The dinner was being held outdoors behind the Big House. A tent had been set up. Strings of lights draped from the ceiling. The theme of Phillip and Celine’s wedding was “Silver and Gold,” partly meant to be a play on Phillip’s age and a reference to the Gatsby novel she’d read freshman year of high school, and so the entire space had been color-coordinated. Gold, ivory, and silver décor was everywhere—from the place settings of gold-rimmed crystal to the gold-rimmed charger plates. The tables were decorated with a textured silver tablecloth. All the guests went along with the theme. Mira was not the only one in a sequined dress, but the dress was where Mira had stopped. She saw women with shimmer in their hair, diamond fingers glittering as they waved to greet acquaintances. Even their makeup took it to a level Mira hadn’t expected. Heavily pigmented gold eyeshadow lined with charcoal. The men had the same level of extravagance in the details of their suits. Gold and silver tuxedo vests with matching ties. Cartier cuff links. Only the best with every detail. Nothing was subtle.

Mira hesitated. A small crowd mingled around an open bar. The guests, wanting to keep in the spirit of the environment, ordered cocktails they imagined from the Gatsby era—gin rickeys, Sauternes, clarets, or champagne for those who knew of nothing else. Waiters floated through the crowds, parading an endless array of hors d’oeuvres. Oysters Rockefeller, mushrooms stuffed with crab meat, salmon mousse spread on sliced crusted bread. Mira watched as black waiters dressed in white suits lowered themselves while holding out the trays for guests to take, and take they did.

In the center of the room, a gleaming white floor had been built for dancing, but it was empty now. Everyone sat at tables surrounding it, occasionally glancing at the bare tile in the hope someone else had dared to be the first. On the opposite side of the floor were tables for the wedding party. Mira’s eyes passed over the men and women occupying the seats, all of them people she didn’t recognize except for one—Mr. Tatum, Celine’s father, sitting at the end. He’d gotten thinner with age, and wore a silver suit lacking the adornments of some of the other guests. He sat with the rest of the wedding party, drinking and laughing, unaware of the pained expressions of the others for having to tolerate his presence. The display made her wince. As much as any of the guests might not have cared for Celine once, they certainly never did for her father. Hot-tempered and brash, he often gave voice to the worst of themselves, saying out loud what they tried to cloak in hushed gossip. Being white couldn’t save him from their disdain, and no amount of money would make them bend toward acceptance.