The Heiresses

by Shepard, Sara

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” Edith said approvingly.

  Aster took two fresh rolls and bit into one. 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, Barney’s, 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. 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 Texan 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 also 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 his 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 cut-­off 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 were 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. Did they really have to act so stuck-­up every second of the day?

  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 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.

  Aster squinted at her mom, then Corinne, Dixon, and Edith, but all four of them looked away. The moment felt fraught, as though everyone was in on a joke Aster didn’t get. Only Poppy was looking at her encouragingly, nodding in the direction of the office.

  Aster got up from her chair, suddenly shaky in her strappy leather pumps. Esme appeared from the kitchen to whisk away her uneaten food. The classical music Aster’s family always played during dinner faded as she followed her father from the dining room to his office at the back of the town house.

  The room smelled like cigar smoke and cedar, just the way Aster remembered it. She hadn’t set foot here in years, not since she and her father fell out. There was the same bearskin rug on the floor, the same cutting tools and old loupes on the desk, and the various vintage rifles from the Civil War through World War II mounted on the walls. On one shelf was a line of old photographs, including one of Papa Alfred in his World War II uniform. Standing next to him was Harold Browne, a friend he’d made during his time there. Next to that was a picture Aster hadn’t noticed before, of Mason and other Saybrook’s execs on a golf outing. Steven Barnett stood off to the side, his handsome smile broad.

  Aster looked away. It seemed strange that her father would have a picture of Steven in his office after everything that had happened. But then, her father always did have a way of compartmentalizing things.

  Lined up on another wall were the taxidermied animal heads from his favorite hunts. An enormous elk, a long-­horned ram, even an African elephant, with fanned ears and an extended trunk. There were glass marbles where its eyes had been. As a child, Aster had been afraid of that elephant; but Mason had brought her into his study and asked her to look at it. “It’s like the elephant at the Museum of Natural History,” he said, holding her up to face it. “What if I let you name him?”

  “His name is Dumbo,” Aster announced. “But I still don’t like him.” To Aster, Dumbo was completely different from the elephants at the museum—­or the cartoon. The elephant was dead because her father had killed it.

  Aster glared at Mason, then plopped onto the overstuffed leather couch. “So what’s up?” she asked stonily.

  Mason lit a cigar. “I’m ending your allowance.”

  “Excuse me?” Aster barked a laugh.
>
  “I guess you haven’t seen this.” He set the cigar in an ashtray and tilted his computer screen toward her. The Blessed and the Cursed was front and center. Aster almost burst out laughing—­she would never have guessed her dad read the gossip site.

  Then she saw the pictures. The first shot was of Poppy ushering her from Corinne’s dress fitting, her makeup smeared and her hair a tangled mess. The second was of her dancing at Badawi later that night. The strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder, showing what little cleavage she had as she stared into the camera vacantly. She looked as wasted as she’d felt.

  “Aster Saybrook Is Out of Control,” read the headline.

  Aster felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t the first time that she’d been featured on that stupid website, but this was the first time her father had called her out on it. She felt for her phone. Had Clarissa sent the Badawi picture? Backstabbing bitch.

  Her father sighed. “You ruined your sister’s fitting. For her wedding dress. And this business at the club—­come on, Aster. You’re better than that.”

  Aster blinked hard. “Better than what?”

  Her father just stared at her. She searched his face for a sign of her dad there, of the man who used to carry her on his shoulders and tell her that everything would be okay. The man who finally got her a professional tutor when she was young because he understood her struggles in school weren’t due to laziness. All she saw reflected there was disappointment.

  “Deanna can handle it. She can get those photos taken down,” Aster tried next. Deanna was the family’s publicist; she could make almost anything go away.

  Mason shook his head. “I don’t want Deanna to handle it—­that’s not the point. You need to learn some responsibility.” He had another puff. “It’s time you got a job. I’ve talked to HR, and they’re finding an assistant position for you in one of the departments.”

  “A job?” Aster sputtered.

  Mason stared at her. “You start next Wednesday.”

  “As in a week from now?” Aster shrieked. “You had no right to do that!”

  “I have every right. I’m the one who pays your bills.” Mason stood, the discussion clearly over. “You’ve got to grow up sometime, Aster. And that time is now.”

  Spots formed in front of Aster’s eyes. “What department am I working in?” she asked. Not Corinne’s; please don’t let me be working for Corinne.

  “I don’t know—­HR is handling it,” Mason replied. “And frankly, I don’t care, as long as it’s a job.”

  Aster headed toward the door, feeling tears in her eyes. She turned back so that her father could see her crying, but he just stared at her stonily. That trick didn’t work on him anymore.

  She envisioned going to work at Saybrook’s, getting bossed around and gossiped about because of her last name. For a moment, Aster thought of revealing her father for the liar he really was—­running back into that dining room and announcing what he’d done. But then the anger deflated from her like air leaving a balloon. Telling the truth about Mason wouldn’t solve anything.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll take your stupid job. But I’m warning you, I’m going to suck at it.”

  She walked out of the office, down the hall, and to the front door without even saying good-­bye to anyone. Why should she? They were probably snickering about her in the dining room. Or doing the proper-­person alternative to snickering, whatever the hell that was. Tut-­tutting. Tongue-­clucking. God, she hated all of them.

  A job. Jesus. She hailed a cab and gave the driver her downtown address, then leaned against the window and closed her eyes. For the first time, it felt as if the family curse was real. Because starting next week, Aster would be living it.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  5

  The following evening after work, Corinne got out of a cab on the corner of West Tenth and Bleecker in the West Village. Spring had sprung all over the city. The trees were fragrant with new cherry blossoms, everyone had pots of flowers on their stoops, and something by Gwen Stefani, which always reminded her of cruising around Meriweather in the vintage Jaguar convertible they kept there, wafted out of an open window a few stories above. As she stepped daintily onto the curb, careful not to scuff her python and suede pumps, she tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder.

  “I don’t think Aster knows what hit her,” Poppy said on the other end of the line. “I mean, Corinne, she is really freaking out.”

  Corinne waited at the curb for the light to change, vacantly watching the crowd across the street. A ­couple of guys in cutoff jean shorts chatted with a woman in a neon maxidress, pretending not to notice a famous actor who lived nearby. ­People in the Village looked so different from everyone on the Upper East Side, and she always felt like a tourist here. Her gaze focused on an old lady in a bright pink trench coat on the corner. She was wheeling a small portable cart full of groceries from D’Agostino’s, a toothy smile on her face.

  She sighed into the phone. “I think Aster will be okay,” she told Poppy, though she wasn’t sure if she believed that. She had an unexpected wave of sympathy for Aster: she’d wanted her parents to stop enabling Aster’s ridiculous life, but now that they had, her father’s ultimatum seemed so dramatic. Corinne was hurt, too, that Aster had called Poppy instead of her. Then again, her sister still hadn’t apologized for wrecking the dress fitting—­or for the Blessed and the Cursed post about the behind-­the-­scenes drama in her perfect wedding. Corinne had had to give a short, fluffy interview to New York magazine’s online editor this morning, saying how helpful her cousins and sister had been in the planning process. “My sister really knows how to do a party,” she’d tittered. Problem solved, without Aster’s help. As usual.

  But that was how Corinne sailed through life; the waters were choppy, but she was steady, never veering off course. She wondered sometimes how she and Aster had wound up so different, how much was a reaction to the other and how much was built into their DNA. From the time she was a kid, Corinne had been goal-­oriented—­to make a best friend, to get an A, to meet the right kind of ­people. At boarding school, a group of older girls in her hall had enlisted her to help steal a bronze horse statue from the headmaster’s desk. It was something students attempted every year, and even though getting caught could mean disciplinary action, those girls were the right ones to get in with. In fact, when her parents had moved her in, her mother had pointed out some of these very girls, saying Corinne should introduce herself. But when she’d gotten caught, her mother also told her how disappointed she was in Corinne. “I expect more from you,” she’d said. Corinne still carried that memory in her mind, even now. It was a small thing, but it encapsulated so much more. Sometimes it was hard to make the right choices when everyone was watching.

  Now Corinne spied the awning she was looking for, a restaurant called Coxswain. “Hey, Poppy, I have to go,” she said, picking up the pace. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Sure,” Poppy answered. “But listen, maybe you should talk to Aster. She probably needs you right now.”

  “Right. Talk to you soon.” She dropped her phone back into her bag and walked past the potted plants and wrought-­iron figurines on Coxswain’s doorstep. The inside of the restaurant was dark and cool, the vibe like someone’s living room. The chairs didn’t match, nor did the tables—­some were round tile-­tops, others were wood, and the bar was made of chipped marble. Hundreds of oars made a latticework on the ceiling. Every table and barstool was full, but then she spied Dixon waiting at the bar with a beer. His suit jacket was off, his tie was loosened, and his floppy brown hair had been pushed off his head. Sitting next to him was another oxford-­shirted Wall Street type, whom she recognized as Avery Dunbar, one of Dixon’s fraternity friends.

  S
he sighed inwardly. It seemed like they always had company when they went out.

  When Dixon saw Corinne, he gave her an enthusiastic wave, his gray-­green eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaped off his stool and kissed her cheek, then gestured to Avery. “He was in the neighborhood. Loves this place. It’s cool, right?”

  “Sure,” Corinne said; she was too tired to care. She’d called Dixon out on his dinner-­crashing friends before, but he’d just seemed confused. “The more the merrier, right?” he’d said once. And then, “Wait, that bothers you?”

  She looked at Avery. “So you suggested this place?”

  “Actually, Evan Pierce told me to try it,” Dixon said, signaling to the bartender. A chardonnay for Corinne appeared in seconds. “Gourmet says it’s a restaurant to watch. Or maybe it was Bon Appétit. One of those.”

  Avery, who had a square jaw and a thick platinum wedding ring on his fat finger, laughed. “Look at you. Quoting Gourmet Magazine.”

  A waitress in a gingham shirt and tight dark-­wash jeans appeared and told the trio their table was ready. Dixon laid down a few twenties—­Corinne wondered how long they’d been drinking—­and both of the men loped behind the girl to a corner seat. She sipped her wine as she followed behind, listening to them chatter about a major IPO that had happened during trading that day, and then about whether they’d get a house in the Hamptons in August. As they slid into the chairs at a small, round corner table, Dixon smiled. “Could be fun—­nice to get away for the weekends? After the honeymoon, I mean?”

  Corinne shrugged. “I still prefer the Vineyard.”

  Then she looked up at Dixon, who had just been given another beer. “Wait. Why were you talking to Evan Pierce about restaurants?” Corinne had handled every wedding detail thus far, aside from Dixon’s bachelor’s golf weekend, which was taking place soon.