Pretty Revenge

by Emily Liebert

“Logistically speaking, Olivia Lewis was my mother’s name and it was also the name on my birth certificate. Olivia Kerrie Lewis. But I’ve always gone by Kerrie, and O’Malley was my nana’s last name, which I took after my parents died.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Not exactly. There’s more. A lot.” I explained everything to her, as she nodded and said things like Holy shit! and No way! And when I was done, there was a prolonged silence—which has never happened in the history of my relationship with Sara. “Say something. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Give me a minute.” She took a breath. “I feel like I should be pissed that you lied to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I don’t know. What am I gonna do? Never talk to you again?” She shrugged. “Listen, Olivia. Kerrie. We’ve all got our stuff. You think my shit doesn’t stink? I get it. I’d be furious as hell if I were you. I’d want revenge too.” She thought for a second. “And she really hasn’t recognized you?”

  “Not that I know of. I look pretty different than I did when I was twelve. And it has been eighteen years. And she only met me one time.”

  “Wow.” She shook her head. “It’s just like that movie Single White Female. You know, the one where Jennifer Jason Leigh transforms herself into Bridget Fonda and then tries to steal her identity.”

  “Yes, I know that movie. But the difference is, I’m not looking to be Jordana. Believe me.”

  “Fine, maybe it’s more like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, where that crazy doctor molests Annabella Sciorra and then kills himself. And then his wife becomes Annabella’s nanny so she can seek vengeance.”

  “A little closer, but I’m not a psychopath.” Am I?

  “This is wild.”

  “So you’re really not mad at me?”

  “Nah. I’m not a grudge holder. If I was, Joel and I would have been divorced before we were married.”

  “And now do you see how we share the same goal?”

  “What goal is that?”

  “If we take down Arthur Doonan, Jordana and her husband will be collateral damage. You’ll have your choice of jobs, and I’ll have achieved retribution. I can’t do it without you. I’ve made a little progress on my own, but it’s nothing compared to the impact this could have if we work together.”

  “I’m not going to lie; it’s tempting. It’s just that saying it is one thing. And doing it is another.”

  “Okay then, answer me this: Before Dante was born, where did you used to be at seven o’clock in the morning?”

  “That’s easy. In the office, at my desk.”

  “And where are you now at seven o’clock in the morning?” I’ve heard her say this so many times. Now she needs to listen to her own words. I mean, really listen to them.

  “In my apartment, drenched in projectile vomit, with congealed rice cereal in my hair.”

  “Right. And there are days that . . .”

  “I don’t talk to anyone except the cashier at CVS, where I go to buy children’s gas medicine, not mascara.”

  “And why don’t you buy mascara?”

  “Because I don’t wear mascara anymore!” I could tell I was riling her.

  “Exactly! And why is that?”

  “Because I DON’T HAVE A JOB!” She jumped to her feet. “You’re right. You’re so fucking right. I’ve spent the last six months practically begging people to hire me. People who, by the way, used to rank below me. And I have no one left to call. Clearly, my approach has failed.”

  “So then maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try a new approach? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  “Well, lots of awful things could happen.” She fell back onto the couch. “It could blow up in our faces. Like a massive explosion.”

  “Okay, but—” I sensed one coming.

  “But, let’s just say I agreed to this insanity.” She paused before continuing. “And that you do have access to Arthur. It’s not as if he’s going to turn over his private files to you just like that. Didn’t you say you haven’t even met him?”

  “True, but didn’t you say you were a rock-star journalist?”

  “Hell yeah. And I still have a few solid connections.”

  “Perfect. I’m thinking that while you start looking into Arthur, I can try to glean information from William, and maybe even Tatiana.”

  “That makes sense.” Her eyes were dogged. “You’d have to probe gently, though. Make it seem off-the-cuff, like you’re just casually interested. I’d leave Jordana and Caroline out of it for the time being. They’ll be too suspicious. And given what you just confessed, you don’t want Jordana to think there’s anything unsavory going on.”

  “I can do that.”

  “I’m not going to lie, ruining Arthur Doonan would be a huge professional coup for me. I’d finally prove to all those assholes who’ve been rejecting me that I’ve still got what it takes to be a contender.”

  “Okay, Marlon Brando.” I laughed, giddy with the impression that I was winning her over.

  “Every single major newspaper in this country would offer me a job that I actually want,” she added.

  “Yup,” I agreed.

  “And all of this would stay between us,” Sara confirmed.

  “All of this would stay between us,” I repeated.

  “Pinky swear.” She extended her hand toward me.

  “Really?” I haven’t done a pinky swear since I was ten.

  “Really.” We linked fingers. “I’ll see you tonight at your place, as soon as Joel gets home. God, can you imagine if this actually worked?”

  “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.”

  * * *

  Once Sara had gone, I returned to my desk and tried not to think about our new partnership in crime. There are still other weddings that need managing, and Jordana informed me that she’s planning to take on more once William and Tatiana have sealed the deal.

  My first order of business was to confirm that the bridesmaids’ dresses for Lucy Noble and the groomsmen’s tuxedos for Donald Cooper will arrive on time. Then I had to verify that their aerial photographer will be able to fly over her parents’ estate in Amagansett at the precise time of their ceremony, which was no easy task, given all the FAA regulations in place. And finally, I had to secure a two-million-dollar diamond-and-ruby necklace that Fred Leighton is lending Lucy to go with her grandmother’s ruby earrings. Two million dollars! Since Donald’s father owns three professional sports teams and Lucy’s sister is married to one of the Kennedys, their photos will be broadcast across various TV stations and featured in any number of national magazines and newspapers, so it’s an obvious publicity opportunity for Fred. Fortunately, I was informed that the necklace is waiting for Lucy in the vault and will be polished to perfection before being delivered to her parents’ home the morning of the wedding. Naturally, there will be a security guard present until the last guest has departed, at which time the necklace will be returned.

  After I’d locked down those tasks and a few others for Lucy and Donald, I turned my attention to Alexa Griffin and Grey Wilder. Alexa has been calling every day. Her anxiety seems to intensify with each minute that the wedding grows closer. So I thought, instead of waiting for her to be in touch, what if I reached out to her? If nothing else, Jordana will appreciate my proactivity. I picked up the phone and dialed her cell number.

  “Jordana? What’s wrong?” She answered before it rang.

  “Hi, Alexa. It’s Olivia. And nothing is wrong. Nothing at all,” I reassured.

  “Oh, okay. That’s a relief. I was worried when I saw your number.” She didn’t sound relieved.

  “I just wanted to give you a ring to check in. You know, make sure you’re feeling good about everything.”

  “Is there something not to feel good about?” She was breathing heavily.

  “Not a single thing, everything is on track.” Except Adam Levine an
d Lady Gaga. Though I imagine life will go on without them. Somehow. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. I’m on the treadmill. Six miles down, two to go.”

  “That’s impressive. Good for you.”

  “Well, I can’t very well look like a heifer in my gown. I’ve been eating like food is going out of style lately. It’s like I can’t stop myself. Last night I ate pasta. I mean, it was gluten-free, obviously.” Obviously.

  “You look amazing.” Alexa can’t be more than a size four.

  “In clothing, maybe. But you haven’t seen me naked. I have cellulite on my outer thighs. It’s a nightmare. I’m going to the dermatologist next week to see what she can do about it.”

  “Believe me, I wish I looked like you,” I said, even though it wasn’t strictly true. Alexa does have a nice figure, but her facial features are a little severe for my taste.

  “That’s so nice, Olivia. And thank you for checking in. Jordana never does that.”

  “She’s crazy busy. That’s what I’m here for. Although I assure you, Jordana is doing whatever it takes to make sure your wedding is flawless,” I added. It’s one thing to do something proactive. But it would be a very different thing if, in doing so, I shed a negative light on Jordana.

  “That’s nice to hear,” she panted.

  “Okay, well, I’ll let you get back to your workout. I’m here if you need anything.” I chose not to mention that Jordana was out of town.

  “Thanks, Olivia. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Sure thing.” We hung up and I smiled to myself. Alexa isn’t so bad after all. She’s just a normal girl, like the rest of us. Fine, a normal girl with a shitload of money. But still, she’s got problems and insecurities, even if they are nitpicky. Either way, they’re her problems and her insecurities. And it’s my job to alleviate them. Which I actually have a knack for.

  As it turns out, revenge or not, I’m great at what I do. And I really love it.

  Imagine that.

  25  JORDANA

  Just as I was about to turn onto my old street, Cherry Creek Lane, my body began to rebel. My skin prickled. My hands shivered. My vision clouded. And my chest constricted, strangling my determination to accelerate. I pulled the car over to the side of the road to collect myself. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and focused on catching my breath, but each gasp was so elusive I could only hold on to it for a second.

  I questioned whether I was as strong as Cathy said I was. And whether I could face my past after all. I felt shriveled and hollow like a raisin in the sun. Fear, plain and simple, that’s what it was. And it had sidled up beside me vigilantly, careful not to alert me before it was too late.

  I sucked in a mouthful of air and sat up straight. I rolled my neck to ease the pressure that had burrowed at the tip my spine. That’s when I saw it. Right there on the corner of Cherry Creek Lane and Honey Hollow Road, where it had always been. Her house. The girl who saved me.

  Kerrie O’Malley. That was her name. She was only twelve years old at the time. A baby mouse. Soft and fuzzy. Squeaky and innocent. Meek. Except that she was smart. And intelligence should never be underestimated. For me, though, she was a liberator. She had no idea what she was getting herself into when she opened her door to me that night. Neither did I. But I had no other choice.

  I am ashamed. I am unworthy of forgiveness. Just like my father.

  I do wonder what happened to Kerrie. What damage I did.

  Once I’d quieted my anxiety, I shifted the car back into drive and curved around the side of Kerrie’s house until I reached number nine, which looked bizarrely the same, though much less slovenly, at least from the outside. The house had been repainted a gleaming white to match the others on the street, and the lawn was no longer patchy and overgrown with weeds. The gravestones of our former cats had been removed, as had the rickety old shed. And there was now a small bird bath with a fountain in its place.

  As I walked up the stone path, which also looked to be brand-new, I could smell the aroma of something stewing in the oven. Probably something I haven’t eaten in nearly twenty years—like a meaty lasagna or a shepherd’s pie. Unfortunately, my appetite, at least for food, has been tempered by my commitment to preserve a certain appearance. Again, it’s part of the job that’s being me, Mrs. Jordana Pierson.

  I hesitated before the front door, which was lacquered in a rich green gloss and much sturdier than the one I grew up with. I thought about letting myself in, when it occurred to me—I don’t live here anymore. I’m a guest. Or, perhaps, an intruder. I didn’t have the chance to think much further. As I reached for the shiny brass knocker—another new addition—the door swayed open, and there she was. Standing in front of me with moist eyes and a convivial grin that told me I was welcome. Even after all this time.

  “Jordan.” She whispered my name as if it was our secret. In a way it was. Then she took two steps backward, and I took two steps toward her.

  “Mom.” What else was there to say? I looked past her. For him.

  “Your father is in the hospital.” She shook her head. “He’s not coming back. It’s a matter of days, they said.”

  “I see.” My muscles slackened slightly.

  “Come in, come in.” She took my bag and set it down on a bench in the entryway. I followed her into the kitchen, where, as expected, there was a full banquet of delicacies. The sort of things that I grew up eating. When I didn’t know better. There was the expected hearty lasagna. Dinner rolls. Salads. And desserts—freshly baked pies and cookies. A tray of cannoli. It was enough to feed a small army of hungry soldiers. “Help yourself.” She motioned to the assembly of aluminum vats, which seemed to multiply around me.

  “You shouldn’t have. This is way too much.”

  “I didn’t. People have been bringing things by all week.” She bowed her head. “You know, to pay their respects.”

  “He’s not gone yet.”

  My mother winced. “Can I get you something?”

  It was an awkward tango, to say the least. I sat down at the table, and she orbited me like a hawk, calculating my every movement.

  “No.”

  “Not even a little something?” She reached into the cabinet for two plates and piled them high with lettuce.

  “Salad, but only if you’re eating.” It’s instinct to deny myself, though I’m so out of my element that I wonder if calories even count here. I wonder if anything counts here.

  “Okay.” She continued making both plates. “You’re so tiny.” She appraised me, careful not to linger too long. My own mother is afraid of me. I can’t blame her. When you’ve spent the majority of your adult life being startled by the sound of your own heartbeat, what other choice do you have?

  “The house looks better.” While she brewed a pot of tea, I stood up and walked around the first floor, which isn’t much larger than my bedroom in New York. Each room had been updated with more modern furniture. In the living room there was an oversize gray, ultra-suede sectional accented with jewel-toned throw pillows—orange, purple, and turquoise. There was also a glass coffee table where the splintered wooden one of my childhood had been. And a thick sisal rug covered the newly stained floor. Returning to the kitchen, I noticed that the cabinets had been refaced, all of the handles updated too. There was a tiled backsplash to complement the stovetop, and the appliances were ones I’d never seen before.

  “Thank you. It’s been a labor of love.” My mother dressed the table with linens and silverware, and we sat down across from each other with our plates of salad and mugs of tea.

  “I can tell.” I observed her face. Really inspected it for the first time since I’d arrived. She appeared youthful, girlish even. Lighter and smoother. She’d dyed her gray hairs to match her natural chestnut color. Her eyes were wider. Her skin was luminous. “You look great.” I knew the woman across from me, if only faintly from my earliest years. Before he aged her.

  “Things have changed.” She smiled weakly.
A genuine smile, not the one she used to put on for my benefit.

  “Oh?” What things? What could have changed? I suppose everything. Why is it that when we leave someplace that we’ve called home, we assume that nothing will be different when we return? That it will have been preserved in time, waiting for us to come back and defrost it.

  “You’ll see tomorrow.” Was that a smirk I saw pass her lips? I’ve never seen my mother smirk. You have to be irreverent to smirk.

  “I’m not staying until tomorrow. I’m here because you threatened me, remember?” The mood darkened once again. Enough of the niceties.

  “But you have to go visit your father in the hospital.”

  “No I don’t. And I won’t.”

  “Jordan.” She reached her hand out.

  “Don’t touch me.” I recoiled. “And that’s not my name anymore. I’m Jordana now.” I pronounced it the way Caroline does. JorDONNA. “I’d prefer if you call me that.”

  “You seem so angry.” She placed her hand back in her lap.

  “You say that like you’re surprised. Wouldn’t you be angry if you were me?”

  She was silent.

  “I’m asking you, Mom. Can you blame me for being furious?”

  “No.” She hesitated. “It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that what?” Did she expect me to forgive and forget that easily? Like she always had?

  “It’s been so long. I thought that maybe . . .”

  “You thought that maybe what? That I’d have forgotten what he did to me? What he did to you? And the fact that you let it happen. Or maybe you thought I’d let it slip my mind that you never once came to look for me, that you never once reached out to me until now? For fuck’s sake, Mom, it’s been eighteen years. EIGHTEEN YEARS!” I hurled the accusation at her. “Why now? Tell me. Do you really give a shit if I say good-bye to Dad on his deathbed? Do you really think he deserves that courtesy from me?”

  She was silent again.

  “Answer me! You owe me that.” I slammed my hand on the table, alarming her.

  “Because he asked me to find you.” She looked away.