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The Buchanans had been a fixture in Jay's life for years now, which was not an alliance Greta particularly rejoiced in. She was used to them traipsing in and out of Jay's house during the summer when they weren't on the Côte d'Azur or in Monte Carlo or up in Newport or the Cape, and Greta knew her brother considered Daisy to be the epitome of graceful womanhood and a perfect role model for Greta. She supposed Daisy didn't care much either way about Jay's mostly absent little sister, and certainly Greta had never considered Daisy and herself to have much in common. Jay, however, persisted in thinking that the two held a high sisterly regard for each other, and Greta had long learned that when Jay believed something, he'd believe it in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

"Great Neck!" the conductor called again, now with an air of finality, and the train began to slow. Greta stuffed the letter back in her bag and gathered her things, holding on to her new cloche on the seat beside her as it made a bid for freedom. The hat was a beautiful pale green shade, newly purchased upon Greta's graduation from the Academy, and she thought it looked rather dashing with the brand-new bob she'd just had done. Jay would hate the bob, of course—It's rather unfeminine, Gigi, isn't it?—but Greta thrilled every time she ran her hand through her hair and felt that blunt, shorn edge. Like everything else today, it seemed to hold a promise of freedom.

There was a hiss and a final lurch, and the train came at last to a standstill. Her nasally companion tipped his hat to her, and Greta dismounted in the churn of slammed doors and raised voices.

"Miss Gatsby? Miss Gatsby!"

A young man was making his way across the platform toward her, clad in the smart, gold-trimmed livery of the Gatsby house, but Greta didn't recognize his face.

"Miss Gatsby? I'm the new chauffeur. Bill Richardson."

She frowned. Jay had sent the chauffeur? And what had happened to Silas, the old one? She'd rather hoped her brother would be here to greet her in person.

"Here, miss—a note from Mr. Gatsby." Bill Richardson fished a paper out of his pocket and passed it over.

Terribly sorry, Gigi, it read, in Jay's familiar scrawl. I came in to get you with Daisy, but the train was so delayed and she was expiring with the heat, I had to ferry her home. Bill here is the new chap.

Bill smiled at her. Under the peaked cap, he had sandy hair and a freckled, narrow face.

"Your brother showed me a photograph so I'd be sure to recognize you. And if I may say, you've not changed much, miss, except for the hair."

Greta allowed herself a small grin.

"Yes, it's rather a new feature. I'm not sure that it will be terribly well received back home."

Bill nodded.

"Part of the appeal, miss?"

Greta smiled. Bill was a wit, evidently.

The station master's whistle blew. The train pulled out, and Greta let Bill relieve her of the small valise she carried.

"That's it?" he said.

"There's an awfully large trunk coming on the slow train in a few days," Greta admitted, and Bill chuckled.

"A lady never travels light, so I hear."

Perhaps Jay hadn't entirely failed to make a lady of her, then.

In the parking bay, she was greeted by the sight of Jay's beloved automobile, that primrose-colored Rolls Phantom he'd bought in a particularly indulgent spree. Subtlety had never been her brother's strong suit, Greta reflected. The heavily muddied undercarriage was a surprise, though: usually Jay insisted on it being kept pristine.

"Had a lot of rain?" she asked, as Bill hoisted up the valise.

"Pouring nonstop the last few days. Your brother and his guests have been feeling quite housebound. But it's cleared up nicely for your arrival." Bill swung open the Phantom's heavy door for her, and Greta stepped inside with a feeling of giddiness. Buchanans or no Buchanans, nothing was going to interfere with her pleasure at being back on the island. Jay had chosen well, making his home here. Greta had once thought that her brother would return to North Dakota once he'd made his fortune, and settle there. After the war, though, it was clear he'd set his sights on the East Coast. The world was fresher up here, the air as crisp as dollar bills. The people were crisp, too, Greta had noticed: brisk and cliquish and often frosty. But Jay seemed either not to notice that part, or not to care.