One for the Money

That crisis averted, I continue working my way through the room.

My mother waves me over. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” she says, and she’s already smiling. Which means he must be nearby. And powerful.

“Who?” I know the entire guest list for this event, which means I know everyone in the room. Maybe not personally, but I know their names and their net worth. Those are the main things that matter in high-society circles.

An older man waits near the balcony door. He wears the black tuxedo well. He clearly works out. And if his hairline is receding, well, he can hardly help that. He looks to be in his forties, maybe ten years older than me. I recognize him as being in the manufacturing industry. “You must be Mr. Langley,” I say.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” he says, laughing. “Call me Alex.”

“How long are you staying in New York?” I ask, being polite. He’s got factories throughout the flyover states, but his home is in Chicago if I remember correctly.

“For a long time, perhaps. I’m thinking of moving to the East Coast.”

“Are you?” I say, my stomach sinking as I realize why my mother wanted to introduce us. It’s her attempt at matchmaking. The irony is that if I actually got married and started my own family, my mother would probably have a nervous breakdown. My father would get arrested for being drunk and disorderly. And my siblings would need something from me. Having money smooths a lot of life’s hard edges, but it doesn’t blunt them completely. We still need someone to handle the details. To get my mother her Xanax, to call the lawyer. To de-escalate every situation. We need a manager. And in the Morelli family, ever since I turned fifteen, that’s me.

He gives me a vaguely paternal smile. “It’s time for me to start a family.”

Not exactly subtle, Alex. “I wish you luck, then.”

“Eva planned this little gala,” my mother says, breezing past my comment. “She creates the most memorable displays. People talk about them for months.”

“The perfect hostess,” he says, clearly approving.

Bile rises in my throat. Now I know what a racehorse feels like when it’s being checked over. Good teeth. A friendly disposition. Will look nice pulling your carriage.

“Speaking of hosting, I should check back in the kitchens.”

I make a break for it, but my mother catches up with me. She leads me into an empty hallway and a darkened drawing room.

“Sit with me,” she says. “I feel like we’ve been circling all night. I haven’t had a chance to really see you.”

“I’m right here.”

We have been circling all night. That’s what we always do, me managing one side of the room while she manages the other. We even do it at family dinners, her with my father, me handling my brothers. We spend untold energy keeping the peace in the Morelli household.

She hands me a glass filled with spritzer.

“It’s very good,” she says.

She usually doesn’t leave this long in the middle of a gala. “Can I get you anything?”

“Langley is worth a nice seven billion.”

“Mother.”

She adopts an innocent expression. “Do you want to marry someone poor?”

“I don’t want to marry anyone. And definitely not Alex Langley.”

“His wife died five years ago. He’s been mourning her. Sweet, don’t you think?”

“Then why are you trying to set us up?”

“If you must know, he asked after you. He’s ready to start a family. He wants someone mature, closer in age to him than the debutantes, but still beautiful. You fit the bill.”

“How flattering.”

All of us wear masks. My mother is the exquisite beauty and perfect hostess. She lets the mask slip only rarely. I’ve only met the true Sarah Morelli a handful of times.

This is one of those times.

Her green eyes are an endless field. “Not flattering, Eva. No. Don’t look to men for flattery. Not if you want to be someone’s wife. Flattery is for their girlfriends. Their mistresses. Their whores. Not the women by their sides.”

“Why would I want to be someone’s wife?”

“Security. Connections. Children. The same reasons women have gotten married for hundreds of years. Thousands of years, probably. Humans haven’t evolved that far.”

“Then it won’t matter much if the evolutionary line ends with me.”

The wall goes back up. In the blink of an eye I’m looking at the serene expression of a society hostess, as remote and poised as anyone. Not my mother. “You’ll want children eventually. All women do. Don’t wait too long.”

I’ve heard that line before. There are arguments I could make. Not all women want to be mothers. And that’s fine. Feminism is about letting women choose their own path.

The words stick in my throat.

Not all women want to be mothers, but in my secret heart, I do.

“Is now really the time?” I ask, my words tight.

“You have to settle down at some point.”