Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  But now, faced with a new commitment to a name, a new burden, and new, thick, messy layers to the lie, Nora did have a choice this time.

  And she made it, and stood next to it.

  She unfolded her brows, relaxed her stiff carriage, and softened her eyes. “Fisher,” she said, taking her hand back from covering part of his thumping breast. “I do. I want you, our life. There are no more secrets, no closets. I do want this, us.” Nora’s face melted into a toothy smile and she lunged into Fisher, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. He pulled Nora to him, pressing some of the gilded butterflies into his white waistcoat and open, black fishtail jacket.

  “I love you,” he said, muffled and talking into her neck.

  “I love you, too,” she said right into his ear.

  They pulled apart at almost the exact same time.

  “So, you ready to do this?” Fisher stood up and buttoned his jacket; his face still winking and delighted, his eyes wet.

  “You know it,” Nora said. “I’ll need a few more minutes to freshen up and then I’ll be basically running down that aisle to you.”

  “My beautiful, beautiful bride,” he said, and bent over, planting a kiss on Nora’s forehead. “Minutes away, can you believe it?”

  “No! That’s why I need Antonio back in here to finish fixing this hair.”

  “You look perfect,” Fisher said, heading toward the door. “But I’ll let Jenna sort out the hairdresser part for you.” He spun around to get one more glimpse of Nora in her golden moment. “Next time I see you, you’ll be a Beaumont. My Beaumont.”

  * * *

  Sitting alone in her elegant dressing suite, Nora turns to the mirror, peering at her full reflection. She reaches for a small pot of gloss from the vast makeup kit on the table and, using her fingers, dabs more color to the center of her lips. And without as much as a twitch in her brow, she says it out loud for herself and anyone else who dares to listen: “Hi, I’m Nora Beaumont.”

  Acknowledgments

  This story has circled the sun with me many times, and to have it finally out in the world on its own fills me with absolute joy. There are so many people to thank for getting me here, I could never list them all. But please know that even if your name doesn’t pop up on these pages, it’s written on my heart and I’m forever grateful for your support.

  I must start with my outstanding parents, Maureen and Tony Blades, who have shown me so clearly what unconditional love is all about. They believe in me and in every one of my dreams so much that I have no choice but to do the same. I love you.

  Thank you to my sisters, Yvette and Nailah. You are stellar. I don’t think I’m lucky, I know that I am. To have you as friends as well as family, always cheering, makes me believe that no matter how high or far the star, I can reach out and grab it. Also sending much love to my brother and the rest of my family.

  To the Burtons, your unyielding love and support over these years have kept me full and afloat. It means the world to be a part of such a wonderful family.

  Many thanks to my agent, Sharon Pelletier, for being my calm, wise advocate. I’m honored to be on the Dystel, Goderich & Bourret team.

  To my editor, Selena James, I’m fortunate to have a talent like you in my corner. Thank you to Lulu Martinez and the Kensington Publishing Corp. for working so hard for this book. And special thanks goes to Tanya Farrell of Wunderkind PR.

  I am grateful to Brit McGinnis. You are sharp, wise, and ever patient. Thank you for swooping in, always with an offer to help.

  Special salute to Ravi Howard: You saved the day, homie. Your expert notes on my pages helped reset my coordinates and launch me off in the right direction. I owe you (at least a cold drink or something, right?).

  More immense thanks to my people: Saada Branker; Robert Edison Sandiford; Nella Cramer; Sharon Pendana; Charles Bennett; Phillip Moithuk Shung; Todd Wilson; Barney Bishop; Craig Carter; Lloyd Boston; Colleen Oakley; Cheryl Della Pietra; A’driane Nieves; Karen Walrond; Kristin Wald; Susan Harrison; Carrie Firestone; the Sacred Heart crew; my band of supporters on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram; and my fantastic designer/magician, Wendy Avery; plus so many others.

  To my delightful boy, QB: Thank you for filling my heart every single day. That you are so proud of your mom the writer just about melts me to a puddle. (I will write a book that you can read—soon, my sweetheart.)

  And to Scott, the remarkable star in this love story we’ve been writing for thirteen-plus years, thank you for showing me that happiness is real and ours for the taking. I love you.

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  HAVE YOU MET NORA?

  Nicole Blades

  ABOUT THIS GUIDE

  The suggested questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Nicole Blades’s Have You Met Nora?

  Discussion Questions

  1. Mrs. Bourdain sets the lie about Nora’s identity in motion before shipping her off to boarding school in Vermont. Why does Nora continue with this fraud long after she runs away and starts a new life in New York?

  2. As an adult, is Nora’s passing more a lie by omission (she never corrects the assumptions of others)? Does this change how you view her and her deception?

  3. Is Nora more afraid of her race or her true socioeconomic background being exposed?

  4. Why is Nora so vehemently against having children?

  5. Had Jenna ever found out about Nora’s identity, do you think she would have forgiven her? Would Oli or Mateo?

  6. Did you think there was a point where Nora might actually tell the truth—either to Fisher, Jenna, or Oli?

  7. Fisher is a righteous man who is also protective of his family’s name. If Nora’s truth were revealed—including her infertility lie—would he be able to maintain his principles and his love for Nora? Did you think he was going to leave Nora at the altar?

  8. When did you realize that Dawn was behind all of the mischief erupting in Nora’s golden life?

  9. At the tea party hosted at Lady Eleanor’s, Dawn—as “Nwad”—told the women that she was married and lived in Harlem. Do you think that was the truth? Why or why not? 10. Did you think that Nora was capable of getting rid of Dawn—permanently?

  DON’T MISS

  THE THUNDER BENEATH US

  By Nicole Blades

  To the world, Best Lightburn is a talented writer rising up the masthead at an international style magazine. Then there’s the other Best, the one who has chosen to recast herself as an only child rather than confront the truth. And after years of covering up the past, her guilt is detonating through every facet of her seemingly charmed life....

  Enjoy the following excerpt from

  The Thunder Beneath Us. . . .

  PROLOGUE

  Montreal

  December, Ten Years Ago.

  I’m still looking up at the constellation when I hear the thunder. Only it’s not clapping through the blue night skies. It’s under our feet.

  Bryant goes in first. He was carrying the bag. Swallowed up almost silently, he’s gone before the sounds can sync up with the pictures. It takes another set of seconds for me to recognize that the fingers pinching my body, attempting to pierce me, drag at me from the inside, aren’t fingers at all. It’s the cold in the water, the ice, and it’s trying to steal my breath.

  There’s this hollow, haunting, barking sound just behind my left ear. It’s Benjamin. Thick slush and jagged, cracked plates try to flood his gasping mouth, but he’s still calling for me. The cruel stars conspire to shine their brightest now as I catch a full view of what is happening. I see Ben’s face, his eyes. All the familiar of him is wiped clean away; only fear is left. I want to tell him to stop thrashing, stop panicking, to save his energy for crawling out of the hole, and that we’ll be all right, but there’s a rattling noise and it’s building; I can’t even hear my thoughts. It’s the bones in my jaw; they’re clanging together. It’s happening to Benjamin too. Somehow he’s pulled me close enough that I can see his mout
h—still above water—shaking. But I can also see the terror streaked across his face.

  I need to get out. We need to get out. Everything’s heavy. Everything’s slow.

  He’s pulling me again with that one free arm, this time with the secret strength he had tucked in his thick leather jacket. That goddamn jacket. I didn’t want to hear another word about his prized jacket just a moment ago, before the world cracked and we fell in. Now I’m hoping somehow it saves us.

  * * *

  “You need to get fly, Bestba,” Benjamin said as we approached the lake. “Feel the butter smoothism of this jacket, though. Now check your wooly-mammoth styles and tell me, honestly, who’s got dopeness on lock?”

  I swatted his proud hand away from my face. “Jesus. The worst thing they did was buy you that jacket.”

  “Seriously, is Mum punishing you for something?” Benjamin said. “Is that why she’s forcing you to wear that shaggy shit the whole winter?”

  “How much more material do you have on my winter coat, Ben? Four, five more jokes? Because the whole bit is well and old now. Time for something new.”

  “Exactly. Time for something new—for real. Maybe a little leather might help you out of this whole Wookiee situation you’re rocking. But, then again, Chewie could be a cute nickname for you this year. You could work with that.” He tossed his head back, forcing that choppy laugh into the cold air above us.

  “Shut up, fool.”

  We walked arm in arm anyway. Bryant took his usual position—the quiet apex of our sloppy triangle—and started leading us back to the house.

  It really was a beautiful leather jacket. I wasn’t going to tell Benjamin that, though. Benjamin had enough hype men in his day-to-day. He didn’t need his sister gassing up his head too.

  “I have a shortcut,” Bryant yelled back.

  “Is it a real one, as in cutting the time it takes us to get back to Aunt Esther’s,” Benjamin starts, and I finish—

  “Right, or is it one of your shortcuts that really means a ridiculous, winding detour so you can check out some random nerd crap?”

  “It’s a star,” Bryant said. He stopped walking and turned back to us. He put some bass in his voice. “It’s stars. It’s not random, and it’s not nerd crap either. It’s Orion, the Hunter. If we head through that area there, closer to the lake’s edge, you’ll see it. You won’t believe how cool it is, but you’ll see it.”

  “I knew you were up to some shit when you brought that bag with you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It was a fair, as in games and cotton candy and gold-coin winnings, not a science fair. Leave the lab coat at home.”

  Bryant’s shoulders and voice dipped. “Whatever. I don’t have a lab coat in here.” He shook his head and kept walking.

  “Fine, Bryant. We’ll do this shortcut, Hunter-watching business,” Benjamin yelled ahead to him. “But when—not if—when we get back mad late, you’ve got to man up and take the hit.” Benjamin nudged my ribs. “No mouse in the house bullshit this time. They never suspect you anyway.”

  I nudged Benjamin back. “Yeah, but somehow it’ll come back to be about me, my fault,” I said, growling. “You know I’m the reason for all the bad things, like some permanent jinx. I’m the only girl in this entire family, but they act like I’m the absolute worst. I should be walking on silky leaves or carried on your backs. Where’s the princess treatment? Do I need to add more pink in my life—is that where I went wrong?”

  “Pink won’t change the truth: You are the worst. Nothing to do with you being the only girl, either. Don’t get the facts jumbled, chief.” Benjamin let his laugh loose again, then cupped his mouth, hollering ahead. “Yo, Bryant, we’re taking your share of sweetbread when we get there. And your ham too. You’ve been warned.”

  * * *

  Benjamin’s writhing has slowed to a few, weak flutters, but the weight of him, on my back, my arms, my shoulders—it’s drawing me in. My brain shorts out and I’m acting on reflex, instincts. I’ve gone animal and I wiggle out of my swamped coat. I know my legs and arms are moving wildly, only because I can see them pushing the frozen chunks of water around. I feel nothing. I hear nothing. It’s all clogged. When I find that solid piece, I dig in and claw at it. Dragging my entire body along the smooth ice, I hear screeching. The noise fills my head, and I realize it’s coming from me. I’m howling, afraid to move, afraid not to. Something from low inside, from the pit of my stomach, forces me to roll halfway over, nearly to my back. Again, the sky’s lights seem to jump in wattage and I see Benjamin’s head gleaming, bobbing, bobbing, nodding and then under.

  My eyes open again. I keep them like that longer this time, open, moving around, waiting for awareness to seep in through the corners. There are more lights, but they’re not beaming from above the earth. Bright and harsh one moment, warm and flickering the next, these lights have smeared colors: red, blue, maybe soft white. Sounds stay muffled. A clear thought finally arrives: If I close my eyes, I might hear better, filter through the muddy mix of noises and notes, and figure out why and how and what. A new thought crashes in, sabotaging the first one: If I close my eyes, they won’t open ever again. I can feel something in my chest; a tightening that works its way in a rough spiral down to my stomach and up along my throat at once. It’s my voice, or something like it—I’m screaming. Pain and panic and crushing fright press up against me, and I’m roaring now. I call out to Bryant, to Benjamin and I reach for my brothers. The muscles in my arms are activated—I think—but nothing’s moving.

  * * *

  “You’re okay. You’re okay, honey. You’re fine. I’m Sandra Bishop; this is Dr. Delaney. You’re in the emergency room at Montreal General. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

  I don’t squeeze. I don’t understand. Instead I reach out again, with more of me. It’s not fine here. I need to get out. We need to get out.

  CHAPTER 1

  New York City

  October, Ten Years Later.

  Coochie. Vajayjay. Box. Beaver. Taco. Vadge. Bajingo. Lady Garden. Call it whatever you want; the goddamn thing just killed my career.

  When I get to Trinity’s desk, she’s squeezed into a corner looking serious, uncomfortable, cagey. This doesn’t help. She had a similar cramped-up pose the last time I was called in to meet with JK like this, all vague and abrupt. If I walk in there and see anyone from legal, I’m not going to bother taking a seat. I already figured out which books in my office I’ll pack and which ones to leave on the shelf for my replacement.

  I’m supposed to be lightning in a bottle. That’s what Chalk Board magazine called me in that “Media’s Top 25 Under 25” piece last week. Mind you, I’m twenty-seven, but I keep popping up on these industry lists anyway. Honestly, it’s just code for Yes, we let the right one in. Check off the diversity box. I’m totally cute, though, so that helps. Mediagenic. That’s another word they like pushing up next to my name. Morning-TV producers think I’m hilarious, even when I’m feeding them warmed-over quips I thought up in the shower. You’re great. You’re so great. I’m not. I’m not great. I’m the opposite. Heinous and horrible, a feral beast capable of atrocious things like that night. Like that night with Benjamin. He didn’t deserve that, and had those merciless tables been turned, he would have never done that to me. Benjamin, he would have found a different way, because he was good. I’m not. But people are drawn to me, never wanting to let me go (more from Chalk Board). They don’t know any better. None of them. Fools. They’ve bought into it, this story of me being golden, blessed, lucky. They haven’t clued into what I figured out long ago: that luck is nothing more than a burden.

  It’s that ignorance, blissful and simple, that makes people want me around, want me close in their circle. All of this should ease the choppy pulse behind my eye right now, send my shoulders down. It doesn’t. Because I know I don’t deserve good things. Getting fired from a fluffed-out women’s magazine job: that sounds more up my alley.

  I squeeze my hand into the shallow, fr
ont pocket of my jeans. They’re extra tight, pencil-cut, and the stiff edge of the denim scratches my knuckles. I don’t care about that; I need to feel the smoothness of my tokens.

  For the last ten years, I’ve carried these two gold coins, clicking them together—sometimes loudly—like ruby slippers. They’re not worth anything; cheap tokens from the winter fair. They were my brother’s. You would think, after everything, I would remember which brother. But I don’t. I just know that I need them. They’re part of my story.

  “You good, T?”

  She shrugs, then nods and finally shakes her head.

  Crap. I’m done. How am I going to look my dad in the face?

  None of this is a surprise, though. As soon as I went from writing legitimate women’s health stories to becoming the vagina reporter, that was the signpost and I ignored it—on purpose. Giddy at being special, held up to the light for my merit, not some unfair fluke, I pretended that I was worthy, that I deserved this goodness. And now look at me: mowed down by the vagina. At least I know how to get a bump-free bikini line. There’s that. There’s also:

  28 Sex Moves to Wow Your Guy

  9 Sexy Steps to Orgasm—Every Time

  54 Sex Tips to Blow His Mind

  101 BEST SEX TIPS EVER

  32 Dirty-Girl Sex Tricks to Drive Him Crazy

  The 7 Secrets to Bigger, Bolder Orgasms

  All of this is intel that will help me after I get fired today. Clearly.

  Fuck this. The vagina will not do me in. It can’t. I need to play this thing arrogant, like there’s no possible way I could have made another misstep in print.

  I pull my posture up, drop the befuddlement, and add some certainty to my voice. “So, it’s two o’clock,” I say to Trinity. “Just go on in?”