The Season by Jonah Lisa Dyer Page A

your . . . equation?”
    â€œLove is very important—I’m not insensitive.”
The jury’s out on that one, Counselor
. “But love isn’t just about fireworks. It can also result from shared values and goals, a common outlook on what’s important in life—don’t you think?”
    The limo stopped and a valet opened the door.
    â€œWell, I hate to disappoint you,” I said, “but I’m just here for the sex.”

Eight
    In Which Megan Rues Her Decision to Mix Pills and Booze
    AS WE APPROACHED THE RED CARPET, HUNTER GAMELY held my hand. Once there we smiled like idiots, and it wasn’t until the cameras came down that I saw the photographers’ puzzled faces.
    We walked on and waited while Julia and Simon arrived for their moment. Their pictures would be everything mine were not—gorgeous, timeless, something you’d keep.
    Dad and Mom arrived behind them, in his truck. As a sweetener to Mom he had washed it, but it was the only non-limousine in sight, and Mom tried hard not to look mortified stepping out of the cab. From her expression I guessed they had been arguing—no doubt about why Dad had failed to rent a limo for the event. Dad took the valet ticket and led her onto the red carpet, and they stood for pictures. He looked dashing in a black tux, and when she felt the cameras on her she relaxed and I saw for a briefmoment the elegant, intelligent woman he had married.
    We gathered in front of the doors under a violet deco neon sign flashing
Mocambo
. The women adjusted their wraps, the men straightened their jackets, and we all gave each other a quick look of reassurance. Mom wilted a bit when she looked at me, but Dad didn’t. He smiled at me, and I smiled back.
    â€œShall we?” Mom asked of no one in particular. We walked in.
    If the outside was fun and glamorous, the inside was beyond belief. Passing through the doors we entered a throwback world to the supper clubs of the 1940s. Cockatoos squawked from banana trees, a gleaming maître d’ waited, and big band music wafted like smoke through the curtains behind him. We checked our coats with a girl dressed in a short silk halter dress with a matching hat perched on her head. In her heels and fishnets, she might have sprung from the pages of
Life
magazine.
    â€œWelcome, welcome,” the maître d’ crooned, and held back the curtained entrance.
    Through those curtains a fantasy world waited, a time warp of such epic proportion it took my breath away. The main ballroom of Brookline, a dull and utilitarian space, had been transformed into “The Mocambo Club.” We all gawked in silent wonder at the period booths, tables, dance floor, bar, bandstand, and a forest of glistening jungle trees. A phalanx of debonair men and sophisticated women jammed the immense room and scores of uniformed waiters delivered Cuba libres,brimming martinis, and champagne. Cigarette girls wended their way through the crowd offering cigars, handmade candy, and fresh yellow roses, while out on the parquet dance floor, couples swayed to a Latin-flavored “Mack the Knife,” pumped out by a thirty-piece band in matching blue tuxedoes.
    Gobsmacked by the spectacle, I felt a shard of fear stab me. I knew Aunt Camille and Uncle Dan were loaded—he was a senior partner in a very large law firm—but this was beyond imagination, and one day in the not too distant future we would have to host our own party. I wasn’t sure exactly how much our grandmother had stuffed under the mattress, but if it was less than a quarter million, Dad would need to hock some cows to cover the difference. As he looked around I wondered if he was thinking the same thing.
    We joined the receiving line. At the front, Abby, Aunt Camille, and Uncle Dan greeted guests. Abby wore black, elbow-length gloves and a black velvet gown overflowing at the bosom. The dress hugged her in all the right places, and with