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bit chilly. I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I could instantly tell she was one of those New York power women my mother had warned me not to become: independent, unmarried, and proud of it.
    â€œPlease, please, ladies, sit down,” Ruth said, motioning to the waiter to bring over an extra table setting. “Shall we order some wine?”
    Emily nodded and shrugged. “Why not?” She grinned.
    I agreed. In the South, drinking is an all-day affair, although it usually involves a little bourbon or Jack, not sauvignon blanc.
    Ruth grabbed the chair from the table behind her and plopped down, swinging her body sideways so that her impossibly long, Wolford-stockinged legs extended directly into the center of the room. The waitstaff, forced to step over Ruth’s legs, eyed her suspiciously.
    â€œDarling, how is Bruce?” Ruth asked Emily.
    Bruce was Emily’s boss, the CEO of Saks Fifth Avenue.
    â€œOh, God,” Emily sighed. “What am I supposed to say these days? Cautiously optimistic? It’s a whole new landscape out there. We’re adjusting.”
    Ruth’s eyes twinkled. She leaned toward Emily, her shoulders squared, her whole body charged with conviction.
    â€œResilience, Maplethorpe, resilience,” she said. She stopped and fiddled with the silverware at her place setting. “Jesus Christ, what am I saying?” she continued. “It’s a fucking nightmare out there right now. I’m lucky to have the means to hire an assistant”—she glanced at me—“let alone run a healthy business.”
    The waiter came over and poured a generous amount of wine into each of our glasses.
    â€œWhich brings me to the blonde,” Ruth said, ignoring the waiter and turning in my direction, her eyes two sharp, inquisitive darts. “Minty, is it? You Southerners. You crack me up. So what are you all about, Minty? Tell me your story.”
    I began, my voice a little shaky and low. “Well—”
    Emily intercepted. “Minty’s a PBP girl. Chapel Hill, cum laude, Charleston born and bred. She was my little sister at PBP, so I’veknown her for years. Her mother is a descendant of Thomas Jefferson and her father is the great-great-great-great-great-grandson of James Madison. Old-school southern-belle transplant, pretty much fresh off the plane.” She grinned at Ruth, who managed a brief smirk in return.
    I held up a finger. The James Madison part wasn’t entirely true—he was actually my father’s great-great-great-great-great-uncle—but Emily continued before I could get a word in edgewise.
    â€œShe’d be perfect for RVPR,” she said.
    Ruth . . . Vine . . . Public . . . Relations, I spelled out in my head.
    â€œSo, Minty.” Ruth turned to me. “How do you feel about fashion?”
    â€œUm, my all-time favorite thing?”
    Ruth laughed. “And events? How do you feel about parties?”
    â€œTie for my all-time favorite thing?”
    Emily’s expression quickly turned serious and focused.
    â€œShe’s one of the smart ones, though, Ruth. I can promise you, she gets it, ” she said, implying that the majority of the girls who worked in fashion and events neither were smart nor got it .
    Ruth nodded and pursed her lips.
    â€œLet me have a look at you,” she said, motioning for me to stand up.
    I stood straight and proud, maintaining eye contact with Ruth as I smoothed down the skirt of my dress. I gave her another bright, sincere smile. I turned to the left, slightly, then to the right. I put my hand on my hip like a pageant queen.
    Ruth seemed to think the whole thing was hilarious, because she let out a howl and slammed her hand down on the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she said, glancing at Emily, who started to slink lower in her seat. “She’s fucking adorable!” She motioned for me to sit down. “You’re like a Kewpie