Burn

Jenner was thinking about slipping outside and calling her when Syd said behind her, "You’re blond again. I love the shade."

Jenner turned, smiling wryly. "You’re late. If I’d known you were going to miss the entire wine-tasting, I wouldn’t have shown up, either."

"I just couldn’t – " Syd looked down at herself with a sigh. She looked fine to Jenner. Her gown was classic in line and construction, the cream color looked great with Syd’s honey-blond hair and golden skin, and Syd herself was very pretty, with her natural sweetness evident in her expression. But Syd was hypercritical of herself, always fearing she didn’t measure up to her father’s exacting tastes, afraid people were making fun of her, second-guessing her clothing decisions, which of course meant she never wore the first thing she tried on – at least not without trying on several other outfits before, in despair, she went with her original choice.

On Syd’s behalf, Jenner would have hated Mr. Hazlett, except he so obviously adored Syd and tried in a number of ways to prop up her fragile self-esteem, and was hugely relieved and grateful to Jenner for being Syd’s friend. J. Michael Hazlett did indeed have impeccable taste; he was handsome, urbane, and completely comfortable in his skin, as well as being a formidable businessman. But he never said anything the least critical to Syd, and would have fought tigers to protect her. It was hard to hate someone who not only wasn’t a villain, but who actually, in his own endearing, slightly clumsy masculine way, tried to show his daughter how special and lovable she was. She and Mr. Hazlett had become coconspirators, always trying to make certain one of them was available to lend Syd support if she needed it.

Just like now.

"You look great, as always," she said to Syd. "But leaving me to handle a wine-tasting on my own just isn’t right."

"I’d rather talk about your hair than my tardiness," Syd replied, smiling. "I still say blond is the most flattering for you, it makes you look so alive and bright. Though the auburn was striking," she added hastily. "And the black was very elegant. What is your natural color, anyway?"

"Dishwater blond," Jenner retorted. Though she hadn’t seen it in years, she recalled the exact, unexciting shade. A psychiatrist could probably have a field day on why she changed hair color so often, but it was her hair, and if she wanted to change it she could, so who cared what an analyst might think? She’d loved having black hair, loved the edgy, kick-butt feeling it gave her. The red hair had been surprisingly sexy, and she’d liked that, too. When she got bored with this pale blond, she’d probably go back to the red for a while.

There was a signal for everyone to take their seats at the elegantly decorated banquet tables, each seating eight. By Jenner’s count, there were fifty tables, which meant four hundred people were in attendance. An orchestra, seated in the balcony, began softly playing, providing a pleasing background without being so loud they intruded on the conversation below.

As Jenner took her seat, holding the slim skirt of her long black gown so she wouldn’t catch her heel in it and pitch face-forward into the table, she remembered her first charity dinner, almost seven years ago. She’d done her best to mingle beforehand, to introduce herself to people, but she’d felt enormously out of place and uncomfortable. No one had spat on her, but neither had she been made to feel welcome.

At dinner, she’d found herself sitting at a table with seven strangers and a daunting array of silverware and glasses, which had all but paralyzed her with uncertainty. She’d thought, "Holy shit, five forks!" What was she supposed to do with five forks? Use a fresh one for each bite? Defend herself from the others at the table?

Then the pretty young woman across the table had caught her eye, given her a friendly, conspiratorial smile, and very discreetly lifted the fork on the outside of the setting. There hadn’t been anything derisive in her attitude, just an honest offer of aid, which Jenner had gratefully accepted. She’d gotten through the dinner, realized that the order of utensil use was very simple, and in the course of that dinner also realized that the young woman across the table was genuinely sweet and friendly. Afterward, they had gravitated toward each other so they could really talk, and by the end of the event each had found a friend.

Strange how much she’d changed since then, Jenner thought, and yet one thing hadn’t changed: She still didn’t truly fit in here. She’d left Chicago behind, and in truth no longer felt like the girl she’d once been, the one who had been so bitterly hurt by family and friends alike, but her sense of not belonging was as strong as ever. Here she was, thirty years old. She’d lived in Palm Beach for six years. In those six years, she’d attended a hundred or more of these charity events, gone to cocktail parties, pool parties, whatever – and to the others of this social set she was, and would always be, the working-class meat packer who’d gotten lucky and won the lottery. She would never be one of them, no matter how casually friendly they were to her. If not for Syd she probably would’ve moved on, looked for somewhere else to live, but instead she’d made a home here.

She’d filled those seven years by staying busy. Al had warned her, years ago, that most people who win the lottery end up broke within five years. Jenner had been determined not to be one of those people. With Al to help with the investments, a good accountant, a couple of attorneys – and, oddly enough, a head for handling investments herself – Jenner was richer than she’d been the day she claimed her winnings … over twice as rich. Even with the recent stock market tumble she was financially sound, thanks to her diverse portfolio. The market might be drastically down, but her own losses were less than twenty percent. These days she even managed a portion of her investments herself, through an online account – though Al, who was now a senior partner at Payne Echols, took care of the rest.