and we were both there, but … me and Donovan St. James? That’s insane.”
That wasn’t a lie, either.
CHAPTER THREE
“BUT YOU SAID YOU’D stand in for Vivienne while she was on her honeymoon. They’re expecting you to be there.”
That was before I knew what I was getting myself into.
Standing in for Vivi had sounded like a good idea—it would give her a chance to show that her sister wasn’t the only one with saintly, service-oriented tendencies and get her out there as Connor’s representative—but she hadn’t had a full understanding of what Vivi’s life was really like when she’d hatched that plan. Oh, she knew in theory that Vivi was busy and involved in everything, but actually inheriting even part of that schedule had left her wondering how Vivi had time to do anything else. Like sleep. She sighed into the phone. “I know, Mom, but I think I’m getting a migraine.”
“You’ve never had a migraine in your life.”
I never had Donovan St. James turning up everywhere like a bad penny before, either.
She’d finally read the emails from Vivi about her schedule. After her shock at how dense that schedule actually was had passed, she’d nearly choked when her preparations for those events had informed her that Donovan was also all over that schedule. Somehow she’d missed the memo that outlined how he’d gotten neck-deep into the city’s business. No wonder Vivi and Connor had invited him to the wedding. If nothing else, it was professional courtesy.
“Well, it’s a killer headache, regardless.”
“Your father and I have tickets for the ballet with the Allisons. You’ll have to solider through. It will be a challenge, but—”
“LaBlancs love a challenge,” Lorelei finished for her. “I know.”
“You’ll do fine, darling. Even with a headache.”
Her mom’s words brought a smile to her face even in her misery. Finally she was getting somewhere.
“Just be friendly and gracious. Stick to club soda and remember to think before you speak.”
And there was the dig. Lord, it was hard to live down a reputation.
Eventually, though, she’d live it down. Even if it killed her in the process.
Her mother hung up and Lorelei leaned her head back against the couch. In reality she was pretty much ready to go—and early, at that—but panic had set in, causing her to call her mom for a way out of this mess.
The headache, while not as debilitating as she’d claimed, was real—and it was named Donovan. She thought longingly of the bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge as a solution. But even if she hadn’t sworn off drinking, hadn’t she already proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she, Donovan and alcohol were a bad, bad mix?
Of course she probably shouldn’t worry about Donovan’s part in that cocktail. Her personal humiliation was bad enough, but Donovan had to be wondering who’d given her a day pass from the asylum. Just the thought of facing him again … And so soon after the last debacle …
Suck it up, kiddo. The third time had to be a charm. She was a LaBlanc, for God’s sake; she needed to start acting like one. If she had to channel Vivi, or her mother, or even the Queen of England to get through this with poise and class, she would.
She knew what she had to do; she knew she could do it. Her plan was solid—even if the execution wasn’t a sure thing.
Her dress hung on the closet door: a deep blue to match her eyes, with a modest but not matronly neckline, and a hem that hit just above the knee. It was age-appropriate—youthful without being trashy—and stylish without falling into the “trendy” trap.
It was also Vivi’s. But she’d told herself that if she was going to do Vivi’s job she needed Vivi’s wardrobe. Right now it looked like a suit of armor, ready to protect her from herself.
Yes, the dress was completely appropriate, and Lorelei suddenly hated it. She might need to channel her sister, her mother and the freakin’ queen to do this right, but she wasn’t going to betray herself, either. She was letting Donovan have way too much control of her mind, letting him shake her already shaky confidence in herself.
She wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t that much of a screw-up. She had the manners and the experience to get through this, but if she tried too hard to be something—or someone—she wasn’t, everyone would know she was faking it.
And she didn’t want to fake it. She didn’t need to fake it. She could do so much more than anyone assumed; she just needed the chance to show them that. She wanted to be accepted on her own terms and for her own merits—not just because she was a LaBlanc. She had an uphill climb, though. She’d broken or flaunted every rule and edict ever laid down, and the old guard was not exactly forgiving. She couldn’t just reclaim her birthright—she was going to have to earn it back.
But she could. She just needed to find that happy medium.
And it started with a different dress.
Donovan had never quite outgrown the sick kick he got out of attending events like this.
As much as they might try to deny it publicly, New Orleans society was an old, established hierarchy, and it galled many members of that hierarchy to open its ranks even the tiniest bit. But Old Money wasn’t quite what it had used to be so, like it or not, those ranks had had to make exceptions. Even for a family like his that many still considered to be only a step above carpetbaggers. Oh, they had to respect his money, and his money bought influence—even if they didn’t like it one little bit.
The truth was—and it had taken him a while to figure it out—that the Old Guard were scared of that influence, scared they were losing their monopoly to upstarts and the trashy nouveau riche. If anything, they were closing the ranks even tighter and drawing very clear lines in the sand.
For him, though, it was more than just his New Money and lower-class roots that they disliked. With him, it was personal. He’d brought down some of their own. He was a social pariah—but not one who could be ignored. And they didn’t like that at all.
He’d admit he still got a bit of immature glee sometimes over the situation, but the reality was that he really did support the mission of the Children’s Music Project and was more than happy to sit on the board. “Nouveau riche” might not be a title he’d shake anytime soon, but he and his nouveau riche friends were the prime check-writers these days. Times really were tough all around—especially for those who’d lost a bundle in the market crash. Genteel poverty in the upper classes was a New Orleans tradition that dated back to Reconstruction—which only underscored the fact that the right DNA was more important than a healthy bank balance, and the lack of that DNA would forever keep certain doors locked tight.
He went to the bar to refill his drink as the CMP’s executive director took to the small stage that normally contained the house band. There were general thanks, a rundown of the year’s successes, plans for the future …
Jack Morgan, a partner in the law firm that represented St. James Media and an occasional racketball partner when no one else
