San Francisco, Alemany, in 1853. She also loved San Francisco, including the July weather, which was typically San Francisco today—low sixties, patchy fog that would or would not burn off—no one ever really knew, even though they always said they did. Although, Paula decided, smiling, if the bride had anything to say about it, the sun would definitely be brilliant overhead by one o’clock. Sydney Foxe had the world by the tail, or whatever the expression was. She got what she wanted, and that was what was important.
This was one of the few society weddings Paula had been looking forward to. All summer she’d bitched— mainly to herself. All her Saturdays and Sundays were shot because of society weddings. Ah, but this one was a treat, the social wedding of the year. The brilliant daughter of Judge Royce Foxe and stepdaughter of his rich second wife, Jennifer Haven Foxe, was marrying a wealthy Italian prince, Alessandro di Contini. Paula remembered what Albo Gadsby had written in the
Paula couldn’t wait to see Sydney’s wedding gown. It was a Brali original from Rome and reportedly cost Judge Foxe a gratifying twenty-five thousand dollars. Well, the philanderer could easily afford it.
Paula chose the most handsome of the groomsmen, a Frenchman of impeccable manners and ink-black eyes that held more worldly knowledge than they should at his age, to escort her into Saint Mary’s and seat her on the bride’s side. There weren’t too many people on the groom’s side, understandable since the groom was a prince from Italy. Only his immediate family was present, a tall slender gentleman in his seventies, the grandfather on the mother’s side, as patrician as a nobleman in a Renaissance painting. Beside him was the prince’s mother, who was the old man’s equal in carriage and what Paula called presentation. They dripped money in the understated way of old and comfortable-with-it wealth. Next to the mother sat a young woman in her mid-twenties, the groom’s sister, and she wasn’t at all patrician looking. She looked like a tart restrained by elegant clothes that didn’t belong to her, just forced on her for the day. She looked sullen, her dark eyes mean with temper. But what was she so pissed about? There was no shortage of straight men in San Francisco. If she happened to ask, Paula would be glad to give her a few tips.
Paula silently pulled her small gold Alton pen from its sheath in her thin leather notebook and began to make her notes for the column that would appear on Sunday morning. She shivered and looked up, annoyed. Every cathedral she’d ever been in was always damp and chill in the foggy summers, and it bothered her fingers. She had Raynaud’s Syndrome, and any change in temperature turned her fingers blue with cold. She wrote for a few minutes, then looked up when the four bridesmaids began their awkward assault on the aisle in their muds— mandatory ugly dresses. Time crawled. Then, suddenly, there was almost an electric charge in the air. Anticipation crackled. The organist broke into “The Wedding March” (so Sydney was a traditionalist), signaling the bride’s approach. Everyone rose and turned. Paula got her first clear look at the matriarch of the Foxe family, Gates Glover Foxe, an imperious old lady some seventy-six years old. Paula had been told the matriarch looked only about sixty by those in the know, but since sixty was beyond death to Paula, this tribute to the old lady’s lasting beauty was meaningless.
Lady Jennifer, the judge’s second wife, Paula quickly wrote, was wearing a creation of pale pink silk. Lady Jennifer looked as if she’d gained weight and the dress was designed to minimize the effect. It didn’t, at least not to Paula’s experienced eye. Lady Jennifer looked older than her forty-one years, and there were wiry strands of gray in her dark hair. Really quite ugly. Why hadn’t she had a rinse? Ah, but the breeding was there in her high cheekbones and that special tilt to her chin, which, despite a weight gain, was still firm.
And there was Jennifer Foxe’s daughter, Lindsay, standing in her mother’s shadow, a tall rope of a girl, fifteen or sixteen, who’d exploded in growth too fast and was all awkward bones and angles and hollows. Her hair was frizzy and looked to have been sprayed, then smashed flat against her skull by very determined hands. Her complexion was sallow, her mouth too big. She had one redeeming feature that was, unfortunately, overshadowed by the girl’s general air of homeliness—quite incredible sloe eyes of a very deep blue. Well, the kid had gotten at least one good thing from dear old dad, his deepset midnight sexy eyes that could seduce the socks off any woman between the ages of sixteen and sixty.
Paula, always methodical, finally turned her full attention now on Sydney, who was walking next to her father, her bright hazel eyes flashing with excitement, her radiance spilling onto everyone in the cathedral. Paula caught her breath, along with everyone else—it was impossible not to. If there was such a thing as a fairy princess of the true sort in San Francisco, Paula knew she was looking at her. As women’s bodies went, the prince didn’t have a thing to bitch about. Sydney was blessed with full breasts, small waist, and long legs. Unlike most redheads, Sydney had creamy white skin, no freckles, they wouldn’t dare invade such perfection. She looked healthy, utterly exquisite, and elegant. She had class. Her long auburn hair was piled like a Gibson Girl’s on top of her head, with two long tendrils spilling down each side of her face. Her wedding gown was so simple it nearly defied a decent description —all lace. No frills for Sydney Foxe, no plunging neckline, no ribbing to heave her breasts out further. The gown had fitted sleeves down to her wrists and the longest train Paula had ever seen. It sounded boring, but the gown was anything but boring. It was actually quite perfect. She wasn’t wearing a veil. That should have been tacky, but it wasn’t.
Paula wrote quickly, just impressions really, for Lady Jennifer’s secretary would be handing out full descriptions of the gown to the press. She then turned her attention to the judge. Royce Foxe was a handsome devil, his bearing as patrician as the prince’s grandfather, only Royce wasn’t seventy-something—he was in his late forties—and it was common-enough knowledge about town that he was as horny now as he had been when he was thirty, and he never hesitated to do exactly what he wanted, wife or no wife. He’d just given up a mistress some two months before, a young fashion photographer no older than Sydney, who had done pictures of Jennifer and Lindsay. Word was he was on the prowl again.
Paula remembered to look toward the prince, her pen poised, to record his expression at the arrival of his bride. He had no change of expression. He remained calm in look and manner; how odd, she thought, his eyes were dark and had that liquid look some Latin males achieved, but they looked flat to Paula, not a single excited sparkle appeared as he watched Sydney come down Saint Mary’s aisle. God, he was handsome, and Paula, who was a fine cockswoman from way back, knew intuitively that he would know how to give a woman pleasure. He would also, she knew, keep his body in shape until the day he died. A beer gut on this man would be a travesty. No, no beer gut for him, not ever. It was odd, she was thinking, her pen still quiet over the paper, that he wasn’t slavering over Sydney; nor was he looking the least bit jubilant or triumphant because he was the lucky man who’d gotten her. Sydney Foxe was a prize. Not only was she gorgeous and smart, she also had money, a trust fund—with the expectation of lots and lots more when old lady Foxe finally died. Of course he and his family were very, very rich, probably even richer than the Foxes. Still, why didn’t he look the least bit smug, that or sexually excited or something?
Jennifer Haven Foxe watched her stepdaughter turn to Royce and smile up at him as he placed her hand in her groom’s. He chastely kissed her cheek, then patted her chin. He was still smiling when he eased into the seat next to Jennifer.
“She’s incredible,” he said, his eyes still full on his daughter.
“She’s you,” Jennifer said.
“Yes, she’s all me and she’s beautiful, brilliant, she’s married exactly the type of man I would have chosen for her, and now her life will be perfect, just as I planned.”
“How complacent you sound. Would be that life worked out that way. But it never does. I, of all people, know that. You will be around to see all the mistakes, all the pain, all the blunders. I promise you that, Royce.”
“You speak like a bitter old woman. Nothing bad will come to Sydney. You’re quite wrong. Just look at her. Nothing bad will ever happen to her. Her body, of course, like mine, is also perfect.”
Jennifer stiffened at the blatant contempt in his voice, but said nothing.
Royce was smiling again. Bishop Claudio Barzini, specially imported for the wedding from Chicago, a longtime friend of Gates Foxe, was speaking now, a radiantly deep voice that reverberated full and rich in the cathedral, bringing gooseflesh to even the most cynical. Royce hadn’t objected when the prince had naturally assumed he and Sydney would be married in a Catholic ceremony. Royce decided, looking with complaisance at Sydney, that the
