Page 29 of Lorenzo

“Probably not,” she says. “Why don’t you wear that tweed suit you wore for your wedding? Gina said it was some classic designer suit …”

“Right. Christian Dior from back in the day,” I murmur. The lunch invitation from Lorenzo sounds like he’s offering a truce. And I haven’t really seen anything of Manhattan yet. Anna deserves some good gossip.

“Okay,” I tell the concierge. “Consider it confirmed.”

“Excellent. I’ll have the hotel car bring you there at 12:30,” he says.

CHAPTER 14

EMILY

Ienter the dark, cool bedroom in a rush, with only minutes to change for lunch.

As usual, the first thing I do is style my hair. This morning it demanded a playful high ponytail.

Lunch at a private club calls for a more sedate approach.

With a few deft twists, I wind it into an elegant chignon, restraining it with my aunt’s gold barrette.

Then I shake out my aunt’s suit. The only formal outfit I brought in a small suitcase otherwise filled with jeans and summer tops.

It will have to do, I think, putting it on and modeling it in the mirror.

Nearly a century old, and it still holds its shape.

Aunt Jane told me that back in the day, designers like Christian Dior created outfits that would stand the test of time.

Well, this one did.

In spades.

Old Beacon Hill family money once paid for every luxury my ancestors could imagine.

But by the time Teddy and I were growing up, Aunt Jane was living on food stamps.

We had a roof over our heads, but little more.

Uncle Eton, executor of the family estate, was not one for extravagances of any sort.

Paying the tuition for Teddy’s private school in the Berkshires was his only indulgence.

Grabbing my purse, I take the elevator down to the lobby.

“The hotel car is waiting for you outside,” the concierge says.

After the short ride, I take the private elevator to the top floor of the GM Building. The doors open directly into the lunch club.

It’s all dark wood paneling and white tablecloths.

I’m half hoping Lorenzo would be waiting for me near the host’s stand so we can enter the dining room together.

We hadn’t spoken since this morning when he caught me awakening from that erotic dream.

“I’m Mrs. Ricci,” I say to the host when I see that Lorenzo is not waiting for me. “My husband is expecting me.”

“But of course, Mrs. Ricci.” A small, knowing smile plays about his face.

“Congratulations on your marriage. I saw the photos in Manhattan Social this morning. You two make a stunning couple.”