Anna sent a silent prayer of thanks that her upbringing in Charles Wilson’s home meant that such a setting didn’t faze her. Charles had insisted she have all the same social advantages Nicole enjoyed, even if—with her mother’s position as Charles’s housekeeper and companion—she hadn’t had anywhere near the same financial background. Seated near the top of the table, at Judd’s right, Anna could observe the family dynamics in action. It was clear that Cynthia was very much the female head of the household. If Judd Wilson physically resembled his father, his estranged sister, Nicole, was her mother personified. Anna studied Cynthia from her vantage point at the table. This was what her friend would look like in another twenty-five years—without, perhaps, the faint lines of bitterness that bracketed the older woman’s mouth. That said, and despite the swish of gray at her temples that contrasted to her thick, dark hair, Cynthia Masters-Wilson was still a striking woman. She carried herself with an almost regal air—expecting everyone to defer to her wishes and not holding back her disapproval if those wishes were not observed.
