Triple Cross

She turned back to my daughter. “Jannie, a whole lot of folks are interested in knowing where you are planning to run in college next year. Can you give me an exclusive and put these poor coaches out of their misery?”

Jannie’s smile faded a little. She glanced over at the coaches, then back at the sports broadcaster, emotion making her cheeks quiver. “I can do that. I know where I want to be next year.”

“Really?” Andrews said, thrilled and grinning. “Well, okay, where does your future lie? Which one of the fifteen colleges dying to have you will you choose, Jannie Cross? Texas? Oregon? University of Southern California?”

Jannie glanced at me and Nana and Ali before looking back to the reporter.

“Here,” she said, beaming. “I want to run here, on this track. This magical track.”

Andrews looked a little puzzled. “You want to run for Howard University?”

Jannie nodded and looked over at the pack of coaches, many of whose faces had fallen. “I want to run here if Coach Oliver’s offer is still good, yes.”

David Oliver, the track coach at Howard, wasn’t even in the front row. He came around ten or twelve other coaches with a stunned and then joyous expression on his face. He pumped his fist at the sky and went over to Jannie. “Of course the offer’s still good,” Coach Oliver said, putting his hand over his heart. “Do you really want to run for me, Jannie? With all these other powerhouse offers?”

“Yes,” Jannie said firmly. “I want to run for you and for Howard, Coach. You won the world championship from here. You made it to an Olympic podium from Howard. And I want to run as a Bison, right here where my family can watch me.”

CHAPTER 26

Greenwich, Connecticut

BREE FELT ALMOST SEWN into the gorgeous black dress with the brocade bodice. She put some arch in her spine so she could breathe a little better in the back seat of the town car she’d hired to take her to Frances Duchaine’s fundraising soiree.

At first, Bree thought it would be impossible to fit into the dress. But Marjorie and the tailor she brought in had been insistent, and with the help of an industrial-strength pair of Spanx tights, they finally coaxed and squished Bree into it.

Marjorie said she looked incredible. And with the stiletto heels, earrings, and necklace Marjorie picked out, Bree admitted she looked beyond stunning in the dress.

Beyond stunning or not, Bree thought, shifting again to get air, if I’m not careful, I could pass out or break a rib before this night’s over.

They pulled up to a gate behind two limousines. A guard checked Bree’s invitation against the guest list.

“Okay, Ms. Carlisle,” the guard said, handing it back to her. “Enjoy the evening.”

“Thank you,” she said brightly.

The town car wound up a serpentine drive through well-tended grounds to a two-story white brick mansion built in the 1920s. It had a beautifully lit fountain in the turnaround courtyard; a valet came to Bree’s door and opened it.

She blew out all the air in her lungs, smiled, squirmed out, and straightened, which made the dress looser and her next breath easier to take. Soft jazz came through the open front door to Duchaine’s home. It was a warm evening.

Bree followed several other couples spilling from the limos up the stairs and into a grand foyer with dual spiral staircases rising at the back to a landing where a quartet played. She showed her invitation to a woman, who checked Bree off under the name Evelyn Carlisle, gave her a bidding paddle for the live auction, and directed her to the rear terrace for drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

“That’s a beautiful dress, by the way,” the woman said.

“I can barely breathe in it, but thank you,” Bree said.

Moving with the equally well-dressed crowd, Bree went down a hall to the left of one staircase, passing a library and a dining room and seeing art nearly everywhere, which reminded her of an article on Duchaine in Vanity Fair. The writer had noted that the fashion designer was no bleak modernist. Duchaine lived with as many textures and beautiful things around her as possible.

Bree entered a huge ballroom decorated for a party, with tables set with white linen, fine china, and crystal. The French doors on the far end were flung open, revealing a large blue-slate terrace decorated with bare white branches and webs of tiny lights that blinked every so often, like fireflies.

Perhaps a hundred of the seriously well-heeled were already on the terrace, sipping champagne and munching beluga caviar on toast. Bree joined them.

Most of the people near the doors were deep in conversation with friends and acquaintances. As she passed them, she heard yacht chat and golf chat and reviews of Caribbean hot spots.

The rich are different than you and I, Bree thought, snagging a flute of champagne as a waiter passed with a tray.