The Sunday brunch at Riverside Country Club was a family tradition dating back three generations. White tablecloths, crystal champagne flutes, and views of the 18th hole that had hosted countless corporate tournaments and charity events. The initiation fee alone was $75,000, with annual dues running another $24,000.
I cut into my eggs Benedict while my sister Lauren held court at our table for eight. “The spring gala committee needs at least six figures in sponsorships,” Lauren said, adjusting the pearl necklace that probably cost more than most people’s cars. “We’re thinking of approaching the tech companies downtown.
New money is still money.”
Her husband Brad chuckled. “As long as they know how to behave. Last year’s gala had that cryptocurrency guy who wore sneakers with his tuxedo.”
“Appalling,” my mother agreed.
She wore a Chanel suit and had her hair done at the club salon every Thursday without fail. “Standards exist for a reason.”
My father nodded from behind the financial section of the newspaper. He’d been a member of Riverside for forty years, served on the board twice, and considered the club a second home.
I sipped my orange juice and said nothing. “Emma, you’re awfully quiet,” Lauren observed. Her tone suggested this was a character flaw.
“Don’t you have any thoughts about the gala?”
“It sounds lovely,” I said. “That’s all? Just lovely?”
She exchanged glances with our brother Michael, who sat across from me with his wife Jessica.
“The gala is the social event of the season. Surely you can be more enthusiastic.”
“I’m sure it will be beautiful,” I offered. “Will you even be there?” Jessica asked.
She had that particular tone wealthy people use when they’re pretending concern but actually highlighting differences. “I know the tickets are expensive. Five hundred per person.”
“I’ll be there,” I said simply.
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