Wedding of the Season, page 1
Advance Praise for Wedding of the Season
“Elin Hilderbrand meets Edith Wharton meets Brideshead Revisited in this delightfully juicy tale of a Newport family’s fading fortunes on the eve of a society wedding. I loved every minute.”
—Meg Mitchell Moore, USA TODAY bestselling author of Vacationland
“Like a modern-day Jane Austen, Edmondson examines love and family against the particular mores of our time, reflecting our desires, fears, and foibles back at us with a fictional family that lingers long after the last page.”
—Jamie Brenner, bestselling author of The Forever Summer
“Set amongst the sumptuous Gilded Age mansions of Newport, Rhode Island, Wedding of the Season explores themes of love and money with brilliance and heart. I loved meeting Cassie and her wild family.”
—Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of The Jetsetters
“Wedding of the Season brings Newport society alive in one summer leading up to a much-anticipated wedding. Filled with sharp, witty dialogue and a gorgeous sense of place, this novel is as delightful as a perfect summer day.”
—Jillian Cantor, USA TODAY bestselling author of Beautiful Little Fools
“Atmospheric and clever, with captivating, evocative characters, Wedding of the Season is perennial—like the best sort of party where the memory echoes long after the final toast. A must read for every book club!”
—Joy Callaway, international bestselling author of The Grand Design
“RSVP Yes to Wedding of the Season! With wit and charm, this delightful novel plunges the reader into a world of high society, faded glory, and the weight of legacy to uncover what really makes a family.”
—Gina Sorell, author of the New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice The Wise Women
LAUREN EDMONDSON is the author of Ladies of the House. She has a BA from Williams College, an MFA in fiction from Sarah Lawrence College, and lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and two children. Find her on Instagram @mrslaurenedmondson.
LaurenEdmondsonAuthor.com
Wedding of the Season
A Novel
Lauren Edmondson
To Christopher, Bellamy, and Shepard
Contents
Quote
Image
May
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
June
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
July
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
August
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
September
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Reader’s Guide - Wedding of the Season
Questions for Discussion
Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.
—Henry James
This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.
—Dorothy Parker
May
1
NET-A-NEWPORT 2H
Maggie Coventry-Gilford & Jack Utterback’s engagement party @ The Land tonight
tag us & show us the details & drama @netanewport
A single weekend, I assured myself as I turned onto the Avenue and slowed beneath the canopy of mature trees—oaks, willows, maples. Pink flowers and vines cascaded from black streetlamps, styled to look old-fashioned, and ruler-straight hedges teased glimpses of the staggering, lavish mansions beyond. Old. Exclusive. Private. There was the hulking Romanesque revival, its tan sandstone tower making it more castle than house. To its east, the exaggerated Italianate villa and its second-story loggias that allowed residents to look down their noses from every direction. And, too soon, the wrought-iron gate of The Land.
Driving from this direction, it always felt as though my world was narrowing.
I unbuckled my seat belt, leaning halfway out my window to punch in the code: 1899, the year construction finished. The gate creaked open and I inched my greige rental sedan through to the pea-graveled allée that over the centuries had welcomed everything from livery and horses to Model Ts to Aston Martins. Maybe I should’ve had a heavier foot on the gas but despite the circumstances—I was running late—two miles per hour seemed plenty.
Straight ahead, in all its conspicuous excess, loomed my destination, tall above the rustling tulip trees. The Gilded Age titans and their heiress wives referred to it as a cottage. On their website, the Historical Society describes it as a beaux-arts masterpiece. Some locals might still call it the Coventry mansion. For me, it had been home.
For so many years, I believed we, my siblings and I, were The Land’s heartbeat. What oak tree on the property hadn’t we climbed? Which one of the Cottage’s thirty rooms hadn’t been explored, turned into pirate ships or volcanoes, floors bubbling with lava? Which of the property’s outbuildings hadn’t been ruthlessly annexed as a clubhouse, no adults allowed? But I hadn’t been back in almost a decade, and it had managed to go on without me.
I bent forward to look through the windshield as the quartet of massive Corinthian columns appeared, the stucco garlands hovering above each window, some rectangular, some square, most bracketed by dramatic black shutters. Iron Juliet balconies edged the windows of the imposing east and west wings, which jutted out symmetrically on either side of the main hall. The roof was a varied landscape of peaked gables, flat cornices, brick chimneys, and—on the conservatory off the east wing—standing-seam metal the color of a polished copper pot. The first place I got felt up was in that conservatory. Garrett with the great hair. Tall. Sweet. Decent kisser. And no longer in my life because—well, because of everything.
At the end of the allée, delivery vans and catering trucks packed the roundabout, the flag staked in the grassy center snapping in the breeze of the sound. Staff in black uniforms hurried into and out of the Cottage—we’d adopted the Gilded Age nickname—with trays of glassware, round tables, flower arrangements bigger than bar stools. I tapped my brakes for a guy with a stack of boxes, then again for a young woman hauling a crate of liquor bottles. All this commotion for my sister’s engagement to her childhood sweetheart. Make no mistake, Maggie and Jack deserved to be celebrated. I just wished I didn’t have to face half of Newport in doing it.
I heard a mechanical, grinding hum, followed by the twin clanks of the gate slamming behind me.
Maybe it was the five hours on a fabric seat, or being back on the island, that had fatigue suddenly tapping at the backs of my eyeballs and raking its fingers down my neck. I came to a full stop at the spot where the driveway branched—one direction looping toward the Cottage, the other toward the rear dependencies. I rolled down the windows, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, a goat was staring at me, its fur a flat gray, its horns wrapped in what appeared to be white packing foam. The animal ambled past my front bumper, sniffing at the license plate, nosing around the lights, then simply wandered off, nibbling at weeds between the gravel as it went.
Sending upward some half-muttered prayers that the winds would be favorable, that the memories of Newporters would be short, I released my foot from the brake and coasted down the drive.
2
The mammoth bronze front doors to the Cottage were open, gas lamps on either side flickering in welcome. Valets in red jackets assisted guests out of their cars. Servers arranged themselves on the stairs, silver trays of champagne in hand. However entitled, I’d loved this place in my youth, thinking The Land majestic and mysterious and mine. But technically, nothing on this property had been ours for going on fifteen years.
I made for the service drive, lined with delicate purple flowers, and snuck in through the basement. The Cottage had no shortage of trap doors, secret passages, hidden call boxes, discreet pulley systems for dumbwaiters and—what would come in handy for me today—back staircases. Inside was a frenzy. The massive coal-fired stove Maggie and I had used to play restaurant was a staging area for chafing dishes, and the original butcher-block island, ten yards long, was piled with aprons and towels and enough punch bowls for a year of cotillions. A group of caterers charged down the tiled service staircase, a whirlwind of endless demands and barked instructions. The Cottage was built, above all else, to impress. To dazzle. This meant hiding the work that enabled its survival, keeping the madness and the sweat tucked away.
I let the caterers by, then skipped up two flights, where a swinging door dumped me out in the part of the house reserved for the lords and ladies. “That credenza can’t be moved!” I flinched at the commanding voice of The Land’s grande dame, and my sister’s future mother-in-law, Susie Utterback, echoing from below. “It’s heavier than a damn whale, just leave it be!”
As kids, my siblings and grandmother had put soap and water onto these parquet floors and turned this hallway into a barefoot ice-skating rink. Now it was so plushily carpeted I couldn’t hear my own quick footsteps.
Keep it moving.
I recited these words—this prayer—in my head past my old bedroom. Though I hadn’t seen inside since we’d moved, I knew Susie had torn out the small reach-in closet of drawers for pressed undergarments, as well as the high-tank pull-chain toilet and the cloudy onyx sink that I’d stained pink with an ill-conceived adventure with hair dye.
In Susie’s orange-sherbet sitting room, Maggie could not turn her head—a young woman with a holster of makeup was applying her lip liner—but still she beckoned for me. “Cassie!” She was perched on a tall director’s chair, wrapped in a plush bathrobe, bare feet, long clips in her hair. Around her, a team of three swirled—the makeup artist, the makeup artist’s assistant, the hair person with the spray and the iron. “You made it!”
I toed off my sneakers by the door; God help me if I tracked dirt into Susie’s boudoir. “Hello, my Buggie Bug Bug,” I said, squeezing between the group to give her a tight, wiggly hug. I wasn’t thrilled to be back in Newport, but I was very glad to see her. My sister: those defined calves! The graceful, swan neck! That glowing skin, touched now by the flattering bronze of early summer! I’d hate her if I didn’t love her so much.
“I missed you,” she murmured into my ear. She smelled of oranges and summertime.
“I missed you, too.” I pulled back and took her in. “Oh, my God, you haven’t been engaged three months and already you look like a bride.” I pointed at her, unable to contain my excitement: “The bride, you guys!”
“We know,” laughed the makeup artist, who’d introduced herself as Jules. “You can see the ring from space.” Not a terrible exaggeration; I didn’t know much about diamonds, but even I could tell Jack didn’t skimp. It sat beautifully on Maggie’s finger, square cut but soft edges, the size, I estimated conservatively, of a manhole cover.
“You want your hair and makeup done?” Maggie asked. “Might as well.” Jules stepped in front of Maggie and directed her to gaze up to prepare for the Applying of the Mascara. “What are you wearing?”
I spared a glance at my outfit—the oversize camo jacket, the black jeans, the beaten-up canvas sneakers. “Not this, I promise. I have some other pants,” I said, hunching over my bag and riffling around for my outfit. Long ago I’d discarded all my Lilly Pulitzer. I no longer owned anything with an embroidered anchor or trimmed in ribbon. And I’d never, not once, slipped my feet into Hermès flats or clutched a Chanel quilted purse. I much preferred to be behind the camera’s flash, not seeking it out. “And a—” my hands fluttered around my stomach “—a simple shirt thing with, like, a belt.”
Maggie narrowed her eyes. “Pants?”
The room grew silent. The assistant looked up from the dresser, where she had been sorting lipsticks in a giant plastic bin. The hairdresser, hands full with brushes, blinked slowly. Jules’s head turned from my sister to me, peering, curious, mascara wand frozen in the air.
“Uh-oh.” I stood, gestured between the four of them. “Now, see, the way you’re looking at me has me alarmed.”
“Cassie,” Maggie sighed. “There’s a theme. Didn’t you read the invitation?”
“A theme?” I felt a plummeting in my chest. Already Susie’s parties were like running a marathon barefoot on Legos. Now I had to deal with costumes? “Please tell me the theme is ‘everybody drink wine and be pleasant.’”
“Roaring twenties,” said Jules, somber.
“You have to read things, Cass.” Maggie pursed her lips. “Texts, invites... We were discussing this over email, like, last week.”
“We are expected to read everything that comes into our inboxes now?” I protested. “Productivity culture has gone too far!”
“Oh, so when your editor emails you, you just let it go to junk?”
She had me there. Never keeping up with the family email chain, only checking it periodically, like a credit card bill, was probably the worst of my vices, along with buying too many pairs of expensive socks and camera straps. I considered my options. Not that there were many of them. I had no time for another errand. Borrowing clothes wouldn’t work; I was taller than my mother and broader than Maggie. But what could I do? The Veuve was ordered. The linens laid out. “It’s okay,” I told my sister. “I’ll wear a trash bag and walk around with my mouth open and people can just toss their shrimp tails and toothpicks at me.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “God, Cassie, you’re too much.”
Jules shifted, so I was able to grab my sister’s hand, playfully swing it back and forth. “Oh, don’t be mad at me, Buggie. Look! I even got you a little present.” I placed on her lap an unwrapped box.
Maggie looked between me and the gift, until I persuaded her to just open it already. Earlier, I’d braved the gridlock on Lower Thames to pop into the little shop that had been there forever—you know, the one where you could buy whatever you wanted, provided it was a silver picture frame, a lobster Christmas ornament, or sign that said It’s Wine O’clock Somewhere—and gotten a framed a photo I’d fished out from an old album in my New York apartment.
My sister smiled when she saw the photo. A grinning Gerber-baby-faced Maggie, probably aged two and a half, holding a one-year-old me, cheeks covered in something, jam or raspberries, in one of those old-fashioned playpens with the wooden bars. Maggie was cheesing, but I was wailing, tiny, dimpled hands clinging to the top rim, midstruggle to escape what I surely considered infant jail. Our mother crouched in the foreground, clutching the ends of her short bob, eyes crossed, exaggerating a look of my God, these kids!
“I love this,” Maggie said, softening. “It captures us so perfectly.”
I was glad to have done this right, at least.
Jules returned with a brush that seemed like it could dust a ceiling fan, and a palette of pink shimmer. Maggie handed me the frame. “Put it over there for now.” She pointed to the Chippendale secretary desk with the ornate brass drawer pulls and tasseled keys.
The polished top of the desk was already filled with photographs of Susie and various people of renown. Her and Iris Apfel, Jay Leno, the late, great André Leon Talley, and—oh, I would need the story behind this one—Kris Jenner. Susie, to her credit, did not do anyone the disservice of hiding her social ambitions. I found room for us Coventry-Gilfords near the edge. “Maybe you should leave this for Susie. I’m sure she’d enjoy having a picture of Hope in her bedroom,” I said dryly.
“How many years have your and Jack’s mother been feuding?” asked Jules, applying a final layer of shimmer onto Maggie’s cheekbones.
“It’s basically a pastime.”
Fifteen years ago, when our mother, Hope Coventry-Gilford, learned that our father had made a handshake deal to sell the estate that had been with her family for over a century, she’d predictably exploded. Despite The Land’s impossible upkeep, she’d never expected it to be lost. She’d called Susie Utterback and relayed the story of the pending sale tragically, playing up my grandmother’s recent death, my brother’s diagnosis, and the Coventrys’ history on The Land. Though Susie was not about to renege on the deal, she offered to rent us the property’s carriage house, which my granny had converted into an apartment and artist’s studio in the ’70s, for five thousand bucks a year.
I’m pretty sure Susie Utterback has regretted that decision ever since.
Jules withdrew, and the hairdresser, who told me to call her Miss Fawn, took over, standing behind Maggie’s chair and attending with quick fingers to all those clips. “Wasn’t there also a thing with an old tree on the property?” asked Miss Fawn. “I remember my parents talking about it years ago.”
