“It took me a damn near lifetime to fix it. And it’s still not fixed,” Dawn said, shaking her head and looking off at people straggling by their table. “I’m not fixed. My father went to his grave thinking that about me, that I’m just messy and wrong. So I’m real curious to see your plans for fixing it.”
“I told you I’m not getting married Saturday.”
“So you called off the wedding. So fucking what. How’s that fix anything? You’ll be still outchea living your white so-right life even if you don’t marry ol’ dude. Shit. You’ll probably line yourself up another Billionaire Brad in a couple months. Still rocking with that lie.”
Nora leaned in closer to the table. “What if”—she lowered her voice and started again—“what if you let me tell people the truth on my own, without a ticking clock behind my ear? You don’t have to do anything except . . . not bring her here.”
“Who, your wacko stepmom?”
Nora nodded.
“What if I don’t care about your what-ifs? What if I want to see you suffer, humiliated, smashed to pieces? What if that’s what’s going to fix it? I’ve waited my entire adult life for this moment. Why would I short myself like that? So that it’s easier for you?”
“Dawn, please. I’m literally begging you.”
“See, all of this”—she waved her hand across Nora’s face—“it doesn’t mean shit. You messed up and fucked with the wrong bitch. I’m the coldest cube in the tray. Thought you figured that out by now.”
Dawn started to stretch around her chair for her purse that hung off the back.
“Please, don’t leave yet.” Nora reached across the table to touch Dawn’s hand and purposely knocked over the to-go cup.
The caramel-colored liquid rushed across the table like a current. Dawn scooted back from the table trying to dodge the liquid coming for her. “Aw, shit!”
Nora jumped up. “I’m so sorry! I . . . I was trying to . . . Dawn, I’m sorry.”
Gillian was bounding over to the table with a drenched rag. She attacked the spill with it. “It’s okay,” she said to both Nora and Dawn. “This happens all the time.”
“No, no. This,” Dawn said, switching her finger between her and Nora, “this doesn’t happen ever. This is rare.”
Gillian looked confused and just turned her attention back to the wet table.
“I’m so sorry,” Nora said again. “Let me replace it for you. Blondie, right?”
Dawn settled back down in her seat. “Yeah, a Blondie,” she sighed.
Nora nodded, quick and jittery like a puppy. She could tell that Dawn was enjoying this, at least partway, seeing her being so obsequious, the drippy apologies and the “yes, ma’am” attention, the way she was practically groveling, it all seemed so delicious to her. Nora could see a spark in Dawn’s eye; it was growing almost as big as her smirk.
Nora hustled to the counter to put in the new order. Hannah was there and she looked as irritated as days before.
“What can I get started for you?” she said, barely making eye contact.
“Um, I . . . I . . . uh,” Nora stumbled over her words. She knew that she had to act like nothing were different, like she was not about to drop venom right down her unsuspecting enemy’s throat. She blinked back her trepidation and forced a smile. “Yeah, I would like a large Good Morning Blondie and—”
“Hot water in a cup?” She finally looked up from the iPad screen, smirking.
Nora cut her eyes at Hannah basking in smugness, but talked herself down from addressing it. She didn’t want to do anything that would flag her or make the morning or this interaction memorable. “Actually, yes. Thanks. Make that a to-go cup for the hot water only, please.”
“Okay.” She tapped on the iPad system. “We’ll bring that right out.”
“Oh, actually, I’m just going to wait and take them over myself. . . if that’s okay.”
“I don’t care. Up to you. That will be five dollars even,” Hannah said.
Nora gave her a ten-dollar bill and waited for the change that Hannah seemed slow to hand over. “Uh, could I get five singles,” Nora said, stalling. She desperately wanted to turn and check whether Dawn was still there, waiting.
Hannah gave Nora the crumply bills and she stuffed them all into the tips jar on the counter, looking dead into Hannah’s eyes. “Thanks,” she said, with a pinched, folded-lip smile. It was her sliver of a moment to be petty and stoop to Hannah’s level, and she enjoyed it for as long as it lasted.
Unmarly. That’s how Nora’s mother would describe someone like Hannah. Unmarly. It’s unmannerly in Bajan speak and it perfectly describes the greasy girl whipping up Dawn’s caramel treat.
Hannah thrust the two cups at Nora—first the to-go, then the mug.
“On second thought, I’m going to do a coffee,” Nora said, and handed the hot water cup back to the server. “Let me just get this over to my friend and I’ll be back to order something for myself in a bit.”
“That’s fine,” she said, flatly, and moved on to the next customer in line before Nora had a chance to say another word.
“Thanks,” Nora said anyway, and headed over to the straws/ napkins/sugar station off to the side. But there was a tall, lanky man posted up, spread over most of the counter space. She couldn’t wait for him to clear out. Nora knew that she had four, maybe five seconds—tops—to add the compound to the coffee and be so smooth about it no one even looked at her twice.
Nora’s eyes batted around the floor, moving between her sneakers and the wet spots on the ground. She knew the clock had run out; there was no time for hesitation or deliberation.
Act. Act now.
She turned her shoulder away from the bulk of the room, drew in her breath, held it, and—in one swift but smooth move—pulled out the vial dropper nestled in the latex glove inside her open purse and splashed five drips into the coffee mug. When she spun back around, she still was not breathing. There was a twinge of something that pushed against the walls of her lungs. But with her first sure step back toward the table, Nora finally exhaled. She kept her face even, not allowing for even a shiver along her spine, and stepped quickly over to Dawn. She gently rested the mug down in front of her.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Dawn said, sounding as if it caused her pain to do so.
“Don’t mention it.” Nora sat down on the literal edge of the seat.
Dawn raised the mug to her lips and paused. “What . . . you’re not having anything?”
Nora shook her head. “My nerves are shot. Can’t eat.” She fixed her stare on the cup, unable to bring herself to look beyond it at Dawn’s face or eyes.
“Always precious.”
Nora dug her fingernails into her bouncing leg under the table, watching for Dawn to sip the spiked coffee.
She blew through the steam coming off the mug. “Tell you what,” Dawn said, moving the cup back a space from right under her lips, “I’ll let you have your big reveal moment. I’ll call off the stepmom, and you can tell your people that you’re not really their people or whatever. You do it on your own this week. But just this week. After that, it’s my turn to hit the stage.”
“I . . . I don’t know what to say . . .”
“Me either,” Dawn said, and drank from the cup. “I guess I’m feeling generous . . . or maybe it’s this fancy coffee.”
Nora nodded, trying to stifle the curl of a smile scratching at her cheek. “Thank you, Dawn. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Thank you.” She stood up and nodded again. “I’ll be in touch, I guess.”
Dawn’s smirk spread along the side of her smooth face. “Or I will,” she said, dipping her nose back into the mug.
Nora looked at her this time, studying her features for a beat. “Good-bye, Dawn,” she said, with a grit to her voice. And she walked away, never once looking back at the dying woman she left in her wake.
CHAPTER 22
Jenna stepped into the low buzz of the room and floated a look at Nora. “
Uh, he wants to talk to you.”
Nora turned to the stylist touching up her hair. “Can you give us a minute?” she asked him sweetly.
“Of course,” he said, and nudged his hovering assistant. “Let’s step out,” he said in hushed tones to the young woman dressed in all black.
Once they cleared the room, Nora turned her body in the seat, angling as best she could, without disturbing her gown, toward her best friend. “Why?”
Jenna stepped in closer. “Why what, hon?”
“Did he tell you why he wants to talk to me?”
“Yeah, totally. He stood there and told me everything he plans to say to you down to the last syllable.” Jenna rolled her eyes with full drama. “Jesus, I don’t know why. He came looking for me and said he needs to talk to you. Needs to.”
The old churn that Nora thought she had lost for good returned to her stomach with a vengeance. She swallowed hard, but more saliva filled in after each gulp. She turned to look at herself in the lit mirror of the dressing table. Her face was perfect, right down to the nude color on her lips. She glanced down at the cluster of gilded butterflies gathered at her waist beneath the plunging décolleté—the ones handcrafted in the atelier of Maison Lemarié, makers of the famous Chanel camellias. The spectacular, golden flit of wings and shimmer caught the light of the warm bulbs around the mirror and launched an array of twinkles. She looked back over at Jenna and let out a heavy sigh. “But what does he want to say to me? I mean, now—twenty minutes before I walk down the aisle?” Nora couldn’t mask the uneasiness. She simply didn’t know how.
“Hey, hey,” Jenna said, shaking her head and taking a few more steps toward Nora. “That whole bad luck thing is a myth. No facts at all. So what if he sees you before you say ‘I do’? Whatever. You look beautiful. And that dress—sweet Jesus. God himself dreamed this one up just for you. And Oli and Iris made it fit like”—she kissed her fingertips and threw it away—“perfezione. That means ‘perfect’ in Italian. Learned that from my date, who’s probably sitting out there wondering if he’s going to get a taste of my cannoli tonight.” Jenna pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “It’s not looking good.”
Nora blew air hard through her nose—the best laugh she could muster—and then went back to concentrated worry. She didn’t want to cry, and so she pressed down on the bones in her left thumb to stave off the tears.
“Sweetie, all jokes aside,” Jenna said, finally stepping up right next to Nora. “Whatever Fisher has to say to you, he’ll say to you. But it doesn’t matter. The thing is, you’re gorgeous and amazing and brilliant as fuck, and all of that will still be true tomorrow regardless of what he says when I step out of this room and he steps in. Facts.”
Nora nodded quickly. “Thanks.” She reached out for Jenna, grabbing her wrist and giving it a light squeeze. “Thank you. And . . .” She nodded some more, but even quicker, like a bobblehead doll.
Jenna cocked her head to the side. “Send him in?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Jenna started toward the door, but turned back and added a broad grin. “By the way, all jokes back to the center? Thinking Italian Date out there might just get a little taste of the cannoli tonight. Just the tip.”
Nora shook her head but cracked a smile. “Just get Fisher in here, please.”
Jenna left, closing the door slightly as she did. Nora glanced up at her reflection and at the champagne silk brocade cape suspended from a hook and wide satin hanger on the armoire just behind her. She thought the 1940s-inspired cape would be too much for her wedding look, but was convinced otherwise by both Jenna and Oli in separate sittings.
“These white gold embellishments are spare but so striking,” Oli said, her eyes brimming with amazement, when she first saw it on a distant rack at the boutique. “You have to have this, Nora. Seriously. These paillettes have been applied by hand with a Lunéville hook. I mean, a fucking Lunéville hook. Painstaking ain’t the word. And this shit is so old Hollywood Glamour with just a splash of Khaleesi herself—Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of her name.”
“Is that Game of Thrones again?” Nora had said, tossing her head back on the boutique’s snow-white couch. “I told you, I’m never gonna watch that show. Give up, already, Oli!”
“But she’s the Mother of Dragons, though.”
“Nope.”
“Fine. Don’t watch. Miss out on the greatest show ever. But do not, I repeat, do not miss out on this cape, Nora. This, plus that dress? Come on. Pure fire.”
* * *
Fisher stepped in. He was wearing his custom white tie, Tom Ford black three-piece tuxedo, and a cream ranunculus boutonniere, selected by Mateo, positioned perfectly by his heart. He was dazzling, and Nora stood up, breathless, as he moved deeper into the room and came into full view.
“Hi,” he said, and smiled.
“Hi,” she said, a quiver starting in her chin.
“Nora, you look . . . beautiful,” Fisher said, taking her in.
She was too struck by the fact that he called her Nora, and not Mack, to respond in kind. She looked at him, trying to see through his meek grin to find a hint of what he had to say before he said it.
What if he knows? She had kept watch of the local news on TV and scoured the internet and police blotters over the last six days, making sure that there were no reports of a suspicious death of a young black woman. What if Dawn had an in-the-event-of-my-death plan and now it’s over, she thought. Now he knows. Nora felt a tremble in her knees and flowing up her legs to the center of her body. “Uh, thank you,” she said, finally, several beats too late. “You look beautiful, too. I mean, handsome—but beautiful, too.”
He started to titter, and it put her tremble at ease, but the roiling in her tummy remained. “Thanks,” he said, and stepped toward her. “Let’s—” He gestured with his head at the padded chairs beside them.
“I’m good,” Nora said, trying to smile. “I’ve been sitting practically all day with hair and makeup and stuff.”
He sat down and gestured again at her seat. “Please, sit. For me.”
She did as told and braced herself for complete and utter heartbreak. Fisher sat back in his chair and stared down at his hands folded in his lap.
“Fisher, I—”
He held up a hand. “Let me just . . . let me just start, okay?”
Nora nodded.
“You know that I’m a public man. It’s what makes my private life that much more important. And I value trust and loyalty above everything.”
“I know that.”
“The circle around me, it’s small, tight, loyal. I trust them.”
Nora looked down at his shiny shoes, wishing he would drop the hammer on her already, tell her that he knows that she’s a fraud. Walking her through the how and why he wants nothing to do with her felt unnecessary and heartless. “As you should. You should trust them, your circle—one hundred percent.”
“Please . . . let me finish.”
“You don’t have to do this.”
“No, I do.”
“No, you don’t. I get it, Fisher. I know that you—”
“Nora, I saw you at the lab. I saw the tapes.”
Her stomach dropped to her feet. “What . . . ?”
“There are cameras everywhere at the Institute, Nora, but especially hidden in the lab. The other day, when you came by, when you said you were just stopping in to say hello and then we . . . we had sex in my office and went to lunch. I saw you on the security footage sneaking into the lab before all of that.”
“No, no, no.” Nora’s vein was pounding at her temple. Her throat was getting smaller and she was sure vomit would come seeping through the corners of her mouth.
Fisher sliced the thickness between them with the side of his hand. “Nora, you lied. You said you were there for me, but we both know that’s not true. Your whole reason for coming to the Institute was to get into that lab. I saw you moving around, looking over your shoulder at t
he door—you were clearly doing something you shouldn’t be—and I watched you hustle out of there. I saw you.”
“Oh, God,” her voiced quivered. “I . . . I can explain.”
“No, please, just listen. I said I saw the recorded footage from the lab. I saw it and then I deleted it. No one else has seen it. And no one will. Only me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Fisher leaned toward Nora, his eyes locked in on hers. “When I gave you that ring and asked you to be my wife, I gave you my trust, too. When I gave you that ring, it came with the promise of the Beaumont name.”
Nora closed her eyes. It was over. She opened her mouth to speak, to apologize, beg for forgiveness, or maybe confess—to all of it—but stopped short when she felt the warmth of Fisher’s hand on hers. She looked at him. His face was bright, beaming, and tears gathering.
“I know that this, right now, minutes before our wedding . . . I know it’s ridiculous; coming to you like this is absolutely wrong, but”—he looked down at their clasped hands and squeezed hers harder—“I cannot stand up at that altar without telling you this: I don’t know what you were doing in there. I don’t want to know the details of why either,” he said. “My father would always say to us, ‘Make your choice and stand next to it.’ And right now I’m choosing you. I’m choosing to trust you, trust that the lab was the last of it. No more lies, about anything.” He moved to the edge of his chair and pulled her hand to his chest. “Mack, you’re it for me. You are what matters most. And I will always protect you, but I have to know if this is what you want, too: me, this life, us together as a solid team, nothing in the closet.”
Nora flashed right back to Mrs. Bourdain—patient zero of her sick secret—telling her to do the name proud, to be white and right, just before sending her away to boarding school. Back then she didn’t have a chance to say good-bye to her old, original life before being hustled up to the front row of her new one. Back then she went along with the lie because the alternative—being discounted and dismissed—was no real choice. Walking into the promise of the Bourdain name was all she could do. Back then.
Have You Met Nora? Page 26
