Directly over her head, in fresh-cut pine branches imported from Norway by Lachaume, Paris’s most elegant florist, was a sign: JACKSON STORM INTRODUCES ... HEAVENLY LACE! The bower’s pine branches, in the areas that were not covered by laminated lace, had been sprayed with pink paint—the Art Deco color was still very fashionable that year—with large, raindrop-shaped fake pearls glued to the pine needles. Alix wore a Marie Antoinette court gown with panniers and long train in the same lace-laminate material, the stiff bodice cut so low it barely covered her nipples. Her red hair was piled high in an exaggerated pompadour in the style of the French court at Versailles, with dangling sausage curls over each shoulder entwined with strings of pearls. She looked ravishing. As nearly all Jackson Storm’s guests had remarked. But under all her heavy finery, Alix was overtired and feeling the strain of the press party’s hurried arrangements. In the hour or so she’d been standing in the bower, she’d been unconsciously twisting her hands together, enough to make her fingers ache.
