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had breezed out of the Crescent Moon, as airily as she had breezed in. Melanie had collected the beautifully wrapped Blue Moon glass “jelly,” and together we’d tramped down the wooden staircase and out into the parking lot of the Cotton Exchange. I had been berating Melanie as she’d stomped on ahead of me to her car. I trailed along behind, complaining bitterly, “She cannot buy the Bellamy Mansion!”
    Melanie turned abruptly. “I know that. I know that it is a stewardship property of Preservation North Carolina and not for sale. I’ll just have to find her something similar now that I know what she likes.”
    Melanie and her clients can be so infuriating.
    A cab entered the parking lot and pulled up alongside us where we stood arguing next to Melanie’s bright red Mercedes CLK 500 Cabriolet convertible.
    The rear window of the cab slid down. A man’s voice called, “You babes need a lift?”
    Melanie took one look, jumped off the ground in a twirl reminiscent of her high school cheerleading days, and squealed, “Cam!”
    In an instant he bounded out of the cab and wrapped her in his arms. “You’re home!” she cried.
     

 
     
     
     
    5
     
    On Saturday evening we boarded a launch at the Wrightsville Marina to sail out to Candi and Han’s spectacular yacht, The Glowing, so named because the Chinese translation of Candi is “glowing.” Their luxury yacht had created quite a buzz of excitement among yachting enthusiasts in the area. Not since the days of the Pembroke Joneses had Wilmington seen any ship as lavish as the Chengs’. At one hundred feet in length, it featured a sport deck, a media lounge, an open air champagne bar, an immense salon, and state rooms for twelve.
    The weather was nippy and I huddled in my coat and in Jon’s arms for warmth as we crossed the darkened waterway toward the brilliantly lit yacht with its mega watt illumination lighting up the night. The Intracoastal Waterway is eerily pitch black at night. I’d pinned up my hair with jeweled combs so I didn’t have to worry about the damp wind turning it into a frizzy mess.
    We reached the yacht and a crew member assisted us up the ramp. Melanie first, then me, Cam, and lastly Jon. He was dressed in a beautifully-cut midnight blue suit that showed off his golden blonde good looks. I had on a black silk cocktail dress.
    Inside the salon, Melanie slipped off her coat and handed it to a waiting attendant, and it was clear to me that she would be the most dazzling woman at the party. Her gown was a pale peach, embroidered with sequins, and fit like a second skin. Melanie did not jog, nor do Pilates, or work out at a gym, so how did she maintain that gorgeous figure? Beats me.
    Cam was immediately at her side with an arm flung possessively around her waist. She’s my wife, his devotion shouted, and you other guys, back off!
    A tiny, red-haired woman bore down on us as relentlessly as a Coast Guard cutter after a pirate ship. “Melanie!” she screeched. I’d recognize that irritating high-pitched squeal anywhere. Our hostess, Candi. But what had she done to her hair?
    “ Melanie, darling,” she trilled in her sing-song voice, and kissed the air at Melanie’s cheek. Was this air kissing also a Chinese custom? Or had Candi been watching the remake of Anita Loos’s Thirties classic, The Women? There had been a lot of air kissing in that revival.
    Melanie zoomed in on Candi’s new hair color with the ferocity of a feral cat on a dozing mouse. The frosty gleam in her eye said she abhorred Candi’s new red hair which was an exact match for Melanie’s own natural color.
    “ You’ve changed your hair,” Melanie said with a forced smile.
    “ Oh, do you like it?” Candi asked and patted the perm that had produced waves and curls just like Melanie’s. “I’ve always wanted to be a redhead. The hairstylist you recommended was fab. She knew just how to do my hair when I described the style I had in mind.”
    “ Melanie is