Deconstructed(50)

Twenty-five minutes later, we were stepping out of the Uber and onto the red carpet of the Municipal Auditorium where Elvis had once titillated young girls and Hank Williams had put the Louisiana Hayride on the map. The gorgeous art deco building had been transformed with arches swagged with champagne fabric, and so many twinkle lights a person couldn’t hide too many flaws. Thank goodness for Spanx and Botox, right?

“Oh. My. Gawd. Cricket,” someone punctuated beside me. I turned to find Susie Simmons’s eyes as wide as her husband’s nipples. Don’t judge me—I noticed how huge they were one day when I took Julia Kate to the club to swim. Let’s just say they were disturbingly large, just like his wife’s eyes. The rest of her was more forgotten scarecrow from her diet of sparkling water and air, so maybe that’s why her eyes were so big in her thin face. As to her husband’s large nipples, I’d have to chalk those up to genetics.

I turned to her with my normal society smile. “What?”

“What are you wearing, you daring bitch?” she drawled with a braying laugh. “You look like effing Marilyn Monroe. Oooooh, someone named Scott is getting lucky tonight.”

Scott chuckled and curved his arm around my waist. “That’s right, Suze. She’s all mine.”

I may have thrown up a little in my mouth.

Luckily, I saw Ty Walker and Ruby drive by. “Hey, Scott, go on in if you want. I see Ruby, and she doesn’t really know many people. I’m going to wait on her.”

“Fine by me,” he said, dropping the husbandly husband routine and jabbing a ticket at me. “I’ll be at the bar.”

I took the ticket and turned to wait for Ruby. Luckily, the weather had cooperated, and velvet dusk debuted a few stars and a gentle breeze that allowed for bared shoulders and showing off pedicures. Ty drove a BMW and looked nice in a navy tuxedo. But Ruby, when she emerged from the car, looked like a silent film actress. And I swear to Coco Chanel, everyone standing outside the event stopped talking and turned to stare.

She was an edgy, dramatic, dark Cinderella.

Just magnificent.

“Hey, Ruby,” I said, stepping up because for a moment she looked like a baby seal surrounded by hungry polar bears.

“Hey, Cricket,” she said, giving me a nervous smile.

“You look amazing,” I said as I hugged her, twining an arm around her waist, much as I would if she were my child, and walking her up the stairs. Ty walked behind us, giving me a smile when I glanced back. “Hey, Ty. Nice to see you again.”

“You too, Mrs. C. Your dress is crazy nice.”

I didn’t like being called “Mrs. C.,” like I was Mrs. Cunningham and he was the Fonz, not that Ty would even know what Happy Days was, but I did like that he noted my dress. “Thank you. It is crazy nice. Ruby made it.”

“Yeah? Well, when she told me she made her own clothing, I envisioned the apron I made my mother at summer camp. I didn’t realize she was talking art.”

I felt Ruby’s pleasure at him calling her creation art, and I took huge gratification in everyone studying us as we entered the building. Every woman turned, wineglass in hand, to give us the once-over, and all the men looked pretty dang appreciative, especially the gay ones, like my friend Chris, who drifted over to us and muttered, “My, my, my, I see some ladies who are causing quite a stir. Shall I toss in some vodka and rocks?”

I couldn’t think of one single person in my life more naturally charming than Chris, with his soft, draggy vowels and his slightly smart-ass but sincerely warm smile. Not to mention, as the most sought-after interior designer, his taste and judgment on what was “just so” was exactly what Ruby needed to take the next step with her venture.

“Chris,” I crowed, kissing his cheek and giving him a pat on the bottom—a total inside joke between us that he loved. It had to do with an older gay client and a night with too many tequila shots when Chris and I were staging a house for a movie. “I know you know Ruby, but do you really know Ruby?”

Chris cast his eyes on my sidekick. “Well, well, Ruby child, look at you all dressed up for the ball. And with a dish of candy to boot.” Chris ran his practiced eye over Ty, who didn’t seem to mind being thusly assessed. I got the feeling Ty liked to be admired by anyone.

Ruby gave Chris a thankful smile. “Thank you, Chris.”

“And who made your lovely gowns? Do tell.”

I grinned at Ruby. “It’s a custom-made line by an up-and-coming designer. We’ll have these for sale at Printemps later this spring.”

Chris gave an exaggerated mouth drop. “Are you telling me that you’re carrying custom couture now? Shut the front door.”

I shrugged one shoulder, not exactly certain how to answer that. Ruby and I hadn’t really talked about what came next for her. It was obvious to me that something should happen, whether I phoned my aunt and begged her to come down and meet Ruby—and visit Marguerite—or whether Ruby wanted to build her own business from the ground floor up. We needed to talk about it, even though I supposed it was her decision and I hadn’t a role other than as her biggest supporter. “You’ll know soon enough.”

“Oooh,” Chris drawled, eyeing Ruby. “You girls have a secret. I love secrets.”

I was about to make a casual comeback when my eye caught sight of my husband’s biggest secret—Stephanie the Tennis Pro entering the foyer with a few other similarly fit younger women. She had her hair in a high ponytail, wore a slinky dress covered in sequins, and carried a clutch that I happened to know cost $880 only because I had seen it in the Bergdorf Goodman email I had deleted from my computer a few days ago. How did a tennis pro afford a Christian Louboutin bag on her salary?