the man Consuelo really loved was not there. His name was Winthrop Rutherfurd, and he had grown up in the same fast and rich universe of New York as Consuelo. He was thirty and handsome, and he thrilled her so deeply that she was powerless to conceal it. On her eighteenth birthday, March 2, he sent her a single red American Beauty rose. He didn’t attach his name, but she knew it was from him.
