Belle Rive

Iris drives herself.

You didn't expect that. You expected a driver, or a helicopter, or a carriage pulled by swans. Instead, at nine on the dot, a dark green vintage Mercedes convertible pulls up outside your building in Greenpoint, and Iris Laurent is behind the wheel in sunglasses and a black linen shirt with the sleeves rolled, looking like the last frame of a perfume commercial.

Mr. Szczepanski, setting out his bakery chairs, drops one.

"Morning," you say, sliding into the passenger seat in your yellow dress.

Iris looks at you over the sunglasses. Then she looks back at the road very quickly. "Morning, Ava."

"You drive?"

"I like machines that do what they're told." She pulls out onto Manhattan Avenue. "It's a two-hour drive. You can sleep if you want."

"I'm not going to sleep." You turn in your seat to face her. "Who's Anneliese Kroft?"

The car doesn't swerve, exactly. But her hands tighten on the wheel.

"Coco called you," she says.

"Coco called me. And then there was a silence so long I thought she'd died. So." You fold your hands in your lap. "Who is she?"

The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway rattles by. Iris is quiet until the bridge, until the Manhattan skyline is sliding past in the morning haze, and then she says it to the windshield.

"My ex."

"Okay."

"My first. We were together at university. In Geneva. For two years." Her jaw tightens. "It ended badly. That's all."

"How badly?"

"Badly enough that I haven't been in a room with her for eight years." She switches lanes with icy precision. "Her family runs an investment fund. My mother adores them. My mother adores her. And Anneliese is apparently, as of this spring, out, single and very interested in being reacquainted."

"And your mom invited her to lunch."

"My mother invited her to lunch with my new girlfriend at the table. Yes." Iris's mouth curves without humor. "She's not being cruel. She thinks she's being thorough. Like a scientist testing a sample."

You watch her profile. The tension in her jaw. The way her thumb keeps tapping the steering wheel. "Do you still love her?"

"No," says Iris, instantly. Then, slower: "I don't know what I feel about her. That's worse."

You think about that for a while as the city falls away and the highway turns green.

"Okay," you say finally. "So here's what we do."

She glances at you. "We?"

"I'm your girlfriend, aren't I? Allegedly." You smile. "I've handled worse than an ex at lunch. I once seated a bride's ex-husband, her current husband and her ex-husband's new husband at the same table, and they ended up doing a conga line."

"That's not possible."

"It was a very good conga line." You tick off your fingers. "One: we stick to the flower market story. Two: if she gets too close, squeeze my hand twice and I'll fake a wasp. Three: you don't owe anybody at that table anything. Not her, not your mom. You just have to get through lunch."

Iris is silent for so long you think you've overstepped.

"A wasp," she says finally.

"I do a very convincing wasp."

And there, on the Taconic Parkway, with the windows down and the trees flashing gold, Iris Laurent laughs. Not the startled snort from the atelier. A real laugh, low and warm and surprised, that changes her whole face.

You look out the window very hard so you don't stare at her.

Belle Rive is not a house. It's a postcard.

A gravel drive curves under a tunnel of oak trees and opens onto a sprawling stone house with blue shutters and climbing roses, set on a hill above the Hudson River. Lavender runs in purple waves down a long walk toward the water. To one side stands an old glass greenhouse, Victorian, half-wild with vines. Far down near the river is a huge copper beech tree, its leaves dark red in the sun.

"Oh," you breathe. "Oh, it's perfect."

"It's drafty," says Iris. "And the plumbing is French."

"Iris. Coco is getting married here. In September. Under that tree. I've seen the photos a hundred times but it's even better in person." You're practically bouncing in your seat. "The light at four o'clock is going to be unreal."

Iris looks at you as she parks, and something in her face goes very quiet. "You really love this," she says. "Weddings."

"I really love people being happy," you say. "Weddings are just the biggest version of it."

She doesn't answer. She gets out of the car and comes around to open your door, which she definitely doesn't have to do, and offers you her hand, which she definitely doesn't have to do either, since nobody is watching yet.

You take it anyway.

Somebody is watching.

A tiny woman is standing on the front steps with a silver-headed cane. She can't be more than five feet tall. White hair in a perfect chignon, navy dress, pearls, and black eyes like a bird's. The head of her cane is a silver fox with emerald eyes.

"Mamie," says Iris, and her whole voice changes. Softer. Younger.

"Ma chérie." The old woman lifts her cheek to be kissed, and Iris bends nearly in half to do it. Then those black bird eyes turn on you. "And this is the girlfriend."

"Madame Laurent." You hold out your hand. "It's lovely to meet you. Your house is beautiful."

Bérénice Laurent takes your hand. She doesn't shake it. She holds it and studies you from your sandals to your hair. Then she sniffs. Of course she does. They all do.

Behind you, under her breath, Iris mutters, "Do we need a wasp?" You step on her foot.

"Grapefruit," Mamie says. "And honesty. Rare." She turns to Iris. "She smells like she means things. Where did you find her?"

"The flower market," you and Iris say together.

Mamie's eyebrows climb. "Together, even. How rehearsed." She tucks your arm through hers and starts walking you up the steps with surprising strength. "Come. You'll help me inside. My granddaughter can carry the bags like a gentleman."

Inside, the house is cool and smells of beeswax and roses. Mamie walks you down a long hallway lined with old perfume bottles in glass cases. Halfway along, without breaking stride, she murmurs, "How long have you known her really? A week?"

Your heart stops. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't panic, child. I'm eighty-four, not a gossip." Mamie pats your arm. "You hold her hand like you're afraid it will bruise. Real lovers are careless. Lazy. They grab." Her eyes glitter. "Iris has not brought a soul to this house in eight years. Not one. Whatever this is, she chose you to do it. So I've decided I approve."

"Madame—"

"Mamie. Everyone I like calls me Mamie." She stops at the glass doors to the terrace. "And Ava? You'll need more than a wasp today."

You stare at her. Iris muttered that on the steps, three feet behind you, barely a breath. Mamie smiles like a cat. "I'm old, child. Not deaf."

Out on the terrace, Honora Laurent rises from a long table set with linen and silver and white roses, Coco waving wildly beside her, Oscar trying to look like he belongs.

And at the far end of the table, rising slowly, is a woman you've never seen before and recognize instantly anyway.

She's tall and golden. Honey-blonde hair falling past her shoulders, sun-kissed skin, wide blue eyes, a white silk dress that probably costs more than your rent for the year. She's beautiful the way magazine covers are beautiful, effortless and expensive, and when she smiles it's warm and wistful and aimed straight past you.

Behind you, you hear Iris stop walking.

The golden woman crosses the terrace, ignores your outstretched hand completely, rises up onto her toes and kisses Iris on the cheek, lingering just a second too long.

"Hello, darling," says Anneliese Kroft. "You look exactly the same."