Evan frowned. “It’s the restaurant to watch. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am,” Corinne said quickly. “It seems. 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 some 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 it 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 on 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 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 fiancé?” 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 Corin
ne 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. A real drink, but this would do. She grabbed her glass and quickly drank the rest.
“This one is lovely,” she said as she set the empty glass on the table, already feeling lighter.
Will chuckled. “Long day?”
“Sometimes it feels like it’s been a long few decades,” Corinne said, surprising herself. She wondered how such an honest thought had escaped her lips.
Will shifted on the stool. “I was sorry to hear about your cousin. We only met a couple times, but I remember that you were close.”
So. There it was. Corinne felt the knot inside her chest unfurl. Of course that summer wasn’t a secret to either of them, but hearing him acknowledge it, she somehow felt as though a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She pictured Poppy then, dancing with one of Will’s friends the night they met, never caring what anyone thought of her, and yet somehow managing for everyone to think only the best things. “Thank you,” she said softly, a little bit calmer. This will go okay, she told herself. Just keep breathing. Just get through it.
Next, they tried a red from the Lagrein region, and then a heady Barolo, followed by some dessert wines. Before long, Corinne’s posture wasn’t as straight, and she wasn’t dabbing her mouth after every sip. She stared at Will, who was talking animatedly to Andrew, firming up their final selections. An unexpected sensual feeling filled her. All at once, she could almost feel the cool sand between her toes, the salty spray coating her skin, the first night they met. And now, as she gazed at Will’s pink, sensuous lips, she remembered distinctly what it had felt like to kiss him.
Andrew kissed her good night on both cheeks, and then left them with the unfinished bottles. Before long they’d helped themselves to another glass. Then another. Corinne’s head was swimming; she felt as if she was floating. And though she knew she should get home, she couldn’t exactly will her body to leave the stool.
Will turned to her and grinned. “You work at Saybrook’s, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Corinne said, trying to remain poised. “I’m the head of foreign business.”
“The head.” Will didn’t seem surprised. “Of course you are.”
Corinne lowered her eyes, feeling as though she’d been too boastful. “Well, it helps if your last name is on the letterhead.”
“Don’t do that.” He took her hand, the force of it surprising her. “I’m sure you deserve the position. Good for you. Ever think about working somewhere else?”
Corinne blinked hard. “I’ve never really thought of it.”
“Really? Never?”
Not long after they’d kissed on the sand, Will had found Corinne again when she was shopping in town. He’d peered at her from across the street, and then walked over and slipped a note into her hand. “The boatyard at Carson and Main. Midnight,” it read.
It had been a warm and sticky night. Corinne had stood alone on the docks in a long skirt and way-too-expensive leather sandals. But then Will had appeared through the mist and took her hand, leading her to a small fishing boat halfway down the slip. Corinne hadn’t asked whose boat it was; she hadn’t even thought about it. She sat down in the hull. And then, instead of kissing her, he touched Corinne’s house keys. The key chain was to the Meriweather Yacht Club. “You have a boat?”
“Just my family’s.” It wasn’t just a boat, exactly—it was a massive yacht that slept twelve—but she hoped he didn’t know that. He’d been so careful about his sneakers near the water, afraid to get them wet, whereas Corinne, who had been wearing five-hundred-dollar flip-flops, hadn’t given it a thought.
Corinne had held his gaze. It wasn’t a surprise that he knew about her family; it surprised her, though, that he seemed to care. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ask questions about your family. I don’t want to know who they are. I want to know you. The real you.”
The real you. It was a concept she didn’t quite understand. I am Corinne Saybrook. I went to boarding school at Exeter. I had a 3.87 average at Yale. I play field hockey, lacrosse, and ride horses; I summer in Meriweather and go to Portofino or St. Barts over spring break. I’ve read every Jane Austen book twice. I just broke up with Dixon Shackelford, and starting next month, I will be working in the foreign business department of my family’s company.
And so she said all that—even the part about Dixon. Will had given her a searching look. “That sounds like a résumé. You’re more than that.”
Was she? But suddenly she found herself telling him things no one else knew. She told him that her first-grade teacher had it in for her for some reason—she never knew why—yet she always told her parents she was the teacher’s pet. She talked about how her mother used to make her walk around with a book on her head and made her go to every charitable event in the city, even though the other girls there weren’t very friendly to her. She talked about how her father seemed to prefer Aster. She’d even admitted that there were rumors that her sister was getting in trouble in Europe, and told him how worried she was about her. But angry, too.
She wasn’t sure why she told Will everything. But she did, and that night a thought floated through her mind, unbidden. I love you already, something deep inside her had whispered.
Now, she looked across the bar at Will. He was still watching her. “I never thought about branching out because I never felt allowed to,” she said, the confessional floodgates opening again. “I was always a good girl. I always did what my parents asked. That meant working for the family. It meant going to the right schools and wearing the right clothes and marrying . . .” She trailed off.
“What was that?” Will asked, cocking his head.
Corinne looked down. “Marrying well,” she admitted.
Will stared at her, and for a long time he was silent. Then his fingers groped for his glass. “I’m sorry I was cold to you the other day,” he said, his voice hitching on cold. “And this might make me sound like an asshole, but you never have to deal with me again after tonight, so I might as well say it.” His lips trembled for a moment. Corinne’s heart started to pound. “Life’s too short to care about marrying well.”
She clutched her wineglass. She wanted to defend Dixon, but all of a sudden, Dixon felt very far away. Corinne couldn’t even picture his face—not the shape of his eyes, not whether he had dimp
les, not the way he smelled. On the other hand, she’d carried around a mental image of every contour of Will’s face and body for five years. She could have sketched him perfectly if someone had asked. Maybe that meant something; if you could still draw someone when he was gone. If you remembered him perfectly. If you were his mirror, even after lots of time had passed . . .
She rubbed her palms against her eyes, smearing her makeup. What was she thinking? She balled a napkin in her hands and stood. “I think I’ve had too much to drink. I must look awful.”
Will stood too. “You look amazing.”
He placed his hand on her arm. Her head hummed. And suddenly it was as if she had floated out of her body and was watching from above, from some other plane. She pictured herself sitting in the front row of a theater, Poppy next to her, their hands in a bowl of popcorn, their mouths agape, as Corinne reached out for Will, pulling his neck toward her. He fell into her, his mouth hungrily searching for hers. Bumping against one another, they backed out of the private room into one of the cellars, a space dry and dark. Will laid Corinne down and gazed at her. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but she covered it. He pawed at the waistband of her skirt desperately.
The night on the boat washed over her once more. After Corinne had told him all the things that made her embarrassed, he’d taken her into his arms. It almost felt as if something was swelling inside her—and if it didn’t happen right that moment, she would burst.
There in the wine cellar, Will kissed her neck as he tore off her sweater, and she arched her back against the surprisingly cold floor. He pushed her skirt up around her waist. And then they breathed into each other, their mouths tasting like wine. “Oh my God,” Will kept saying, every so often pausing to stare at her. Tears formed in Corinne’s eyes, though she wasn’t sad. It was just that she remembered Will doing that same thing the first time they were together. Looking at her like that, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening.
The Heiresses Page 11
