by Sophie Davis
“Who do you know at The Pines?” Asher asked after several long, awkward moments.
My head whipped up. “What?”
Following Asher’s gaze, I realized the diary was sitting on my kitchen counter with the key card poking from between the pages. I could’ve sworn I put it back in the envelope.
“The Pines,” Asher repeated. He pulled the plastic card from the journal and held it up. “That place is really nice. Too rich for my blood.”
“The Pines is here? In D.C.?”
“Yeah, it’s newish. One of those state-of-the-art places: marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, bamboo floors, rooftop decks—the whole deal.”
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Florida and W area. Not far from here. You could walk if you wanted.”
I held out my hand, silently asking for the card back. “I found this, actually. I was going to return it tomorrow.”
As soon as I said it, I knew I’d walk over first thing in the morning. Though the key’s owner had probably ordered a new one already, she’d still want her journal returned.
“I don’t have plans, if you want company?” Asher offered.
I almost said yes, but decided against it. “Thanks, but I don’t want to put you out,” I replied.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
That I do, I thought with a smile. It was comforting to have a new friend in the city, particularly one who lived right downstairs.
By the time Asher left, I was exhausted. I also had a horrendous headache. Smacking my head twice on the trunk had probably given me a concussion. Stripping down to only my tank top and underwear, I climbed into bed with the journal.
Though I still thought reading it was intrusive, I wouldn’t be able to return it without finding out the owner’s identity. Also, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity. My hands shook slightly when I opened the journal, anticipating all the secrets I might learn about the mystery girl. I hesitated for a beat before turning past the cover page.
The loopy scrawl gave me a small amount of satisfaction—the journal’s owner was definitely female. There was a date in the top right corner of the first page, September 14, but no year. Two words stood out from the others, startling me so much that I dropped the journal. The leatherbound book landed on my stomach, cover still open.
The first entry was signed: Lark Kingsley. The missing girl from New York City. The one whose disappearance was national news.
Somehow, I had her diary.
Six
Lark
“Lark! What on earth are you doing?” My mother’s signature move—floating into a room with the grace of a ballerina—came to an abrupt halt when she saw the clothing strewn over my bedroom floor.
“Cleaning out my closet, Mother,” I replied, hiding a smile.
“Why can’t you just wait for the girl to decide?”
My mother had a “girl” for everything, and that was how she referred to them all. The one in question was the family stylist; she visited four times a year to sort through our clothing, remove pieces that couldn’t be carried forward, and add each season’s must-haves to our closets. When we’d first moved to Manhattan, having a family stylist had seemed fun. But after four years, the novelty had worn off, and it seemed wasteful. Not just paying someone to tell me what to wear, but buying a new wardrobe every three months. I loved shopping as much as the next girl, but I based my purchases on my own tastes, not what some designer decided deemed the next big “thing.”
“I’m de-cluttering, Mother,” I replied, after giving my mother adequate time to appraise the mess on the floor. “I can’t find anything in here.”
My answer wasn’t exactly truthful, but I knew it would get her off my back.
“Fine. I’ll have Jeanine pick this all up and send it to the indigents.”
A laugh burst forth from me, though I didn’t find her comment funny in the least.
“Seriously? Could you please not say things like that?”
My mother’s eyes rounded in her most innocent expression. “Like what, dear? The truth?”
“One of these days, the wrong person is going to hear you,” I snapped.
With a dismissive wave of her hand, my mother floated out of the room.
Turning back to my closet, I moved on to the formal-wear corner. The section was full of superfluous items, and I tossed gowns on the floor with a renewed vigor. It was considered unacceptable to wear a gown more than once, so most of the dresses could go. My gaze landed on the long black gown I’d worn to the Met Ball the previous year. Just the sight of it made me smile. With the memories it evoked, that dress was staying on the rack.
Stepping over the pile on the floor, I stroked the Met gown’s soft fabric and lost myself in thoughts of that night. The night I’d met Blake for the first time….
“What is this crap?” Taylor whined, holding up her champagne flute. She examined it with a critical eye, like the brand would be spelled out in the bubbles. “Donations must be down.”
Sipping from my own glass, I glanced around the room and started making up excuses for an early departure. But then, I spotted him. The instant his emerald eyes locked with mine, I forgot all the reasons I no longer wanted to be there. Taylor’s drunken complaining, the soft classical music, and even the flirtatious banter of a nearby couple ceased to exist. Time stood still, like he and I were the leads in a romantic comedy. He didn’t go to my school, I was sure of that. I was also sure I’d never seen him before. I’d have remembered those eyes.
Cam tugged on my arm. “Come on, I need something stronger than this if I’m going to listen to Taylor bitch all night.”
Though I let her pull me away from our friends, my gaze kept flitting back to the one guy who stood out in a sea of matching tuxedos.
Go say hi. Talk to him.
I didn’t dare. My parents were somewhere at the party. If my mother caught me talking to an unfamiliar guy—she surely knew everyone worth knowing—she’d interfere with the conversation and embarrass me in the process.
Nonetheless, his gaze was like a magnet that kept pulling my attention toward him. Even as I smiled for pictures, sipped pilfered champagne, and chatted with my friends, I felt his draw. Every time my companions’ focus strayed from me, I stole glances at the gorgeous guy I could only talk to in my daydreams.
Just when I’d started to relax, thanks to the glass of scotch Ilan procured for me, I caught my mother staring at me disapprovingly. With one heavily jeweled hand, she beckoned me.
“Be right back,” I groaned to my friends, not bothering to hide my irritation.
Annie offered me a sympathetic smile but didn’t offer to accompany me. Like the rest of the Eight, she was trying to stay off her parents’ radar that evening.
“Lark, darling,” my mother greeted me, leaning in for an air kiss. While close, she whispered in a tone dripping with artificial sweetness, “You caught the light a moment ago and nearly blinded me. Visit the ladies’ room, sweetie. Use your compact.” She laughed as though we’d just shared a joke, and several of the other parents smiled.
You are so fake, I thought. Nodding curtly, I headed for a hallway in the corner that led to the restrooms. If she’d known her snide suggestion would change the course of my life, perhaps my mother would have held her tongue.
When I exited the ladies’ room five minutes later, the guy with emerald eyes was waiting at the end of the hall. Leaning casually against a small table holding a vase of red roses, hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks, he straightened when I emerged.
“Care to dance?” he called.
After blinking several times, the damn contacts began to swim in my eyes.
Is he talking to me? I wondered.
A quick survey of the empty hallway gave me confidence. Emboldened by the bubbly, and still miffed at my mother for calling me out, I didn’t hesitate.
“Love to.”
“Good,” he responded
with all the confidence in the world.
I smiled when he offered me an arm.
Blake led me to the dance floor just as a legendary singer took the stage. The opening notes of a ballad broke the crowd’s silent anticipation. Blake stopped in the center of the floor and turned to face me. His grin was infectious, and I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. He placed one hand gently on the small of my back and locked the other with mine. An unfamiliar chill traveled down my spine.
He’s even more gorgeous up close, I thought. Leaning into him, I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me.
We didn’t speak while we danced. That should’ve been weird, but the silence was comfortable, like we’d known each other for years instead of minutes. When the singer seamlessly transitioned into the next song, Blake didn’t move away. So, neither did I. At one point, he pulled back slightly to meet my eyes, his smile replaced by a contemplative expression. The intensity simmering between us made my heart beat just a little faster.
The corners of his mouth slowly curved up. He pulled me gently back into his embrace, closer than before. We swayed for another song, my brain wondering who this guy was while the rest of me leaned against him contentedly. How could I possibly feel this comfortable with someone I’d barely spoken to? There were all of six words between us. Closing my eyes, I cast the thoughts aside and relished the sparks that came with his touch.
The rock legend left the stage to thunderous applause. When a popstar took his place, the mood changed instantly. With a questioning look, Blake gestured to the side of the polished oak dance floor. I nodded and let him lead me away. With his fingers interlaced with mine, everything else blurred into the background—the crowds of elegantly dressed socialites, the music pounding through the speakers, or the way my mother watched me curiously. Just as he was turning to me, gesturing to a vacant table, someone caught my other hand and yanked.
“Oh, thank the heavens!” Taylor shouted, pulling me to her. Without thinking, I dropped the guy’s hand, instantly missing the warmth. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Allister is being a total cad. And Cam is drunk and crying over—oh, who cares. Let’s dance!”
Taylor’s sudden appearance shattered the illusion. Our world of two was gone, replaced by a crowd of people. Taylor dragged me back to the center of the dance floor, where Annie, Ilan and a group of Gracen’s junior class were already bouncing to the beat. When I looked over my shoulder, Blake was gone. Searching the crowd, I saw no trace of his handsome features and bright green eyes.
He was here…right? He was real?
Was I so desperate for a break from my life that I’d conjured the guy in my head?
My skin still tingled where he’d held me. I could feel his warm fingers threaded through mine.
Real, I decided.
Not even my wildest fantasies made me feel so alive.
“Lark, your appointment is in thirty minutes. Shall I order you a car?” Sirius’s question pulled me from the memory.
I was losing too much time in my mental wanderings. Frequently. Setting reminders and keeping detailed notes were the only things keeping me on track at all. Leaving a virtual trail of my life was risky, but it was a risk I’d have to take.
“Yes, please,” I told my virtual helper. “Order one through the X-Pedite app,” I added quickly, not wanting him to make the mistake of calling one of our family drivers.
“Pick up at Home Address?”
“No, use Address Two,” I instructed. “Thank you, Sirius.”
With one last, lingering touch of the black gown, I began shoving the clothes on my closet floor into tote bags. The haul was larger than I’d expected.
Good, I thought. I need the money.
To avoid both questions and security cameras, I used the service elevator and left through the back exit. The car was already waiting in the alley that ran behind our building. The driver hurried out of the car to help me with my bags.
“Want these in the back? Or with you?” he asked.
I glanced around nervously. “Um, the back is fine, thanks.”
“You got it.”
We loaded everything into the back of the black SUV, then climbed in.
“I have an address in Brooklyn? Park Slope? Is that correct?”
“Yep, that’s right,” I confirmed.
Once we started moving, I slumped against the leather upholstery and sighed in relief.
Phase one complete, I thought.
“Your boss must be loaded.”
“Huh?”
In the rearview mirror, the driver met my gaze and nodded to the bags of clothing. According to the app on my phone, his name was Delon.
“Anyone who can afford to give away that much crap must have money to burn,” he said.
“Oh, yeah. The family is pretty well off,” I replied.
He thinks I’m a housekeeper. I had to suppress a giggle. At least my blending skills were improving, if nothing else.
The driver navigated the SUV into a line of traffic with the practiced skill of a professional. “I used to cover the door at a building like the one you work in.”
“Why did you switch careers? Rude tenants?”
Delon laughed. “Believe it or not, I make three times as much driving. And I work half as much.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah. Crazy, huh? Plus, I get to make my own hours, so I never miss my little girl’s games.” He eased the car to a stop at a traffic light, and turned to smile at me over his broad shoulder. “Guess you’re a little young to worry about that, huh?”
My shrug was noncommittal. “How old is your daughter?”
Delon steered the car onto the bridge. “Twelve. She plays basketball. She’s good, too. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my little girl. Carolena—that’s her name—never misses a foul shot, and her three-point game is strong.”
Talking to people outside the bubble of the Upper East Side made me feel more connected to the real world. I smiled wistfully. The pride in his voice when he spoke about his daughter was enviable.
Has my father ever been that proud of me? I wondered. My mother certainly never was. She never would be, either.
“I used to play, in college,” the driver continued.
“Yeah? Were you any good?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Not as good as I thought I was. But hey, at least playing ball, I could eat whatever I wanted.” He patted his stomach. “Now, one slice of my wife’s blueberry pie, and I can’t button my pants. And she makes the best blueberry pie.”
Smiling at Delon, I tried to recall if my mother had ever baked anything in her life.
He pulled to a stop and turned on the flashers. “I can wait, if you like?” Delon offered.
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” I told him. Then, with an exaggerated eye roll, I added, “I have no idea how long this might take.”
My phone was in my hand, and I pressed the button to complete the transaction, including a sizeable tip and five-star rating for the driver. Gathering my bags, I climbed out of the SUV and called, “Thanks for the ride, Delon. Have a good one.”
Couture Closet was the secondhand store—the shop for those wanting a designer wardrobe on an upper-middleclass salary. It had a cool, modern ambiance with bright overhead recessed lighting, racks between wide walkways, and mannequins wearing everything from vintage Gautier to the latest Prada. Bypassing a display of handbags, I made my way to the rear of the store.
An alcove in the back was secluded from the rest of the shop. Sliding them down my shoulders one at a time, I heaved the bags of clothing onto the counter. A young girl who looked to be in her mid-twenties stood on the other side of the divide, her dark ponytail bouncing and shiny. Her eyes widened as she took in all the totes.
“Um, give me one sec, okay? I think Cynthia should probably be here for this,” she said, already turning to the curtain divider behind her. “Cynth?” she called, holding one side of the vel
vet drapes open. “We need you out here.”
An older woman with lines around her eyes emerged from the back, silver glasses perched upon her sharp nose. She took one look at me and quickly straightened her top, hands absently pushing stray hairs back into her chignon.
“Oh, you’re back, dear! How wonderful! That pink Chanel bag was snatched up the same day I put it on display. I hope you have some more gems for me!”
Smiling warmly, I offered her my hand.
“It’s wonderful to see you again, Cynthia. I’m so pleased someone liked that bag,” I replied nonchalantly, setting the last tote on the countertop.
Cynthia took the cue and dispensed with small talk.
Good, I thought, eager to complete the transaction as quickly as possible.
“Let’s see what you have, dear.” She reached for one of the bags and began pulling out the garments. I could practically see the dollar signs in her eyes as she fingered a black leather moto jacket that I’d only worn once. “Is this…?”
She checked the tag for the brand. “It is.” Cynthia laid the jacket aside, running her fingers over the soft leather before picking up a Temperley London dress. She beamed at me. “We are so happy to take these off your hands.”
I bet you are, I thought. My pleasant smile was pasted on.
“Why don’t you look around while I catalogue your items?”
“Um, sure. Just let me know when you’re ready for me,” I replied.
I wandered the aisles, hands trailing over sumptuous fabrics, and thought about where these clothes had been. Who’d owned them? Why’d they sell them? And who dropped $17,000 on that couture gown? The beading was beautiful, but the cut would only be flattering on a moose.
When the young brunette peeked her head around the corner, I’d already done two laps.
“We’re ready for you…miss,” she called.
I’d withheld my name on purpose, despite Cynthia’s attempts to get it out of me.
Returning to the alcove, all my garments were spread across the counter. My gaze fixed on the cashmere sweater I’d worn on my third date with Blake.
