by Sara Shepard
Elizabeth slammed down a pile of papers, picked up a coffee flask, and thrust it into Aster’s face. “Skinny latte, no foam, and a gluten-free muffin from the bakery on the corner of Greenwich and Harrison.”
Aster stared at the mug. “You want me to get you coffee?”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “There are a lot of qualified girls who actually want this position. Not socialites with daddies who get them jobs. If you aren’t here to work, please see yourself out.”
Aster wanted nothing more than to go home and spend the rest of her life under her Frette duvet. But something kept her from moving. She was already here. She’d gotten up early, faced the painful memories of Poppy and the surprise appearance of Danielle Gilchrist, and she was still standing. She thought of Poppy, who had been so certain she would succeed. “You’re smart, Aster,” Poppy had said after Mason cut her off. “Smarter than you give yourself credit for. You can do great things, I just know it.”
“I’m staying,” Aster said firmly.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and offered a quick nod. “Fine.” Then she whipped around, shoved past Aster, and walked down the hall again. Halfway down, she swung back and stared at her. “Are you coming?”
Aster blinked in confusion, holding up the carafe. “What about your coffee?”
“After,” Elizabeth snapped.
She led Aster into a tiny cubicle with a low desk and a dusty computer. A tall, lanky guy with unkempt hair and Clark Kent–style glasses was typing something and squinting at the monitor. Aster wondered if she’d have to sit on his lap.
Elizabeth glowered at him. “You’re not done yet, Mitch?”
The guy scooted forward on the chair. “The server’s acting weird again.”
Elizabeth pressed her hand to her forehead, then looked at Aster. “Well, when he’s done, I want you to start on this.” She gestured to a large pile of papers on the edge of Aster’s desk.
Aster lifted the cover sheet and stared at a page. It was a list of names, addresses, phone numbers, and other pertinent information. “What is it?”
“Our client list. I’m going to need you to manually enter it into Excel.” She frowned at Aster’s blank stare. “You do know how to use Excel, right?”
“Of course she does,” the IT guy said quickly. Aster whipped around and stared at him. She’d never actually used Excel, but she knew better than to admit that now.
Elizabeth marched back into the hall. “Don’t go into my office when I’m not there. And don’t ever call me. IMs only, got it?”
Aster blinked. “Pardon?”
Elizabeth sighed. “Mitch, please explain to the heiress how a computer works.” Then she eyed Aster ominously. “Girls like you always get what’s coming to them in the end,” she added before turning on her heel. Aster winced at the sound of her door slamming down the hall.
“Wow. She just went all evil Disney villainess on you.” Mitch, the IT guy, turned and faced Aster. He had brown eyes, blondish hair, and a cute bump on the end of his nose. Unlike everyone else at Saybrook’s, he wore Vans sneakers and no tie.
“Wait, I know you!” Aster cried. “I met you at last year’s Christmas party, didn’t I?” The company Christmas party was usually boring, but Aster remembered that last year she’d flirted with a cute geek. This cute geek.
“Good memory.” Mitch’s eyes lit up. “Welcome to the company. And”—he paused to cough into his fist—“I’m sorry about your cousin. She was well liked around here.”
“Did you know her?”
“A little.” Mitch shrugged. “She was nice to me. Some people brush off tech guys.” He cocked his head, shifted his gaze, and pointed dramatically at the door to Elizabeth’s office.
Aster riffled through the papers on the edge of her desk. The stack was thicker than a phone book. “Do I do this before I get her coffee, or after?”
“Definitely get the coffee first. That inputting will take days.” Mitch stepped closer. “Excel is a spreadsheet program, by the way. It’s not hard to figure out. I can help, if you want.”
“Thanks,” Aster said, trying to smile. But she felt tears at the corner of her eyes. She was so out of her element.
“Hey.” Mitch sidled closer. He smelled like laundry detergent and lemon. “You’ll be fine. Seriously, I can help with anything technical. I’m pretty good with this stuff,” he added shyly.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Aster took a deep breath and turned toward the hall. “Okay, I’m off to get the coffee.”
“Good luck,” Mitch called out behind her. Aster sighed. She had a feeling she’d need it.
HALF AN HOUR and a coffee spill later, Aster raced back into the Saybrook’s building and up to the ninth floor. There wasn’t a bakery at Greenwich and Harrison, but Aster had found one at Greenwich and King that seemed cute. Hopefully it was the one Elizabeth had meant.
She knocked on Elizabeth’s office door and, when no one answered, tentatively pushed it open. The office was empty. She quickly set the latte and muffin down on the desk and was turning to go when an image on Elizabeth’s bookshelf caught her eye. It was a framed photo of Elizabeth in a wedding dress—which seemed odd, since Aster could have sworn she hadn’t been wearing a ring earlier.
She stepped forward to examine the photo more closely. Elizabeth looked much younger, her skin smooth and her eyes unlined. Next to her was the groom, a tall man with slicked-back dark hair, an impish smile, and broad shoulders.
Aster’s blood turned to ice. She knew that man. It was Steven Barnett.
This was why Elizabeth seemed familiar. Aster had always known Steven was married, to someone named Betsy . . . which was, of course, a nickname for Elizabeth. Elizabeth—Betsy—had surely been at the end-of-year party five years ago too. The one where he had died. The one where he was last seen alone on the beach with Aster.
“Ahem. What did I say about coming into my office when I’m not here?”
Elizabeth stood behind Aster in the doorway, glaring. Aster quickly took a step back. “Um, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and turned awkwardly on her heel, but not before she saw Elizabeth’s eyes flit to the wedding photo.
As she raced down the hall, she swore she heard Elizabeth chuckle ever so softly behind her.
10
After work a few days later, Corinne sat on the Louis XIV settee in the living room of her Upper East Side apartment. The settee was a period piece with intricate carvings on the arms and legs and brand-new camel-hair upholstery, but it wasn’t entirely comfortable. It came from Dixon’s great-grandmother, who had been French nobility and whom the family called grand-mère. Plenty of the other chairs and sofas in the large room were from the Saybrook side, along with a treasure trove of Tiffany lamps, botanical etchings, a Monet watercolor, and a vast collection of valuable porcelain and glass. Dixon wanted a picture of his family’s Texas ranch in the room too, but Corinne’s decorator, Yves, had insisted that the painting would ruin the room’s nineteenth-century ambience.
Evan Pierce sat opposite her, a large leather binder in her lap. “So we’ve got hydrangeas and peonies for the altar,” she repeated.
“That’s right,” Corinne answered, crossing her bare legs, which looked pale and cellulite-y next to Evan’s smooth, whip-thin ones. “And I want to add lilies to the tables.”
“Poppy’s favorite.” Evan sighed, tucking a black lock behind her ear and marking it down in the book in her spiky handwriting. Even though Poppy and Evan’s friendship was one she had never quite understood, Corinne found comfort in knowing that Evan had been close to Poppy too.
Today Evan wore a large platinum ring with a huge onyx stone. Corinne wondered who had given it to her. She wondered about Evan a lot, actually. She imagined her apartment as a movie set from the future, all white and hard lines. And what was it like to be so very single? Evan dated a lot, typically older men with a lot of money, but it was usually Evan who broke things off. And there was something about the way Evan moved, all slinky
like a cat, that made Corinne think she was a ravenous lover.
“And you’re choosing the wine tonight?” Evan said, still looking at her list. “The chef from Coxswain will meet you there.”
Corinne’s stomach lurched. Evan had arranged for a tasting at the St. Regis, where Will was friendly with the master sommelier.
“That’s the plan,” Corinne said shakily, then cleared her throat. “Actually, I’m wondering why you chose Coxswain.”
Evan frowned. “It’s the restaurant to watch. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am,” Corinne said quickly. “I just . . .”
She trailed off. What on earth could she say? I don’t want to use this restaurant because I had a secret fling five years ago with the chef? It wasn’t like Evan knew. Poppy would never have told her what happened.
Dixon strode into the room, freshly showered from the gym and with a fluffy white towel slung over his shoulders. His skin smelled like Kiehl’s men’s products, and his hair was slicked off his face. “Hey, lovely ladies,” he crooned.
“I’m off,” Evan said, leaping up. She kissed Corinne’s cheek, then Dixon’s, and strode toward the foyer. In moments, the front door slammed.
Dixon opened the media console and grabbed the remote from inside. After checking the markets on CNBC, he switched it to the World Series of Poker, which had been his favorite show since his fraternity days. “So listen. I’m really sorry, but I can’t make it to the tasting tonight.”
Corinne stared at him. “What? Why?”
“One of our deals went south. I have to make some calls, put out some fires.”
Her thoughts scattered like marbles. “Can’t someone else do it?” She wanted Dixon to come as a buffer with Will. She needed him to.
Dixon looked torn. “Babe, I’m sorry, but I’ll make it up to you. What’s the next appointment? Florist? Designer? I’ll try on your dress for you if you want.”
“I already had my final fitting.” Corinne pouted, not wanting to joke right then. She almost thought she might cry. She couldn’t go to this alone. She just couldn’t. And worse, she couldn’t even explain to Dixon why she couldn’t.
Dixon inspected her face. “What’s the matter?”
Corinne pressed her lips tightly together. Maybe she could tell him. It had happened so long ago; surely he’d had flings during that year too. But what if telling him meant explaining everything else?
“Why did you break up with me that summer?” she blurted. Then she blinked, surprised it had come out of her mouth.
Dixon lowered the remote. “Where’d that come from?”
Corinne kept her eyes on the carpet. “Well, I was just wondering. We never really talked about it, and we’re about to get married.”
She knew what she was doing. Seeing Will had stirred up a lot of memories, most of them unpleasant. She wanted to find a way to rewrite history, to twist things around until Dixon was responsible for everything that went wrong. If he hadn’t broken up with me, I never would have met Will. If he’d answered my calls, my life wouldn’t have gone so wildly off course. It wasn’t fair. She knew that. What she’d done with Will had been her decision—including the aftermath.
Dixon stretched his arms behind his head. “I don’t know if it’s worth dwelling on, to be honest.”
“Fine,” she said haughtily, and plunged her hand into her handbag to get her Mrs. John L. Strong leather-bound day planner—she needed to enter the new appointments she and Evan had just discussed. She hadn’t even had a chance to pencil in today’s tasting, and she knew something would fall through the cracks if she didn’t write it down soon. But the planner wasn’t there. Corinne’s gaze scanned the room—maybe she’d left it on the secretary desk in the corner? But when she walked over to it, the book wasn’t there, either.
She frowned, then looked at Dixon. “Have you seen my journal?”
“You keep a journal?” Dixon looked amused.
“Was Margaret here this morning?” Their cleaning lady was meticulous about putting everything where it belonged.
Dixon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
How strange—she never misplaced things. But perhaps she’d just left it at work.
“I must be losing my mind,” she mumbled.
Dixon shrugged. “I mean . . . ,” he said, with a playful smile.
She gave Dixon a weary wave. “I’ll see you in a little while,” she said, and then scuttled into the hallway.
LATER THAT EVENING, as the unusual-for-May humidity began to break, Corinne rushed past the shops in Rockefeller Center toward the St. Regis hotel. The sidewalk was full of tourists, an outdoor concert was taking place a few streets over, and the air smelled of fresh seafood from the restaurant in the Rockefeller skating rink. She glanced at her reflection in the windows of 30 Rock and frowned. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn such a short skirt. At least she’d thrown on a sweater. Then she wondered if she was thinking too much about all of this. She shouldn’t have changed at all. She was tasting wine for her wedding, not going on a date.
“Corinne!”
Natasha stood on the other side of J.Crew. She was dressed in yoga pants, a canvas tiger-printed bag slung over her shoulder. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her pointed, pretty face was free of makeup.
Corinne blinked, looking for an escape, but Natasha had made it over too quickly for that. “How are you?” she asked, kissing the air beside Natasha’s cheek insincerely.
“Oh, just fantastic. You?” Natasha asked, though she didn’t wait for the answer. “You’re going to a wine tasting, right?”
“Excuse me?” Corinne said. All sound fell away, even the loud, buzzing bass from the concert. “How did you know that?” Corinne asked shakily.
The smile was still on Natasha’s face as she pulled out her phone and called up the Blessed and the Cursed. “How an Heiress Plans a Wedding,” read the title. The first picture was of the cover of a leather-bound journal.
Corinne scrolled down, her eyes growing wider and wider. Every image was a page from her planner. There were lists of meetings with the florist and baker; deal points for a new office in Bangkok; her facialist’s cell number. There were personal things too. Like the word Lexapro with a question mark next to it—her therapist had suggested she try it for anxiety. There were even lists of what she ate in a given day, and a message that said “Pilates Trainer Three Times This Week!” in commanding red pen. And on the last day, today, were blue-inked words: “Wine Tasting, 8:00.”
Corinne nearly dropped the phone. It was in her handwriting, but she hadn’t written the words yet. How had they so perfectly mimicked her handwriting? Or was Dixon right: Was she really losing her mind?
“Is everything okay?” Natasha watched her carefully. Realization settled over her features. “Oh my God. Deanna didn’t arrange for those pages to be on the site, did she?”
Corinne shut her eyes, hating that Natasha, of all people, was witnessing her reaction. “No,” she admitted. “But it’s fine.”
“Those animals. Aren’t they sick of us by now?” But there was a strange lilt in Natasha’s voice, almost as if this amused her. “Anyway, I should jet. Have fun at the tasting! And I’ll see you next weekend for the bachelorette,” she called out, getting swept up in the crowd.
Corinne blinked. Go home, said a voice in her mind. This felt like an ominous harbinger of what was to come. She should just get in bed, pull the covers over her head, and wait to wake up married. But she turned east, walking past Fifth Avenue to the St. Regis. She took a deep breath as she pressed through the gilded double doors into the glittering lobby. When she spied Will waiting for her by the concierge, she lowered her eyes and counted the checkerboard squares on the floor as she crossed the room. Her heart pounded hard.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Will as she approached, trying not to look directly at him. He looked as handsome as ever. Too handsome.
Will glanced behind her. “Where’s your f
iancé?” He said “fiancé” the way someone might say “child molester.”
Corinne swallowed hard. “Something came up.” Unfortunately, she wanted to add.
“No problem,” he told her smoothly—and somewhat impersonally. They started down a set of carpeted stairs, past the King Cole Bar, where Corinne had spent countless hours with Dixon and his buddies, and then down another flight of stairs, where they entered a small, grottolike private room lit by hundreds of flickering candles. Oak wine racks lined the walls around them, and the place smelled of grapes and oil and a tinge of cigar smoke. There was a bar set up at the end of the room; two stools beckoned.
Will looked at Corinne. “Welcome to your private tasting.” He slid onto one of the stools. “I guess since Dixon couldn’t make it, I’ll help you out.”
Corinne smiled nervously at a man who emerged from inside the wine cellar. He greeted Will with a fierce hug and shook Corinne’s hand. “Andrew Sparks. I’m the hotel sommelier.”
He proceeded to look at the menu Will had selected for Corinne and Dixon and disappeared back into the cellar to retrieve a few bottles. His body disappeared into the abyss of wine, and Corinne tried as hard as she could to keep her foot from jiggling.
Will looked at her. “I’m glad you approved the menu.”
Corinne swallowed awkwardly. “Yes. I think it will be very good.” At least he isn’t freezing me out, she thought. She hadn’t known what to expect, but after his iciness at the restaurant, maybe that.
Andrew reemerged and began pouring small glasses for each of them to try, an assortment of reds, whites, and rosés to suit each dish on the menu. Corinne sipped the first glass, a fruity chardonnay, then took another sip. She could feel Will’s eyes on her again. Her gaze slid to a small cup on the side of the table meant for spitting out the tastes. But after her run-in with Natasha—and facing this long-forgotten past—she needed a drink. She grabbed her glass and quickly drank the rest.
