This is ridiculous,” I say, looking in the minuscule mirror attached to the visor so I can make a last-minute adjustment to the swathe of frothy pink fabric residing on the brim of my hat. “I look ridiculous.”

Ryan turns the SUV onto a long gravel road, passing an open ornate gate with the words HIDDEN HILLS FARM in metal letters stretched out across the top. He spares me a quick glance. “Yours won’t even be the biggest hat there.”

“Are you sure? Because I totally think they’re setting me up.” I agreed to go shopping with Sara and Beth for the Derby party and they assured me this hat was exactly what I needed. “And it’s not fair I have to tote this thing around on my head all day while you’re in khakis and a button-down.”

“You look great. As always,” he says, then pulls my hand away from the hat and brings it to his lips, where he places soft kisses against each finger.

Moving in with Ryan has upped his romance game: simple touches, sweet words and gestures, going out of his way to make sure I’m happy. When he’s not at work, we’re together. I can tell from his one-sided conversations with his friends that they are not pleased that I am monopolizing his time. A good girlfriend would insist he see his friends, make sure he didn’t lose touch with the people he’s closest to—but I am not a good girlfriend.

“Will your friends be mad we bailed on the pre-party?” I ask as we get closer to our destination.

We skipped drinks at Beth and Paul’s not because I couldn’t stand the idea of being around Rachel but because Ryan couldn’t. He’s still not over the way she acted at lunch, although at this point it’s been blown up to a bigger deal than it really was. She pressed me for information, not punched me in the face, but in small towns among small groups of friends, there is little difference between those two things. Ryan can hold a grudge.

“I’m sure I’ll hear something about it, but it’s all good.”

We’ve probably beat his friends here, so it will be interesting whom he gravitates to, since he’s rarely at a function like this without his core group. When we pull up to the valet stand I’m at least pleased to see that he was right: my hat is not the biggest or the most obnoxious, although that only means we all look like idiots.

Our first stop is the bar.

“Welcome to Hidden Hills Farms,” a woman behind the rough wood counter says. “Can I get your names before I get your cocktail?”

While I think this request is unusual, Ryan doesn’t hesitate. “Ryan and Evie.”

The bartender nods and drops down behind the bar. I take a minute to look at the woman in line behind us, and I’m sure the plastic horse attached to her hat is the same one I got for Christmas when I was a kid—one of Barbie’s horses, complete with pink saddle and bow in its mane. The bartender pops back up and starts making us a mint julep. I’m not sure if we have any other choice of beverage since she never asked us what we wanted, but as I eye the healthy pour of Woodford, I’m not going to complain. When she’s done, she hands us each a silver cup. Ryan’s is engraved with an R and mine has an E.

Ryan and I walk away from the bar while I’m still studying the cup. “This is pretty over the top,” I say. “I mean, if I said my name was Quinn would she have pulled out a cup with a Q on it?”

“When I RSVP’d, I told them both our names. I have a whole collection of these at home. This one is number six.”

“Ridiculous,” I mutter while he laughs.

We surf the crowd and Ryan speaks to almost every person we pass, introducing me to them as his girlfriend while his arm anchors me to his side.

“Well, hey, you two!”

Ryan and I turn around to find his neighbor, Mrs. Rogers, heading our way. I get a pat on the arm from her, while Ryan is graced with a full-frontal hug. I’m amazed at her ability to pull him in so close and not upset the precarious balance of the hat perched on her head.

“Isn’t this so fun!”

“So fun,” I answer back.

Before long, she wanders off to deliver more hugs, and Ryan gets into a deep conversation with a local judge about an upcoming election, so I take a moment to look around. This place is beautiful. The winding driveway was long enough that you can’t see the main road or hear any traffic from the house, making it feel like this party is hidden from the rest of the world

—just as its name suggests. The red wooden barn sits on top of a hill and the pasture slopes down in all directions around it like a sea of green lined with white fences. There is a large movie theater–size screen attached to the

side of the barn, while smaller screens are scattered in between white linen tables that will show the race. Servers roam the crowd bearing silver trays of mini Hot Browns, individual portions of cheese grits, and delicate tea sandwiches.

The judge ambles off and Ryan jerks in surprise when a couple moves in close.

“Ryan!” the man says while flinging his arm around Ryan’s neck and pulling him in tight. The two hug it out while I study the woman with him. She’s tall, close to my height, with long light-brown hair. She’s slender but muscular, and I can’t help but notice how physically similar we are.

When Ryan breaks away, his friend holds out his hand in my direction. “So you’re the girl who’s brought Ryan to his knees,” the man says with

a wide grin.

Ryan turns to me and says, “Evie, this is an old friend of mine, James Bernard. James, this is my girlfriend, Evie Porter.”

I place my hand in his and he shakes it enthusiastically. James is tall and thin, with the look of someone who struggles with substances. It’s in the hollow places in his cheeks and the smudge of dark under his eyes. The tremor in his hands and the clothes that are a tad too big. Nice dress clothes he probably dug out from the back of some closet just for today. His companion looks to be in better shape, and not just her clothes but her general well-being. Her dress is a cream sleeveless shift that hits midthigh, the shoes are Italian and expensive, and the jewelry is simple but classy. They are a mismatched pair.

“I’m not sure I’ve brought him to his knees quite yet but I’m working on it,” I tease.

James turns to Ryan. “Man, I’m so happy for you.”

Ryan and I share a look. It’s not like we’re engaged, so this hearty congratulations seems a bit much. “Thanks,” Ryan says as he wraps his arm around me. We both look at the woman standing next to him and Ryan nods in her direction. “Introduce us to your friend.”

James turns around quickly, obviously embarrassed he forgot who was standing next to him. “Ryan, Evie, this is Lucca Marino.”

Her name runs through me like a shock of electricity.

“Lucca,” I say quietly, rolling it around on my tongue. “That’s an unusual name.” I realize I sound just like Beth on the night of the dinner party.

She smiles and rolls her eyes. “I know. I’m named after the town in Italy where my grandparents were from. Two c’s. No one ever spells it right.”

My eyes go to the silver cup in her hand; the script L is visible in the spaces between her fingers.

James and Ryan start talking about who they bet on in the upcoming race, but I’m still stuck on the woman.

“Are you from here?” I ask. My mouth is suddenly dry. I take a quick sip of my drink but no more than that.

“No. I’m from a small town in North Carolina, just above Greensboro.

It’s tiny, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

“Eden,” I blurt out before I can help myself.

She flinches slightly. “Uh, yeah . . . Eden. How did you—”

“Just a lucky guess. I knew a girl in college who was from that area.” I’ve got to pull it together. Dragging in a deep breath, I hold it a moment before letting it out in a soft rush of air. Twice more until I feel my heart rate start to slow.

“Do you still have family there?” I ask once I feel centered.

“No,” she says with a frown. “It was just Mom and me, but she passed away when I was in high school. Breast cancer.”

I had already noticed how similar we looked, but now my eyes devour her. I take stock of every inch of her so I can compare it to every inch of me. Both of us have hair that reaches to our mid-back and has a slight wave to it, but hers is lighter than mine. The color mine would normally be if I hadn’t dyed it when I moved here. Eye color: same. Complexion: same.

She notices my inspection and does one of her own. I feel her stare, as it starts at my feet and runs straight up to the big ridiculous hat. Is she surprised by how much we resemble each other? “Have you been to Eden?” she asks.

“I have. The friend I mentioned brought a group of us to some festival. I think it was called something like . . . Springfest? Is that right?”

A test. A test I need her to fail.

A smile breaks out across her face, her eyebrows lifting. “Y’all came to the Fall Riverfest. It’s always in September around my birthday. I love that festival!”

No. No, no, no.

I nod to her then turn to Ryan. He’s in deep conversation with James, but I interrupt him anyway.

“Hey, I’m going to find the ladies’ room. Be back in a moment.”

Before he has a chance to say anything or offer to help me find the way, I’m gone. Walking fast in my tight black dress and four-inch heels, I almost drop the metal cup with the letter E that is slick with condensation. I nearly fall onto a woman as I close in on the ridiculously nice portable bathroom station that was brought in for this event.

“Oh, are you okay?” she asks, her hand on my arm as she steadies me.

I nod, unable to speak. She shares a look of concern with her husband after I gently shake her off, then they both watch me as I move away.

It takes everything in me to hold it together until I’m in the privacy of one of the bathroom stalls, because I am freaking the fuck out.

As soon as I’m inside and the lock is engaged, I slump against the door.

I let out a silent scream and squeeze my eyes shut.

This is not good. This is not good. This is not good.

She is not from Eden, North Carolina—I am.

Her mother didn’t die from breast cancer—Mine did. Her name is not Lucca Marino—Mine is.

‌Lucca Marino—Ten Years Ago

I inch the window open slowly. This afternoon when I tried it, it squeaked around the halfway mark, so I’m trying to stop it just before that point. When there’s just enough space to slip inside, I go for it.

The adrenaline rush never gets old.

Dropping my backpack on the floor of the guest room, I quickly shuck the black leggings and carefully pull off the hoodie, making sure the wig cap stays in place and I don’t smudge my makeup. Opening the bag, I pull out the sequined black cocktail dress and slip it on. It fits like a glove and is short enough that I’m likely to expose myself if I bend over, so it’s perfect for what’s happening here tonight.

The long, auburn wig is next. I flip it on, taking a few minutes to adjust it. I’ve practiced this enough in the dark to know when I get it right. Sky-high heels and a small, black clutch finish the look.

I shove my stuff under the bed then quietly leave the room.

The party is in full swing, and it’s a short walk from the guest room to the center of the house. There’s a band set up outside and most of the food is spread out buffet style in the dining room, in addition to the passed trays of oysters Rockefeller and mini lobster rolls that I saw being prepped in the kitchen when I was here earlier. My stomach rumbles, but I don’t snatch one off the tray when it passes me. I can eat later.

A woman stumbles into me and I have to catch her before she takes us both down.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry!” she slurs, clutching my arm for support. It’s Mrs. Whittington. The second Mrs. Whittington and current wife of Mr. Whittington, not to be confused with the first Mrs. Whittington, who loves to bitch about the second one any chance she gets.

“It’s okay,” I answer.

She eyes me up and down. “Love this dress! Where did you get it?”

“Oh, a little boutique I ran across while we were vacationing in Virginia Beach,” I answer, my accent completely gone. That took more practice than putting on the wig in the dark.

I wait for recognition to cross her face, but in these clothes, with this hair, and the contoured makeup and smoky eyes, there is no part of me that is recognizable. It doesn’t hurt that no one expects the poor little girl who works in the back room of the local flower shop to rub elbows with high society as they throw massive parties to celebrate the engagement of a couple whose marriage won’t last two years. Honestly, these two will be lucky to make it down the aisle.

Once Mrs. Whittington is steady on her feet—or as steady as she can be in her current condition—I move past her. I would have had trouble coming in through the front door since the parents of the bride and groom are greeting everyone who arrives, but no one will question me now that I’m inside the party.

I pick my way through the open floor plan to a hallway on the other side of the massive den. I don’t usually have to make an appearance, but the way this house is laid out left me no other options. The band is literally set up in front of the owner’s bedroom windows outside, so through the inside door I must go.

I linger near the opening of the hall that will lead me to the Albrittons’ master suite. With my phone in my hand, I’m the image of someone who is looking for a quiet corner to make a call. My eyes are everywhere but the phone as I gauge the level of interest the other guests have in me. My other hand is in my clutch, my fingers wrapped around a device hidden inside. I take a deep breath then push the small button.

A loud crashing sound makes everyone turn in the direction of the kitchen, and I slip down the hall unnoticed into the bedroom. Someone may search for the source of that crash, but they won’t find anything out of place.

The room is dark, but it takes no time to get to the bathroom. I slip on the pair of black gloves from my clutch, then open the drawer in the built-in dressing table, searching for the heart-shaped box I know is tucked inside. I find it. Then I pick through the box’s offerings and pull out the sapphire ring, a pair of emerald earrings, and a necklace with a decent-size amethyst surrounded by some channel-set diamonds. I wish the diamond earrings and pendant Mrs. Albritton wore into the store last week were here, but I’m sure she’s wearing them right now.

I drop the treasures in my bag, followed by the gloves, then retrace my steps. This is a moment when the fear of being caught threatens to choke me, but I push past it and turn the corner into the main room like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Thankfully, no one is paying me any attention. I take my time heading back to the guest room, even stopping long enough to snag one of those lobster rolls. It is as yummy as I hoped it would be.

I’m pulling off the dress as I reach for the backpack hidden under the bed, then shuck the heels.

Within seconds, I’m in my leggings and hoodie and I’m slipping out the window.

“Mama, I’m back!” I yell as I step inside our trailer. My Southern drawl snaps into place the second I cross the threshold.

“Hey, honey! Who won the game?” Mama asks from her bedroom. My light-brown hair is free of the wig cap and my face is scrubbed clean of makeup. The black hoodie has been replaced with one depicting my high school’s name and mascot.

Carrying a brown paper bag, I close the short distance from the main living area to Mama’s room. I drop it on the TV tray on the side of her bed before crawling in next to her.

“We lost. But it was close,” I say.

Mama digs in the bag and a smile breaks out across her face. “Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t have.”

Cinnamon wafts through the room, and my heart nearly bursts seeing this small moment of happiness over something as simple as a late-night treat. “You need to eat more, Mama. You’re getting too skinny.”

Mama unwraps the bakery paper and the big fat cinnamon roll looks as decadent as it smells. “My favorite,” she whispers.

“I know,” I whisper back.

While she takes small bites, I pick up one of the square pieces of paper from the stack on the bedside table and start folding it in the way she’s taught me. Mama watches me while she eats, not correcting me when I make a wrong fold, instead letting me find my mistake on my own.

After several minutes, the small white origami swan takes shape in my hand.

“Oh, that’s a pretty one,” she says, plucking it out of the palm of my hand and adding it to the collection on the built-in shelf in her headboard. There are lots of different paper animals in all colors and sizes standing like sentries guarding over her. Mama has always been good with her hands; but no matter how many times she shows me, the swan is the only one I’ve mastered.

She’s about half done with the cinnamon roll when she’s wrapping it back up and putting it on the table next to the bed. “I’ll finish the rest tomorrow,” she says, even though we both know she won’t. It’s amazing she ate as much as she did.

“What are your plans the rest of the weekend?” she asks as she snuggles back down in the bed. “I’m working at the flower shop. Big wedding tomorrow night.”

She turns her head toward me, her frail hand reaching out to my face. “You work too much. It’s your senior year, you should be out with your friends, having fun.”

I shake my head and swallow down the huge lump in my throat. “I can do both,” I lie. And we both let me get away with it.

“Have you heard back from any of the colleges you applied for yet?” Mama asks.

I shake my head. “Not yet, but should be any day now.” I can’t tell her I never applied because we couldn’t spare the application fee, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, she probably won’t be here to see I’m still stuck in this small town come fall.

“I know they’re all gonna want you. You’ll have your pick.”

I nod along but don’t say anything. But then she’s leaning closer and clutching my hand.

“One day soon you’ll be all grown.” She lets out a laugh and adds, “What am I saying, you’re already there. Taking care of me and everything else. I want so much for you, Lucca. A home and a family of your

own one day. I want you to have that house we’ve always dreamed of. Maybe you can build it in that fancy new neighborhood near the lake.”

“And I’ll have a room just for you,” I add, playing along with the fantasy. “We’ll paint it green since it’s your favorite and you can get one of those beds that has a canopy on top. We can plant a garden in the backyard.”

She reaches up and pushes a stray clump of hair out of my face, then tucks it behind my ear. “We’ll grow tomatoes and cucumbers.”

“And carrots.”

Her eyelids get heavy. I know she’s only seconds from slipping back into sleep, even though she’s probably slept all day. “Of course, carrots. They’re your favorite. And I’ll make you a carrot cake.”

She falls asleep and I lean over to kiss her cheek, trying not to panic over how cool her skin feels. I add another blanket to the mountain she’s already burrowed under before scooting out of the bed.

I head straight for the tiny room at the front of our trailer that is nothing more than a large closet, but it’s like stepping into another world when I pass through the door. Before cancer ravaged her body, Mama spent every day in this room behind her sewing machine and craft table. Mothers came from all over North Carolina to have her make pageant dresses, prom dresses, and even the occasional wedding dress for their daughters. When I was little, I’d sit at Mama’s feet and watch these plain girls walk in and then somehow be transformed once she got her hands on them. It was in that moment that I learned you can become someone else with the right hair, the right dress, and the right accessories.

Bolts of fabric and rolls of ribbon are stacked against one wall, while the particle-board shelving behind the sewing machine holds jars stuffed full of feathers and rhinestones and any other trimming you could imagine.

When Mama first got sick, I took over her orders. I’d been helping her in this room for as long as I can remember, so it wasn’t a big leap. But pageant dresses and custom-made costume jewelry didn’t bring in enough money to get Mama the treatments she needed or pay for all the medication she was on. So I had to get creative.

The job opening at the flower shop in nearby Greensboro was just the answer. Women love coming in the shop decked out in their best jewelry. They love talking about the parties they are hosting and the impressive guest list of those invited. And of course, they need us to deliver the arrangements and make sure everything is just right.

With so much pre-party commotion, it’s easy to slip in a forgotten room and unlatch a window. The key is not to take something when I’m there delivering flowers. That brings too much suspicion on the small group who were there early in the day. It’s better to let the missus get dressed for the party. Let her pick through her jewelry to decide what will look best. Make sure she remembers what was left in that little jewelry box before the party kicks off.

And then, when the house is bursting with guests and valet and waitstaff and bartenders, the forgotten flower shop girl has a chance to slip back in and grab the pieces that didn’t get chosen for the night. The police will inevitably ask when the last time Mrs. Albritton saw these three pieces was, and she will say it was just before the party started, therefore taking the flower delivery people out of the running of possible suspects.

I also learned that it would be best to keep that version of me separate from the real version. Lucca Marino is a seventeen-year-old high school senior who sews dresses and makes costume jewelry to help her mother pay the bills. The girl at the flower store has different hair, different makeup, and answers to a different name.

It takes some time to pry the stones from their settings before I can drop the gold into a small melting pot. Next week I’ll drive in the opposite direction, crossing into Virginia, to get rid of the stones and gold. No one ever recognizes their stones once they’re free of their settings.

It’s a lot of risk for a couple hundred bucks, but we need every penny we can get. I’ve learned you’ve got to target the exact right woman. She’s well off enough that she hires a professional florist to decorate for her party and has a few nice pieces of jewelry that she feels comfortable enough to shove into a bathroom drawer but not so well off that there’s a safe to crack or a security system to disarm.

I work carefully. Looking at each piece through an LED magnifying lamp, it’s slow work prying each prong off without damaging the stone. Mama would have had this done in minutes. Well, not really. She’d beat my ass if she knew what I was using her tools for. I had to decide a long time ago that what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

I finish up just before midnight. I still have a paper to write, and Mama needs another dose of her meds before I can crawl into bed. Putting the tools away and cutting off the light, I’m already thinking about the wedding tomorrow night.