ballerina infused in every gesture.

“I think you look dapper,” I said to my brother as he distributed air kisses to the group. “As you probably guessed, I didn’t get the memo about the costume.”