She Regrets Nothing

by Andrea Dunlop

  Praise for Andrea Dunlop’s Losing the Light

  One of Redbook’s Best Books of 2016

  “Dunlop infuses She Regrets Nothing with insight into family dynamics, which makes it especially rich, multifaceted, and engrossing. Fans of Becky Sharp and Brenda Walsh, this is your lucky day.”

  —Caroline Kepnes, bestselling author of Hidden Bodies and You

  “Dunlop has created unforgettable characters and a setting so richly drawn, the reader is immersed in the drama until the last engaging page. She Regrets Nothing is an entertaining, compelling story of family, class, and the yearning to belong.”

  —Amy Poeppel, author of Small Admissions

  “Laila Lawrence and her family are people I am thrilled not to know personally and was equally thrilled to spend a few hours following around New York City in all the best clothes and shoes to all the best clubs and parties. She Regrets Nothing is addictive, dark, and twisty and, like its characters, delightfully conniving.”

  —Laurie Frankel, author of This Is How It Always Is

  “A complicated friendship, a disastrous affair with a professor, and intoxicating relationships factor in making this an unforgettable trip.”

  —BuzzFeed

  “Who doesn’t fantasize about a sexy and passionate romance with a hot foreigner?”

  —PopSugar

  “A haunting story of betrayal within a beautiful portrait of youth.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Dunlop’s smart and suspenseful debut follows the lead of Katie Crouch’s Abroad (2014) and Jennifer duBois’s Cartwheel (2013), but delves more deeply into the repercussions beyond a shocking incident during a year abroad. Dunlop richly evokes the heady emotions of friendship, lust, and betrayal.”

  —Booklist

  “A heady cocktail of nostalgia, a seductive Frenchman, a passionate love triangle, a mysterious disappearance: Seattle author Andrea Dunlop weaves an intriguing story about 30-year-old Brooke, now newly engaged, and her recollections of student days a decade earlier in France with her bubbly, blond buddy Sophie. . . . Losing the Light is a love letter to France—the cafes, the language, the ‘fierce elegance’ of Parisiennes, the sun-drenched beauty of Cap Ferrat. Dunlop brilliantly recreates the tempestuous, ‘anything is possible’ whirlwind of emotions that accompany Brooke’s coming of age, with the dizzying heights and depths of feeling. . . . A thoughtful, assured debut.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “Good wine, dark chocolate, a French love triangle, and the perfect best friend—at first—are only a handful of the decadences awaiting you in Losing the Light—not to mention the shocking twist that kept this succulent debut lingering long after the final page.”

  —Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, New York Times bestselling author of Bittersweet

  “Dunlop’s writing is effervescent, but wise . . . the story, which is as much about love, lust and longing as it is about the intricacies and potential pitfalls of close, obsessive friendship, also offers a truly lovely depiction of France.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “In her debut, Dunlop writes of a fizzy, decadent world, filled with the intense relationships that young love brings, whether that feeling is for a person or for a beautiful location.”

  —Library Journal

  “Love triangles can haunt you forever. This gorgeously written debut novel centers around one woman being seduced by European high life while on a study abroad trip in France. It’s an exotic escape and a literary escape at the same time.”

  —Redbook

  “The story of a young girl studying abroad in France who gets sucked into a world of love and lust. This unraveling tale is absolutely haunting.”

  —SheKnows

  “There are so many coming-of-age novels in the world about the young, innocent girl making her way in the world. And yet, Losing the Light is really something special. Andrea Dunlop has a keen sense of what a modern woman on the cusp of her twenties might truly desire, fear, and be tempted by. Her characters are unapologetic and troublesome, yet intensely likable. On top of that, she sets the book in a French town and feeds you wine and men the whole way through. Oh, and there’s a murder mystery. Seduced yet? You should be. This is a lovely debut.”

  —Katie Crouch, New York Times bestselling author of Girls in Trucks and Abroad

  “It’s got Gainsbourg’s ‘Sea, Sex, and Sun’ plus red wine and betrayal— a compulsively readable debut about forever friendships that can’t last.”

  —Courtney Maum, bestselling author of I Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You

  “Losing the Light is a smart, sexy, thrilling novel. Andrea Dunlop’s debut brilliantly captures the tension and sharp edges of female friendships, infatuation, and life abroad. You will feel transported to France, as if you yourself are speaking French and drinking a little too much wine with your best friend and a dangerously handsome man.”

  —Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of One True Loves

  “Andrea Dunlop’s captivating debut ardently delivers the thrill and joy and exquisite pain of being young and in love: with a friend, with a lover, with a country, with a life, with the future. I felt myself twenty and in France with nothing but heady enchantment before me. Losing the Light is utterly transporting.”

  —Laurie Frankel, author of The Atlas of Love

  “This delicious literary indulgence is consuming and addictive . . . the perfect partner for every beach day this summer.”

  —Sunset

  “In Losing the Light, Andrea Dunlop takes readers on an intense, smart, sexy adventure, giving major The Talented Mr. Ripley vibes.”

  —Working Mother

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

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  For Derek.

  1

  * * *

  ARE YOU sure we should have come?” Nora whispered to her sister. “I feel like everyone is staring at us.”

  Liberty briefly considered telling her that perhaps the sky-high black patent-leather heels she was wearing, flashing their gaudy red soles as she walked, paired with her tight black dress and a pillbox hat with a veil—honestly, she looked like a 1940s mob widow—were not helping her be inconspicuous at the midwestern service. Though Nora had traveled the world, she remained in New York no matter her physical location. Her New York–ness wrapped around her like a protective gauze, even here at a funeral in the Grosse Pointe Memorial Church. The place was more beautiful, somehow, than Liberty had expected, with its white stone walls, Tudor arches, and ornate stained-glass windows. It felt at least a hundred years old. A comfort, somehow.

  “I should hope so,” Leo said, flashing a smile at an older woman who had her eyes glued to him as she passed the pew toward the back where the three Lawrence siblings had settled in, Liberty futilely hoping they could keep a low profile. “I mean, the day I don’t stand out from a crowd like this? Euthanasia, I beg you.” Leo was Nora’s twin (Leonardo and Leonora: they were named after royalty and so they behaved), though they hardly resembled each other.

  “Leo.” Liberty shot him a warning look.

  “A joke,” he whispered back. “Trying to lighten the mood.”

  “The mood is meant to be somber, Leo. Just . . . please.” Liberty wrapped her arms tighter around herself and faced forward.

  “Sorry. Jesus
.”

  “Is that her?” Nora said, leaning over Leo’s lap toward Liberty, who was sitting on the aisle.

  Liberty looked up as a young woman (she was twenty-three, the same age as the twins) walked by to the front pew that was reserved for family. Laila—their cousin, a stranger, the person they had come to see—seemed to be the only person in the church who hadn’t noticed the three of them. Though this was the first time they would meet, Liberty recognized her immediately. She was distinctive: petite and lovely, with green eyes and long red hair. She was fine-boned (as Liberty and her siblings were) and appeared delicate to the point of breakable against the backdrop of the sturdy midwesterners who surrounded her.

  “That’s her.”

  She clung to the arm of a tall, broad-shouldered man who was wearing a suit that appeared made for someone much smaller, the lip of his boxy white shirt peeking out from the bottom of his jacket as he moved—could this really be her boyfriend? He looked like a high school jock who’d gone to seed but had failed to notice. Laila appeared to be in a fog, eyes straight ahead as she made her way to the pew. Liberty wondered if she’d taken a sedative to get through her mother’s funeral. In her Internet scouring, she’d not been able to find much information on Laila. A Facebook profile, of course, and some photos of her on the website of a local high-end cosmetic dentist’s office. At first, Liberty thought she might be a model—and was struck by the irony of this, that her faraway midwestern cousin would be a model just as she and her own mother had been—but upon further inspection, it appeared that Laila worked at the office. They’d simply taken advantage of having such a comely staff member by putting her front and center on the website. She was not a dentist, it seemed; perhaps a hygienist or receptionist.

  “It’s so weird that they both went in car accidents, so many years apart,” Leo said. Their uncle—their father’s brother—had died thusly thirteen years before. The two families had grown up estranged from each other. Now Laila was an orphan.

  “Tragic,” Nora said. “Dickensian,” she added dramatically.

  “What is our actual plan here?” Leo asked. He was clearly losing patience with the whole idea, which at the outset, he’d found amusing enough. He was bored now and wanted to be back in Manhattan. Organ music boomed through the church and Liberty hushed her brother. The service was beginning.

  Betsy Lawrence was eulogized by her older sister, Jennifer, a short, round woman with whispers of Laila’s green-eyed wholesome prettiness. It was a strange speech, containing nothing specific about Betsy herself or what the world had lost in her passing. “ ‘The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable,’ ” she quoted from Corinthians. “ ‘It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.’ And so Betsy goes home to the Lord. I know my niece Laila wanted to speak about her mother today. I know she loved her dearly. But the shock . . . I’m afraid . . .” She was twisting a tissue in her hands and appeared overcome, standing at the pulpit as though she had no idea how she’d gotten there. After a moment, a man (her husband?) came to collect her, draping his arm around her and shepherding her off the stage. It was an odd moment, but then, it was a funeral. The Lawrence siblings had not been to many—only their grandmother’s and an older family friend or two.

  The service was brief, and before long, the organ was once again sounding its dirge, and people were standing up and filing out. Before Liberty could come up with a plan, the three of them were pulled along in a tide of people to the church basement where the reception was being held. It was an altogether more modern and sterile space than the grandeur of the hall above, fit for Sunday school and AA meetings. There was subdued string music playing, and officious church ladies were ferrying a large spread—tea, cookies, various hot dishes, and, mercifully, several bottles of wine. Now that the funeral-goers were no longer restrained by the pews, they gawked openly at the Lawrence siblings.

  “Is this the mom?” Nora said, picking up one of several framed photos arranged on the table closest to the door. The shot was of a young woman who, if not for the teased hair and color-block 1980s sweater, could have easily been mistaken for Laila.

  “Must be,” Liberty said. “God, Laila’s a dead ringer.”

  They made their way down the line of photos. Even Leo was hushed by seeing these images of the family that had been kept from them. Liberty felt tears coming to her eyes when she got to her aunt and uncle’s wedding photos from twenty-five years earlier. She could see so much of her father in his younger brother’s face, a man she’d supposedly met but had no clear memories of.

  Their father, Ben Lawrence, never spoke of his brother, Gregory. He’d been gone now thirteen years and all Liberty knew had been gleaned from the occasional overheard conversation in her childhood and what she could discover online, which was not much more than the basics: her uncle had owned a number of luxury car dealerships throughout Michigan, and he and his wife had one daughter, Laila, who was the same age as the twins. Liberty was seventeen when her uncle died; her father hadn’t been an especially warm man to begin with, and the death of his brother had made him even more remote, causing him to retreat further into his work. Repeated searches yielded little more, but Liberty set up a Google Alert with Laila’s name, which was how she’d discovered Betsy’s recent death. And that had brought them here.

  The three of them moved on to the food and drinks. Liberty poured red wine into the small, sad plastic cups for each of them. Nora examined the food from a distance, as though even coming near it might make her fat. There were piles of cookie bars with numerous layers and frostings, great platters of potato salad with what appeared to be hot dogs mixed in, several varieties of mac and cheese.

  “This is so weird,” Nora said, taking a sip of her wine and peering around at the men in their khakis and the women whose collective bulk was covered in many layers of scarves and cardigans. “It’s . . . America.”

  “Like a TLC show or something,” Leo added.

  Liberty rolled her eyes and just at that moment felt a hand on her elbow.

  “Excuse me?”

  She turned and the glassy green eyes of her cousin looked up at her. She was small, a half foot shorter than Liberty at least. There was something familiar about her still: the nose, the set of her eyes; she was a stranger, but she was their family.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Laila said hesitantly, “but who are you? This is my mother’s funeral.”

  Liberty felt sick to her stomach. A moment before, she’d been contemplating telling her siblings that they should just leave, get in touch later. But now it was too late for that.

  “Um . . . oh. I’m Liberty, and this is Leo and Nora.”

  Nora—who didn’t have good boundaries on her best day—flung herself at her unsuspecting cousin, who blankly accepted her into her arms. “You poor thing! We just had to come.”

  Liberty gently pulled her sister away from Laila, who was now smiling nervously.

  “Thank you.” She looked at them as though searching for clues. “But who are you? Why are you here?”

  The siblings quickly glanced at each other, amazed. Their names had triggered nothing; she knew even less than they did.

  “Well . . .” Liberty weighed the option of coming up with some alternate cover story so as not to distract from the occasion, which their visit seemed certain to do. She dismissed this. “We’re your cousins. Ben is our dad.”

  She looked incredulous. “Ben doesn’t have kids,” Laila said uncertainly, as if she was asking a question. For a moment the three siblings were quiet, because they hadn’t precisely been told about Laila either. Liberty had eavesdropped and eventually told the twins.

  “He does,” Leo said at last, his voice kind. “We’re them.”

  Laila continued to stare at them uncomprehendingly. A moment later, the man she was with—her fiancé, although their engagement was still a secret—appeared at her side. Liberty watched him subtly lock on her
brother as though thinking, Oh thank goodness, a man.

  “Nathan Jansen,” he said, introducing himself to Leo with a hearty handshake.

  “Leo Lawrence,” he smiled with relish as surprise came over the man’s pale features.

  “And I’m Nora Lawrence.”

  “Liberty,” she followed as Nathan’s eyes ricocheted over to her.

  “Lawrence? As in . . .” He looked over at Laila.

  “We’re her cousins,” Liberty said, feeling suddenly helpless.

  Laila turned to him, still bewildered. “I didn’t know.”

  Oh, why had they come? Liberty was mortified to ever be the cause of drama. And at a funeral! Tacky.

  “We just came to pay our respects, and actually, we’d probably better get going. Laila, you can call me anytime.” Liberty pressed a card into her hand, adding, “My cell is on there. And I would love to hear from you.” Liberty began to shepherd her siblings in the direction of the door.

  “Wait,” Laila said. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Atheneum.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you later, maybe,” Laila said, before being pulled away by funeral-goers who had been waiting nearby.

  “It is so messed up that her parents didn’t even tell her we existed.” Nora leaned her head wearily on her brother’s shoulder. They were fitted snuggly in the back of a town car, three across for the twenty-minute drive along the Lake Shore Road to their hotel.

  “Well, our parents didn’t tell us about her either, at least not willingly.”

  “Do you think Beau knows about her?”

  Liberty shrugged. Of the three of them, she was closest with their eldest half brother, Beau, but she didn’t hear from him for months at a time and hadn’t told him about their trip. He lived in Banff, a tiny town near Alberta, Canada.

  “Beau barely speaks to Dad, so I don’t know that he would have made the effort to get to know Laila even if he did. I’ll ask him whenever he reappears, though.”