by Sara Shepard
Rowan sniffed. “Please. All the men are just watching tennis.”
James leaned against the sink and made a face. “Have you ever hung out with Mason for any length of time? He’s the biggest princess of them all.” Then he picked up a remote sitting on the edge of the soaking tub and pointed it at a small TV in the corner. “And anyway, we get the match in here too.”
The French Open appeared on the screen. Rowan remained planted in the middle of the bathroom, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. Though she saw James regularly, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d been alone together.
They’d become friends at Columbia, when they lived on the same floor freshman year. Rowan’s father had offered to buy her an apartment, but she liked the idea of being like everyone else, even opting for a double instead of a single. She’d spent most of the time in James’s dorm room, playing video games and chatting about the people in their building, especially the girls. They’d stayed on for graduate programs at Columbia, James for business school—he had always wanted to be an entrepreneur—and Rowan for law. They had a standing Monday-night dinner date at a Mexican dive on Broadway with spicy guacamole. On weekends, they played pool at SoHa, the dingy bar on Amsterdam whose bartenders made potent Long Island iced teas. As usual, Rowan had fallen into her role as the perennial guy’s girl, James’s wingwoman. Plenty of times Rowan had consoled James’s date at the end of the evening when she caught James making out with someone new in the unisex bathroom.
“You’re such a dog,” Rowan had always teased him over brunch on Sunday mornings. To which James just shrugged and bared his teeth. “Woof.”
Now James stared at the mini TV over the tub. It was the third set, the match tied. “Okay, Saybrook,” he began, pointing at the screen. “Djokovic or Federer?”
Rowan swallowed hard. It was an old game they used to play—one of them would name two people, and the other would have to pick which they’d have sex with. Sometimes it had been a geek showdown, like Sylvia Plath versus Emily Dickinson, or Shakespeare’s Iago versus Oberon from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Other times they named people in their lives—Veronica, the busty registrar, or Colette, the waifish French exchange student. More often than not, James would actually go home with the hot exchange student.
Sometimes Rowan thought James had forgotten their old friendship entirely, now that he was married to Poppy. Although maybe he didn’t want to remember part of it—especially the part about all the girls. James had reformed for Poppy. Poppy was much too beautiful and perfect for anything less. Any guy would fall in line for her.
Rowan looked at the players on either side of the court. “Federer for sure,” she decided. “Djokovic is too cocky.”
“Tall, dark, and European. I like it.” James tilted his head down, his expression mock-serious. “So tell me: Who do you have on tap these days?”
Rowan pretended to rub out an invisible water spot from the sink. “I plead the Fifth. I’ve already been asked that question a few too many times today.”
James sank down to the edge of the tub. “You have to give people a chance, Saybrook. Actually go out with someone more than once.”
“I go out,” Rowan insisted.
“I know you do.” James laid his hands in his lap. “But who have you actually liked?”
Rowan stared intensely at the TV screen, trying to recall the last time she’d gone out with someone consistently. Someone she’d actually felt something for.
“See? You can’t even remember.” James playfully nudged her calf with his toe. “They can’t all be like me, you know,” he said, spreading his arms wide and giving her a boyish grin.
Rowan froze. He was kidding, wasn’t he? Her pulse thudded in her palms.
Five years ago, when they were at SoHa just before finals, James had taken a deep breath and looked at Rowan over his beer. “So, Saybrook. I was thinking about checking out this Meriweather place you always talk about.”
“Oh?” Rowan cocked her head. “Do you want to visit? There’s room.”
“Actually . . .” James fiddled with the straw in his drink. “I rented a place on Martha’s Vineyard. For the whole summer.”
“What?” Rowan blurted.
James’s gaze bored into her. “Yeah, I was thinking it would be nice to hang out together outside the library or dive bars.”
His eyes and smile were so damn dangerous, instantly sucking her in. But Rowan knew what he was like. She’d seen him work his magic on other women. And yet when he looked at her, she was just as weak as all the rest. That night, when she went home, she fantasized about the shape their summer would take. The meals they’d cook, the things they’d talk about, the family members he’d meet. And then . . . what? After hours and hours of talking and laughing, in that beautiful setting, with the stars twinkling all around them, what would happen next?
She knew it wasn’t wise to think that way. She was being naive, one of the many pitiful girls who fell under James’s spell. She was afraid of her feelings for James, mostly because of how strong they were. But there was such a big if. If James felt the same way, well . . .
She’d thrown him a party the night he arrived. All the cousins, even Natasha, lined up in the foyer to greet him. Poppy strode up first and extended her hand. “Rowan has told me so much about you,” she gushed. “I’m her cousin, Poppy Saybrook.”
“Another Saybrook,” James had said, smiling that wolfish smile, his eyes skimming her up and down. It was the same thing he’d done to countless girls in Rowan’s presence, but something inside Rowan still lurched. He wasn’t supposed to do that here, to her cousin.
That night James gave a toast on the patio, thanking everyone for giving him such a warm welcome, especially his “best friend, Saybrook.” Every time she turned around, he was chatting with Poppy, and soon she realized that he wasn’t just being polite. Rowan had to duck behind the bar that had been set up on the edge of the patio to collect herself, feeling that infrequent hot sting behind her eyes. She felt so blindsided. And stupid. To make matters worse, she felt someone staring at her from the other side of the yard. It was Natasha. Her gaze slid from Rowan to Poppy and James—as if she had it all figured out.
Knowing she was going to lose it, Rowan had retreated to a bedroom, sat down on the bed, and stared at the diamond-printed wallpaper, seeking refuge—much as she was now, in James and Poppy’s powder room.
Blinking the memory away, Rowan turned to James and tsked. “If you keep saying things like that, I’m going to have to hide from you too.” She opened the door. “C’mon. We’d better join the royal court.”
The party had moved into the dining room. Streamers and glittering tiaras surrounded the tiered buttercream-frosting cake on the table. Corinne’s mother was placing three little candles in the center, and all the young mothers stood around, oohing and ahhing. Aster had finally appeared, looking tired but still managing a smile. Rowan looked around for Poppy and found her standing in the corner with Mason. Mason’s face was red, and Poppy’s mouth drawn. Rowan had never seen them argue—since Poppy’s parents died, Mason had taken her under his wing, much as Candace and Patrick had, treating her like a third daughter.
They were talking so heatedly that Poppy seemed oblivious to the cake lighting. More important, she didn’t seem to notice that Rowan had just come out of the bathroom with her husband.
But someone else had noticed. Natasha stood at the end of the hall, her head cocked, her gaze squarely on Rowan’s face. She raised one eyebrow, just as knowingly as she had that night Poppy and James met. Rowan looked away, watching James kiss his beaming daughter on the cheek.
They can’t all be like me. Little did James know how true that was. She’d known James for nearly fifteen years, and she’d loved him every minute.
4
A few days later, Aster sat down in her parents’ Upper East Side town house for the dreaded but obligatory weekly Wednesday dinner. The enormous table in the baroque-style dining
room was set for twelve, with silver candlesticks in the center. The high-backed mahogany chairs were so huge and heavy they could have served as kings’ thrones. The blocky mahogany china cabinet, an heirloom from the eighteenth century, took up a whole wall and bore priceless Sèvres plates, artifacts from her parents’ world travels, and a silver tea set that had once belonged to a queen. There were lots of portraits of dead relatives, landscapes showing a foxhunt on the moors, and a huge painting of Edith and Alfred with their young children, standing on their staircase. On the top step were Mason and Lawrence, Poppy’s dad, both with slicked hair; then Rowan’s father, Robert, and Natasha’s mother, Candace, at the bottom. Candace, probably no more than four at the time, struggled to hold Grace, a fat, grumpy-looking baby. Years ago Aster had loved this room, and made up stories about the people in the paintings and the previous owners of the artifacts. She would tell tales to her father over breakfast in the morning. He always listened attentively, and laughed at all the right parts. “Maybe you’ll be an author someday, Aster,” he’d tell her.
“Thank you so much, Esme,” Penelope Saybrook murmured as their private chef placed a roasted chicken in a red wine reduction next to a platter of grilled asparagus and Brussels sprouts. As usual, Aster’s mother stood, rearranged some of the garnishes, and added a dash of pepper to the bird. You don’t get to pretend you cooked it just by playing with the pepper, Aster thought.
“Yes, thank you, Esme,” Corinne echoed. Dixon, who was sitting next to her, nodded his thanks, and Poppy, who was next to Mason, smiled sweetly. Ever since Poppy’s parents died, she’d had a standing invitation to dinner. Sometimes Aster wondered if Poppy’s recent closeness to Mason stemmed from her father’s survivor’s guilt; he was supposed to have been on the plane that killed Poppy’s parents. Usually Poppy brought James and the kids, but today she had come alone. She’d brought with her a homemade strawberry pie, using the berries she’d picked the previous week during a visit to her family’s rural estate in western Massachusetts. Only Poppy, who probably worked twenty-three hours a day, could also find time to bake a pie.
“You rock, Esme!” Aster yelled enthusiastically, adjusting the strap of her jacquard bustier top. Her father eyed it disapprovingly. Whatever—everyone and her grandmother were wearing bustiers these days. Well, except Corinne, who sort of looked like a grandmother in a Wedgwood-blue sleeveless silk dress and Mikimoto pearl earrings.
Aster eyed her sister across the table. Corinne hadn’t even glanced in her direction yet, and Aster certainly wasn’t going to make the first move. Her gaze then wandered to another portrait on the wall, this one taken about ten years ago. It was of herself, Corinne, Poppy, and all the other first cousins, including Rowan’s brothers and Aunt Grace’s young sons, Winston and Sullivan, who lived in California with the now-divorced Grace. Natasha was there too, front and center.
Just looking at Natasha irritated Aster. The girl had acted like their best friend for years, hogging the spotlight, begging them to come to every school play she was in, even once dragging Aster to accompany her to an open-call Broadway audition when they were both fourteen years old. And then, suddenly, she just . . . didn’t need them anymore. Aster still couldn’t believe Natasha was in Corinne’s wedding; Poppy had somehow talked her into it.
“Is that blood?” Aster’s grandmother Edith asked, pulling her mink stole tighter around her shoulders—she never took it off, even though it was uncharacteristically warm for May. Her white hair was slicked back from her face, showing off her good bone structure, the high cheekbones and tiny pert nose that Aster had thankfully inherited. Jessica, the personal-assistant-slash-nurse who accompanied Edith everywhere, leaned over to examine the plate.
Mason, who was thinner now that he was working out with a personal trainer, inspected it as well. “No, Mother,” he said wearily.
“It’s just the sauce,” Poppy added helpfully, taking a bite. “See? Yum.”
Edith considered it for a moment, probably only because Poppy was her favorite granddaughter and she hated to disappoint her. Finally she pushed the plate away. “Well, this is too undercooked for my liking.” She looked accusingly at Penelope, just as she always did when she found fault in something in her daughter-in-law’s house. Penelope snapped for the chef, who rushed to take Edith’s plate away. “I’ll have a soft-boiled egg in an egg cup, please,” Edith brayed loudly.
After the offending chicken was gone, Corinne cleared her throat. “So I checked the registry, and a lot of people have donated to City Harvest.”
“That’s wonderful, dear,” Edith said approvingly.
Aster took a fresh roll and bit into it. It was warm and flaky from the oven, and tasted like butter. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t register for gifts,” she said between mouthfuls.
Corinne moved her chin to the right, her gaze on her mother. “We’ve raised almost ten thousand dollars,” she went on, as though Aster hadn’t spoken. “And I’m sure we’ll get much more.”
“You could’ve gotten some amazing stuff from Bendel’s, Barneys, ABC Carpet . . . ,” Aster continued.
Edith wiped her mouth. “It’s very respectable to ask for charitable donations, Aster.”
Aster wrinkled her nose, wondering if she’d been switched at birth. When she was little, she used to have fantasies that her real parents were actual rock stars. Like Keith Richards—Aster had seen an amazing photo shoot of his family in St. Barts in last month’s Vanity Fair. They knew how to party.
She peered questioningly at Dixon across the table. Corinne’s fiancé was wearing a boring gray business suit, but Aster had always liked Dixon—he had a cute Texas accent, he and his friends were usually game for late nights, and he could turn anything into a drinking game. Surely he’d want presents. But he just shrugged. “I don’t care what we do, as long as we still go on the honeymoon.”
“Where are you going again?” Aster asked.
Dixon brightened. “Safari. But also Cape Town. I’ve already got tickets to a football match.”
“That sounds amazing,” Poppy said warmly.
Corinne’s fork scraped noisily across her plate. “I’m going to meet with my contacts in Cape Town and visit a few of the mines,” she added, still to her parents. She must have caught Aster rolling her eyes, because she sighed loudly. “What?”
Aster blinked, surprised at Corinne’s break in demeanor. “Are you seriously going to work on your honeymoon?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Dixon said, raising a glass.
Corinne shot him a look. “Don’t agree with her!”
“Girls!” Mason blustered. He looked at Poppy helplessly. “I apologize on my family’s behalf.”
“Oh, stop,” Poppy said, swatting him playfully. Aster felt the teensiest stab of jealousy. Poppy had always been close with Aster’s family, but ever since her parents’ death, she had become Mason’s favorite—a spot Aster used to hold, once upon a time.
Then Aster’s cell, which sat on the table next to her, chirped to indicate a new text from Clarissa: We’re heading to PH-D after this. Aster gritted her teeth. They were all at dinner at Catch without her, probably drinking her favorite lavender-and-yuzu martini. Be there in an hour, Aster furiously typed back.
It’s a theme night, Clarissa replied. Trashy housewives. I’m wearing my leather minidress.
Aster caught her breath in excitement. She lived for theme nights. She was so excited that she didn’t even call Clarissa out on the fact that the dress in question was actually hers; Clarissa had just never returned it. Awesome, she wrote back. Too cray-cray if i stuff my bikini top?
“Aster,” her mother said sharply. “Don’t text at dinner.”
“One sec.” The cell chimed again. No, go for it! Clarissa wrote back.
I’m thinking Missoni bikini, white cutoff jeans, and wedges. And maybe hair extensions? Aster typed quickly.
“Aster.” Mason slammed his hand down on the table. When Aster looked up, her father’s eyes wer
e steely and cold. “Put. The phone. Away.”
Aster slipped the phone back into her bag. Get over yourselves, she wanted to say. All of you.
When Aster was a little girl, everyone told her that she was lucky to be an heiress, and that her life would be extraordinary. She had a floor-through playroom, a rotating staff of nannies, and private planes. But being an heiress also meant fitting a specific mold—one to which Aster could never quite adhere.
When she was eight years old and their second cousin Madeleine got married, Aster had been the flower girl in the wedding. She would never forget how she had complained to her mother that her white patent leather shoes were hurting. “Can’t I wear something else?” she’d begged. “No, Aster,” her mother had hissed, her lips pursed in frustration. “No one ever said this would be easy.” “No one ever said what would be easy?” Aster had asked—but Penelope was already sweeping out of the room, rolling her eyes. “Being an heiress, silly,” Corinne answered from the corner, doing pirouettes in the narrow white shoes that didn’t seem to bother her at all.
It had been Mason who came to Aster’s rescue at that wedding, pulling her into his lap at the dinner and feeding her an extra slice of cake when Penelope wasn’t looking. “What your mother means, Aster,” he tried to explain, “is that being an heiress isn’t always easy. There are good parts, and there are bad parts.”
“Do I have to be an heiress?” Aster had asked.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mason had said, and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You’re a Saybrook.”
There are good parts, and there are bad parts. Aster just hadn’t realized that the bad parts would often outweigh the good—and that her once-beloved father would turn out to be the worst of it. She met his eyes across the table and felt herself flush with anger. He had no right to be angry with her, not after what he had done to this family. Not after all these years of Aster keeping his secret.
“Aster, I need to speak to you,” Mason said, staring at her as if he’d been witness to her thoughts. “Let’s go to my office,” he added, and stood up.
