Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  The women exchanged glances. Lily got the feeling they thought she was unnecessarily concerned—they ran a flower shop, people bought flowers. And here was Lily interrogating them. But she had no choice.

  “Was it a man who called?”

  “I just don’t remember,” Felicia said. “It was on speaker; we do that so we can work and talk. We get so many calls.”

  “But they said to sign it from Cassie?”

  “From Cassie.” Arnelle nodded, seemed to be remembering. “Yeah.”

  “No, Arn,” Felicia interrupted. “Just Cassie. Just the name. Not ‘from.’”

  “That’s the same thing.”

  “It isn’t, though.” Lily felt tears come to her eyes. The name Cassie, written, solitary on the card, was like an incantation or a threat. A menacing whisper.

  She’d dreamed about Cassie. She remembered feeling an emptiness, the change of the light with Cassie’s bedroom door closed, and TV people always outside and her mother’s tears seeming never to stop. Gramma Lily had been there, too, had lived with them after that, even while Lily was in college.

  At some point, she’d rationalized that they were trying to protect her. But Cassie was gone, so Lily’d never understood what she was being protected from. From sorrow? Or from a continuing threat? Cassie might be alive now. She might not be.

  All Lily knew was that things could be taken away from you, any second of any moment of any day. Things—and people you loved—could disappear. The world was not reliable, not any second of any moment of any day.

  “Signed ‘From Cassie’ isn’t the same as just the word Cassie.” Lily yanked herself back to the present. “‘From Cassie’ means the flowers were from Cassie. That a Cassie had sent them.” Or sent by someone else pretending to be Cassie. Or by someone trying to thoroughly spook Lily. “But writing just Cassie—”

  The sisters had both moved closer to her, and she saw them silently communicating their concern.

  “Oh, I am so sorry, you two,” she said. “I’m on TV, is the thing. I’ve got to be careful. And if someone has my home address, it’s just, I wish I knew who it was.”

  “Oh. Right.” Felicia nodded. “Never thought about that.”

  “Yeah,” her sister added. “Me either.”

  “So—are you saying you don’t know a Cassie?” Felicia asked.

  And there was that question again. That dilemma. She knew a Cassie, of course. But question was, who else did?

  CHAPTER 18

  GREER

  Of course I wondered, as I rounded the final corner, why Smith had escalated to meeting in person. Why he’d brought up the sister, Cassie. But what did it matter? If I could nail down a good story, Lily’d be thrilled. One more thing she didn’t have to do, right?

  “Right,” I answered myself out loud. The couple walking past me on the wide sidewalk, arm in arm, floaty skirt and dumb fedora under the orange glow of the streetlight, didn’t glance at me, even though I was talking to no one. People are used to that now; they assume cell phones and earbuds.

  I smiled, remembering. Rowen calls them earbugs, no matter how many times Lily corrects her. They do seem to have a sweet relationship, and Rowen adores her. Got to give her props for that. Although yeah, Petra the nanny makes that so much easier. Lily only has to be adorable and motherly when she needs to be, while Petra does the heavy lifting. And Lily has her housework person, and the gardener, and her famously flexible work hours. But again, I remind myself, we all do the best we can. If Lily couldn’t hire that household staff to allow her to work, then I wouldn’t be able to work with her. I’m well aware that what happens to Lily happens to me. Just ask Lily. She has a job, I have a job.

  Again, all the more reason to keep her happy.

  The door of Lido looks like a bank vault. Steel, maybe, or aluminum, with that burnished leaden texture that’s both elegant and protective. Like they want to keep some people in and some people out. And they should be well aware of which they are.

  The door opened as I approached, letting out a shaft of amber light and a burst of jazz and conversation. I stopped, waiting to see who would emerge. Smith had said he’d recognize me, which was either disturbing or not. It’s not as if I hide. But it was only two women, laughing, in jeans and black blazers and matching tousled hair. They didn’t give me a second look. That never happens when I’m with Lily.

  Deep breath.

  The warmth of Lido surrounded me from my first step inside. The light levels, all softened pink and indirect, were designed to make everyone look rosy and desirable. As Smith had predicted, some of the white-tableclothed squares were empty, some with four chairs, and others with two. There was no table with just one person. And no one at the host station. I knew Aiden, had seen him at that post several times. But not tonight.

  I looked at my watch. Five after nine, so I was politely on time. The diners hummed with private conversations, glasses clinked. “La Vie en Rose,” sinuous and sleek, played from hidden speakers. The walls were papered in red velvet, so ridiculously over-the-top opulent that they were hip. Each table had two flickering candles looped inside stands of ivy that fell luxuriously over the tablecloths and onto the hardwood floor. I wondered how the waitstaff didn’t trip over the tendrils or tip over the lighted candles.

  “Are you the Smith party?” The voice came from behind me.

  I turned and saw—no less shallow way to say it—an incredibly handsome guy in a navy blazer. Maybe Aiden was on vacation or something.

  “Yes,” I said. I was still baffled by this guy, who, for some reason—too confident? Too relaxed?—seemed an unlikely employee. “Is he—”

  “Private room,” the man said. “Follow me, Ms. Whitfield.”

  Whoa, I thought. Elaborate. I dutifully followed him through the restaurant, avoiding the ivy, and we arrived at a carved wooden door with a glass doorknob. And no windows. I’d seen it before of course, but assumed it was an office.

  “Please,” he said.

  The door opened to reveal what might have been a library, floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with leather volumes. In the center of the room, a long rectangular table, covered in a textured white cloth. At the head of it, taking the power position, a man stood, fingertips on the white damask. A crystal pitcher of ice water and four glasses waited on a silver platter in front of him. A tall glass chiller, festooned with silvered glass grapes, held an uncorked bottle of white wine. Smith’s stemmed glass—the man must be Smith—was half-full. Another beside it was empty.

  Did I recognize him? I took a beat, processing. Tall, clean-shaven, fortysomething. White button-down shirt and black jeans. I’d never seen him before, pretty sure of that. I heard the door close behind me. And we were alone.

  “Ms. Whitfield.” The man gestured me to the seat beside him. “Right on time.”

  So. In for a penny, in for a pound, as my grandmother used to say. I could hardly yank open the heavy door and bolt. As I stepped toward the offered red-velvet upholstered chair, I realized Lily had done this to me, planting seeds of uncertainty. Otherwise, I’d be fine meeting a source in a perfectly safe restaurant.

  “I’m Mr. Smith,” he was saying, “and I’m grateful you could spare the time. Wine?”

  “Water would be great,” I said as I took my seat, and decided not to mention that this was my job, no matter what time it was. And time was pretty much all I had. I thought about straight-out asking who he was, but decided to see how this unfolded. Plus, if he thought I would recognize him, like tonight was some big reveal, it would be embarrassing not to.

  I tried a sip from the heavy crystal glass he handed me, figuring there was no need to be wary of the water since he’d poured it from the pitcher.

  “Cutting to the chase,” Smith said. “I’ve done a lot for you—you and Lily Atwood. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I lifted an eyebrow. Wary now, not of the water, but of what felt like the beginning of a negotiation. “Sure. Thanks,” I said.

  “As
always, this is off the record, correct? Just between us?”

  I twisted the water glass on the lavish tablecloth, leaving a tiny ring of damp on a white-on-white woven rose. “Sure.”

  “Has she told you much about herself?” he asked. “Lily?”

  “Lily?” I frowned, trying to play out where he might be going with this. “Like about what?”

  “For instance, I mentioned the sister. Had you known about her before?”

  This had moved instantly into creepy-stalky. “What does Lily’s sister have to do with anything?”

  “Fine, forget about that.” He put up a hand as if to ward off my imminent criticism. “You know about her daughter, certainly. Rowen.”

  I felt my back stiffen. It was all I could do not to head for the door. Or call 911.

  “Who are you?” I stood, knowing it looked aggressive, but maybe that was for the best.

  “Look. Ms. Whitfield. I mean no harm, I assure you of that. Sit back down.” He paused. “You can leave whenever you want, but—”

  “Damn right I can,” I said. “What’s this about?” I sat, but perched on the edge of my chair, poised for flight. I took my phone from my jacket pocket. Held it in plain sight, like a weapon. “And who are you?”

  “Look. I’m a private detective.” He slid me a white business card. “Which is why I can feed you those stories, right? But I have a client—and again, this needs to be off the record.” He left the challenge hanging in the air.

  I could still hear the music, faint and French, from the dining room behind us. Which meant this room wasn’t soundproof. I nodded. “Go on.”

  He took a sip of his wine and leaned back in his chair, putting his hands together as if in prayer, touching under his chin. “I have a client,” he said, “who misses his daughter.”

  My eyes narrowed as I tried to decipher that.

  “Rowen Blair Atwood.” He paused. “Is his daughter. He adores her, he misses her, and he is not allowed to see her. Did Lily ever tell you about this? Are you confidantes? Friends? Does she trust you enough to have told you about this?”

  I felt my chin go up, and my defenses along with it.

  “Ah. I see. No. Well, of course, I understand if she needs to keep her employees at a distance. Her staff. She’s Lily Atwood, after all.”

  I refused to engage with this. I indicated as much with my expression.

  “To go on.” He lifted the bottle, and rivulets of condensation slid down its sleek green glass. “Are you sure you don’t want wine? It’s a terrific New Zealand pinot gris.”

  I was biting the inside of my cheek. I needed to relax. Let go of my ego. Maybe the wine would help. A sip. “Sure,” I said.

  The pinot gurgled into the glass, pale as the moon. He handed it to me, holding the stem. The icy wine chilled my fingers, startling in the warmth of the room. He was right. It was perfect.

  He almost smiled, watching me drink it. “I have a client, as I said. He’s a good guy. I wouldn’t be telling you this if he weren’t. I know Rowen is safe and happy, happy as a little girl can be with one parent, and I am well aware…” He tilted his head. “Speaking of which. Sorry for the awkward voices on the phone. And the formal construction. One cannot be too careful,” he continued, using the recognizable Smith voice.

  “Your client,” I said, “is Rowen’s father?”

  Smith nodded. “He showed me her birth certificate, and I checked it out. Happy to provide it for you.” He leaned down, lifted a cordovan leather briefcase. “It’s all in here. And the very cooperative ski lodge where Ms. Atwood and Mr.—my client—ah, met, confirmed they were together on a March weekend eight years ago. Spring skiing. And Rowen was born the next—”

  I knew Rowen’s birthday. December 30. I said nothing.

  “December 30. Here’s the situation. My client is full of remorse. He’s her father. And although he’s spent so many years offering to help, trying to connect, wanting to be family, your Lily won’t allow it. Won’t let him.”

  A stream of words raced through my mind. Paternity, custody, court filings, child support. I’d let him fill in the blanks.

  “Why?” I asked. She’s not my Lily, I wanted to say. But I might as well let him think it worked that way. That I had influence.

  Smith took another sip of wine. Finished the glass. Poured another. I wondered if this whole story was even true. I had wondered, of course, about Rowen’s father. Lily had never alluded to it. Lily had green eyes, though, and so did Rowen. The green-eye thing would be telling, but not a deal-breaker. And if Smith could find the birth certificate, so could I.

  “Why? I assume there’s a whole list of whys.” He shook his head. “She’s embarrassed, I suppose. My client was married when they … got together. Lily was already on the track to stardom, and I suppose she didn’t want to risk the…” He shrugged. “This is delicate, and I’m sure you can fill in the blanks. But, to put it in PG terms, home-wrecking party girl is probably not the image Lily is going for. Or the one her employer—and yours—would approve of. I also assume there’s a moral turpitude clause in her contract. If she trusts you enough to have told you about that.”

  “They’re standard.” I couldn’t help saying what I knew. Every major talent contract builds in protections for the employer, which meant, in this case, if Lily ran naked through Boston Common, or spat on the mayor or shoplifted or got nailed for drunk driving, she could be deemed in breach. And could instantly be fired. No severance, no pension, no recommendations. An adulterous affair with the accompanying lurid details Smith seemed to have uncovered would be devastating.

  I shook my head. Imagining it. “They’d cut her off immediately. Her whole persona is pretty much #PerfectLily. She’d be … toast.” And so would I. Which I didn’t say out loud. “Toast.”

  “Exactly.” He pointed a forefinger at me, approving. “And that’s why I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 19

  GREER

  The door behind us clicked. Creaked open. I flinched, spooked by the smothery red velvet and incessant purr of seductive music and the growing apprehension about what Smith was telling me, and turned to see who’d arrived. The door only opened partway, and it blocked my direct line of sight. I could make out a sliver of a person, body obscured by the candlelight and dim restaurant behind, but I guessed it was a man.

  “We’re fine.” Smith raised his glass at him. “All good.”

  A waiter, I deduced, duh, this being a restaurant. The door clicked shut. I wished I could have more wine, but I had to keep my wits about me. Smith had said his client, Rowen’s father, needed my help. This whole rabbit-hole conversation in this unsettlingly private room had taken all of twenty minutes, but it represented a lifetime-long tangle of a situation.

  “You need my help? I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing anything that might make Lily unhappy,” I began.

  I nodded at myself, warming to my own refusal. This guy was pretending to be amiable, but he was nuts. Whatever he wanted, there was no way I was gonna do it. And the second I got out of here, which had better be soon, I’d call Lily, or better, go straight to her house. Who knew what this “client” person had in mind? This guy was cutting me out of the herd, trying to separate me from Lily.

  “Her life is perfect,” I said. “And it needs to stay that way. Rowen’s, too.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Smith radiated agreement. “And well put, Ms. Whitfield. But if you don’t help me, well…” He seemed to be considering his next words. Almost regrouping. “Here’s the thing. And I know it’s worrisome. Because if there’s no longer a need for, as you say, perfect Lily, there’s no need for perfect Lily’s producer. Correct? If she’s fired, you’re expendable?”

  I risked another sip of wine. If I finished the glass, he’d try to refill it, and that might be too tempting.

  “And in truth,” he went on, “what I’m proposing couldn’t make Ms. Atwood unhappy, because there’d be no way for her to find out about it.” He shrugged. “Unl
ess you can’t keep a secret. And I know you can.”

  “Who’s your client?” I asked. I’d begun to wonder if maybe I could protect Lily from something. If Rowen’s father—if that were even true—was after Rowen, whatever that meant, it would be best if Lily were aware of that.

  Smith blinked at me, as if maybe deconstructing my tactics. Then he nodded, once, as if he’d finished a discussion with himself. “Okay, sure. You could find the birth certificate as easily as I did. But let me show you a notarized copy, stamped and dated. Then you won’t have to go to all that trouble.” He reached into his briefcase again, pulled out a manila file folder, flapped it open. The black-and-white document, with the promised raised notary seal over the signature, looked authentic, though I was always skeptical.

  “See?” He point to the name above the line maternal name. Lily Blair Atwood.

  “Blair is Rowen’s middle name,” I said out loud.

  “Family thing.” He pointed with a forefinger, tapping the paper. “And here, under paternal name. Samuel Reed Prescott.”

  “I don’t know that name,” I said.

  “No reason you should, Greer—may I call you Greer? Unless Lily confided it to you. No? But here’s the thing. You might hear of it, and soon. Is the name Isabel DeSoto Prescott familiar?”

  That name I recognized. Running for Congress out west somewhere. Tough, strong, admirable. “He was married to her? When he and Lily—” I stopped, realizing I was buying this story by repeating that. “When you claim he and Lily—”

  “No. No.” Smith closed the file. Put his phone on top of it. “First wife, big mess, total disaster. Back then, she threatened to make an unholy stink about it. He actually told her about his affair with Lily. And then about Rowen. Not sure what he was thinking, but he did. So Lily agreed to keep it quiet—frankly, I think she and my client loved each other. But you know. Impossible. So long story short, Lily keeps Rowen, my client stays married. Time passes. And then, a couple of years or so ago, they get divorced, first wife moves who knows where. My client eventually remarries, and wife number two is eager to bring Rowen into the family. Bygones, no judgment, all one modern happy family.”