She looked at her body in the mirror. She had finally lost the last few stubborn pounds she had gained while pregnant with their first child. The stretch marks had faded and her stomach was tanned a rich brown. Bare midriffs were in that summer, and she liked the way everyone on the North Shore had been surprised by how trim she looked. Only her breasts were different-they were larger, fine with Margaret because she had always been self-conscious about their size. The new bras that summer were smaller and stiffer, designed to achieve a high-bosomed effect. Margaret liked them because Peter liked the way they made her look.

She pulled on a pair of white cotton slacks, a sleeveless blouse, knotted beneath her breasts, and a pair of flat sandals. She looked at her reflection one last time. She was beautiful-she knew that-but not in an audacious way that turned heads on the streets of Manhattan. Margaret's beauty was timeless and understated, perfect for the layer of society into which she had been born.

She thought, And soon you're going to be a fat cow again!

She turned from the mirror and drew open the curtains. Harsh sunlight spilled into the room. The lawn was in chaos. The tent was being lowered, the caterers were packing away the tables and chairs, the dance floor was being lifted panel by panel and carted away. The grass, once green and lush, had been trampled flat. She opened the windows and smelled the sickly sweet scent of spilled champagne. Something about it depressed her. "Hitler may be preparing to conquer Poland, but a glittering time was had by all who attended Bratton and Dorothy Lauterbach's annual August gala Saturday night…" Margaret could almost write the society columns herself by now.