Read Online Passion's Promise by Danielle Steel - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Danielle Steel
Ads: Link
conveniently died, augmenting his fortune handsomely. Elizabeth was still redoing the house. It just took "forever to find the right pieces."
Kezia was ten minutes late, and when she arrived, throngs of women were crowded into the hall. Two maids in crisp black uniforms offered tea sandwiches, and there was lemonade on a long silver tray. The butler was discreetly taking orders for drinks. And he was getting a lot more business than the long silver tray.
The couch and Louis XV fauteuils ("Imagine, eight of them, darling, from Christie's! And all in one dayl You know, the Richley estate, and signed tool") were cluttered with the older women on the committee, enthroned like heads of state, clanking gold bracelets and covered with pearls, wearing "good" suits and "marvelous" hats, a host of Balenciaga and Chanel. They eyed the younger women carefully, criticism rich on their minds.
The room had a ceiling the height of two floors; the mantel was French, a "marvelous" marble, Louis XVI, and the ghastly chandelier had been a wedding present from Elizabeth's mother. Fruitwood tables, an inlaid desk, an ormolu chest, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite—it all looked to Kezia like Sotheby's the day before auction.
The "girls" were given half an hour of grace before coming to order, and then their attention was demanded at the front of the room. Courtnay St. James was in charge.
"Well, ladies, welcome home from the summer. And doesn't everyone look just marvelous!" She was heftily poured into a navy silk suit that crushed her ample bosom and struggled over her hips. A sapphire brooch of considerable size adorned her lapel, her pearls were in place, her hat matched her dress, and three or four rings that had been born with her hands waved her demi-glasses at the "girls" as she spoke.
"And now, let's get organized for our marvelous, marvelous fete! It's going to be at the Plaza this year."
Surprise! Surprise! The Plaza and not the Pierre. How terribly, terribly exciting!
There was a murmur among the women, and the butler silently circulated his tray at the edge of the crowd. Tiffany was first on line, and seemed to weave as she stood, smiling amiably at her friends. Kezia looked away and let her eyes comb the crowd. They were all here, all the same faces, and one or two new ones, but even the newcomers were not strangers. They had just added this committee to their myriad others. There were no outsiders, no one who didn't belong. One couldn't let just anyone work on the Arthritis Ball, could one? "But my dear, you must understand, you do remember who her mother was, don't you?" Last year, Tippy Walgreen had tried to introduce one of her strange little friends to the group. "I mean, after all, everyone knew her mother was half-Jewish! I mean, really, Tippy, you'll embarrass the girl!"
The meeting droned on. Assignments were given. Meet-big schedules decided. Twice a week for seven long months. It would give the women a reason for living and a motive for drinking—at least four martinis per meeting if they caught the butler's eye often enough. He would continue his rounds, ever discreet, while the pitcher of lemonade remained almost full.
As usual, Kezia accepted her role as head of the Junior Committee. As long as she was in town, it was useful for the column to do it. And it meant nothing more than being sure that all the right debutantes came to the Ball, and that a chosen few of them were allowed to lick stamps. An honor which would enchant their mothers. "The Arthritis Ball, Peggy? How nifty!" Nifty . . . nifty . . . nifty. . . .
The meeting broke up at five, with at least half of the women comfortably tight, but not so much so that they couldn't go home and face their husbands with the usual.
"You know how Elizabeth is, she just forces it on you." And Tiffany would tell Bill it had all been divine.
If he came home. The gossip that Kezia was hearing about Tiffany these days was growing unpleasant.
The echoes she heard
Kezia was ten minutes late, and when she arrived, throngs of women were crowded into the hall. Two maids in crisp black uniforms offered tea sandwiches, and there was lemonade on a long silver tray. The butler was discreetly taking orders for drinks. And he was getting a lot more business than the long silver tray.
The couch and Louis XV fauteuils ("Imagine, eight of them, darling, from Christie's! And all in one dayl You know, the Richley estate, and signed tool") were cluttered with the older women on the committee, enthroned like heads of state, clanking gold bracelets and covered with pearls, wearing "good" suits and "marvelous" hats, a host of Balenciaga and Chanel. They eyed the younger women carefully, criticism rich on their minds.
The room had a ceiling the height of two floors; the mantel was French, a "marvelous" marble, Louis XVI, and the ghastly chandelier had been a wedding present from Elizabeth's mother. Fruitwood tables, an inlaid desk, an ormolu chest, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite—it all looked to Kezia like Sotheby's the day before auction.
The "girls" were given half an hour of grace before coming to order, and then their attention was demanded at the front of the room. Courtnay St. James was in charge.
"Well, ladies, welcome home from the summer. And doesn't everyone look just marvelous!" She was heftily poured into a navy silk suit that crushed her ample bosom and struggled over her hips. A sapphire brooch of considerable size adorned her lapel, her pearls were in place, her hat matched her dress, and three or four rings that had been born with her hands waved her demi-glasses at the "girls" as she spoke.
"And now, let's get organized for our marvelous, marvelous fete! It's going to be at the Plaza this year."
Surprise! Surprise! The Plaza and not the Pierre. How terribly, terribly exciting!
There was a murmur among the women, and the butler silently circulated his tray at the edge of the crowd. Tiffany was first on line, and seemed to weave as she stood, smiling amiably at her friends. Kezia looked away and let her eyes comb the crowd. They were all here, all the same faces, and one or two new ones, but even the newcomers were not strangers. They had just added this committee to their myriad others. There were no outsiders, no one who didn't belong. One couldn't let just anyone work on the Arthritis Ball, could one? "But my dear, you must understand, you do remember who her mother was, don't you?" Last year, Tippy Walgreen had tried to introduce one of her strange little friends to the group. "I mean, after all, everyone knew her mother was half-Jewish! I mean, really, Tippy, you'll embarrass the girl!"
The meeting droned on. Assignments were given. Meet-big schedules decided. Twice a week for seven long months. It would give the women a reason for living and a motive for drinking—at least four martinis per meeting if they caught the butler's eye often enough. He would continue his rounds, ever discreet, while the pitcher of lemonade remained almost full.
As usual, Kezia accepted her role as head of the Junior Committee. As long as she was in town, it was useful for the column to do it. And it meant nothing more than being sure that all the right debutantes came to the Ball, and that a chosen few of them were allowed to lick stamps. An honor which would enchant their mothers. "The Arthritis Ball, Peggy? How nifty!" Nifty . . . nifty . . . nifty. . . .
The meeting broke up at five, with at least half of the women comfortably tight, but not so much so that they couldn't go home and face their husbands with the usual.
"You know how Elizabeth is, she just forces it on you." And Tiffany would tell Bill it had all been divine.
If he came home. The gossip that Kezia was hearing about Tiffany these days was growing unpleasant.
The echoes she heard
Similar Books
