Chapters (59)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Praise
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- January
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- February
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- March
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- April
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- May
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- June
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- July
- Forty-One
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Author’s Note
- Ladies of the House - Reader’s Guide
- Questions For Discussion
- Excerpt
He lifted his chin proudly, showing off the very bright Union Jack pattern around his collar. “Black tie optional, they said. I prefer other options.”
We were shushed by the nice people next to us, and I made it about two minutes before starting up again. This couldn’t wait. I tilted my head toward him. “Have you heard who Wallis is dating?”
“Who?” Atlas asked.
I shared the name. Atlas’s eyes widened. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “fuck me.”
This earned us another shush, and a few stern looks. I lowered my voice. “Exactly my reaction. And I’m sure the reaction of most everyone at the Hay-Adams tonight. He’s here, too.”
“No,” Atlas said, dubious.
“Yes. They’ve only been dating two weeks. But Wallis prepared herself for this like it was prom.” Meanwhile, I’d worn my plainest little black dress, hoping to just melt into the background. Shifting to more amusing subjects, I gestured toward the altar, where the groom was presently looking between his bride’s vertiginous veil, the waterfall of flowers behind the officiant, and the packed rows of guests, as though he couldn’t quite believe the pageantry. “I went to college with one of those bridesmaids,” I told him, sighing exaggeratedly, pretending to be sorry for myself. “I doubt she’ll invite me into the photo booth later.”
“I’ll go in the booth with you,” he said. “I hope there are props. I love a big, fake mustache.”
He made a mustache with his finger, while I pretended to adjust a top hat. “Do you think Uncle Mac will notice I bought the cheapest thing off his registry?” I asked.
“Salad tongs?”
“Cheese knives.”
Atlas smothered his laugh in his suit sleeve. “Miss Sour Cream Richardson,” he eventually whispered, “I am so happy I get to be here for this.”
I’ve mastered the art of getting in and out of parties within fifty-five minutes, an appropriate amount of time to make the rounds and not appear rude. It’s relatively straightforward: you nibble on a cube of something, take a few sips, remember names of children and—this is important—use their social media to inform questions without revealing your source. For example: Traveled anywhere recently? You know they have. They know you know they have. Yet, it is part of the social contract that neither of you admits to knowing.