“No, I know she wants to see you. Look, I wore this dress so I could blend in at the party and scope out the situation first. I can find her upstairs and tell her you’re down here waiting for her. That way you don’t have your romantic love scene in the middle of Emma Renaux’s party.” I smile at him. “You know that the second-worst crime after murder is stealing a bride’s thunder.”
Why are you doing this? You want maximum drama, or at least maximum carnage. Why are you trying to keep him from going upstairs?
“Shit, maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe you should go up there first.”
“Good.” It’s so preposterous, I almost laugh when I tell him, “I still have no idea what she looks like. I can’t find her if I don’t know what she looks like. I know she’s tall and blonde, but what else?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Sarah’s not blonde. When did I ever say she was blonde?”
I tilt my head, at a loss. “Of course she’s blonde.”
“No. She’s not blonde. She’s got dark hair, kind of your color, but much longer. And she’s not tall. I don’t think she’s much taller than you are.”
Now I can’t move. I’m in shock. Not as much shock as when I thought he was a coke dealer at the Magic Garden, but more shock than the moment he pointed to Emma Renaux’s picture in the paper. Sarah is not a blonde. How is that humanly possible? Never could I have pictured her as anything but a stick-thin, towering blonde with alien-size blue eyes—like every other woman filing into the lobby right now from their taxis and town cars and limos.
“What else?” I ask.
“She has dark eyes,” he mutters uncertainly. “Definitely dark eyes. But it’s the lips. That’s how you’ll recognize her. From her lips.”
“What about her lips?”
“She has those—what do you call it?” He lifts his finger to my mouth and traces along its curves—not touching my upper lip, but hovering close enough to wake the writhing Ridley Scott alien in my chest. “What do you call this part here? Where the top lip kind of rises and falls in little arches?”
His finger floats over the peaks and valleys. He is very close.
I duck my head and back away.
“You know,” he goes on, “kind of like a—”
“Bow,” I say with a fraction of a breath.
“Right.” His eyes twinkle. “Cupid’s-bow lips. That little dip in the middle.”
“Okay, I got it. I’m ready.”
“No, Theo, wait.” He steps in front of me, forcing me back on my wobbly granny-pump heels.
“What’s wrong now?”
“I don’t know,” he says. He nervously massages the back of his neck. “It’s just . . . I think I’m lying to you. I mean, I know I am. I’m lying.”
I clutch at the bench rail for support. “About what?” It comes out more a croak than a question.
“About this feeling. I don’t think it’s excited-queasy. This is the other kind of queasy. The kind you get before a final exam. The kind you get when you drive into a bad neighborhood after midnight.” He looks up at the treetops swaying over the edge of the fourteenth floor’s outdoor terrace. “Maybe neither one of us is supposed to go up there. I don’t know anything about this Renaux lady or this Wyatt dude, but I’ve got a bad feeling about them. I don’t know. I don’t think you should go.”
I let go of the railing, feeling better. He’s just stalling. “Is it because they’re rich?”
“No.”
“Is it because they like R. Kelly?”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. “No. It’s just a voice in my head, and it’s saying, ‘Don’t let her go up there.’”
Standing this close to him, I can almost hear the voice, too.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“The voice, you mean?”
“No, is that the only thing you’re lying to me about?”
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he states. “That’s it.”
“Okay. Ominous feeling noted and totally respected. And if I am not back down here with Sarah in twenty minutes, then I give you full permission to bust in there and ruin all of Emma’s precious wedding memories.”
The bell strikes fourteen, and the golden elevator doors slide open to the sound of women laughing. The laughter is tasteful. It’s the exact opposite of the laughter I heard at the Magic Garden. This is definitely a Rich People Party. As if to drive the point home, I hear a string quartet playing Bach somewhere down the hall. (I think it’s Bach. Lou would know for sure.) I check the iPhone screen in my pocket and straighten the button cam on my collar. Picture and sound are good to go.
Before I can take another step, a waiter with a skinny tie offers me a tray of pink champagne. “Welcome,” he says with a practiced smile. “There’s a coat check—”
“I’ll keep it,” I blurt out.
“All right, then.” He smiles, taking a tiny step back. “The ladies are straight ahead.”
“Thanks,” I reply, wondering if I qualify as one of “the ladies.” My nerves get the better of me, and I grab two glasses from his tray. I feel like I’m gliding through a long dolly shot—the Art Deco walls falling away on either side of me as mahogany tables and bouquets of white orchids float past. The champagne hits my tongue with a sweet, delectable fizz, and I down the first glass without thinking. I can barely feel the blue-and-gold runner beneath my feet. I ditch the empty by a vase full of calla lilies and start on my second as “the ladies” begin to take shape at the end of the tunnel.
It’s a bigger crowd than I’d thought.
Emma didn’t just invite the bridesmaids; she invited all of her female friends and family. Staying hidden in the crowd will be much easier than I thought, but finding Sarah will be harder. I search the sea of flawless faces for a girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and Cupid’s-bow lips. They all share a sort of high-society sameness, but there is one pocket of girls that stands out.
Two of the five are African American, one Latina. That’s the first thing that catches my eye, but it’s not what keeps my attention. They’re the only ones not laughing or smiling. They’re fidgety and uncomfortable. They’re the outcasts, so I feel an instant kinship with them, even from twenty feet away.
I bring my glass to my lips as I study their faces. I tip it all the way back. That’s two full glasses of champagne in less than three minutes. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol in three months. I need to stop; I’m not here to get shit-faced.
I grab another beautiful and perfectly coiffed waiter as he passes, placing my empty on his tray and taking a fresh bubbly.
“Enjoy,” he says with a wink.
It’s not for enjoyment; it’s for self-control. Hopefully, it will keep the camera steady for my first interview.
After two sips, I stride forward and pause at the two-foot social moat surrounding the girls. I look for the friendliest face in the bunch. I decide on the mocha-skinned Latina girl with the frumpy floral dress and the dried-out platinum-blonde ponytail. Her friends are all wearing ill-fitting, conservative floral dresses, too. Something is wrong with this picture—aside from the fact that they don’t occupy the same tax bracket as the other guests—I just can’t place it yet.
“Hey, do you know if Sarah is here yet?” I ask the girl.
She flashes a quick glance at her friends, like she’s checking to see if it’s cool to talk to me. “I don’t think I know any Sarah,” she says, sizing me up. She has a strong accent, Brooklyn or the Bronx. “Why?” she asks. “Are you with cops?”
I almost spit my champagne back into the glass. “Cops? Why would I be with—?”
“No, not cops.” She laughs. “That’s a giveaway. So you aren’t K.O.P. I thought you might be the sixth ambassador.”
Are we speaking in CIA code now? The sixth ambassador? It sounds like a bad political thriller that couldn’t get George Clo
oney and had to settle for one of the Affleck brothers instead. They thought diplomacy was dead. They hadn’t counted on . . . THE SIXTH AMBASSADOR. This Fourth of July, Casey Affleck IS . . . The Sixth Ambassador.
Okay, I’m drunk.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to smile and failing. My cheeks feel hot; the room swirls with a warm glow. “You lost me.”
“No, I’m sorry. Oh, shit, you look so freaked out right now.” She clamps her palm over her mouth, and her friends laugh. Her hand falls away. “My bad,” she says. “Let’s start again. I’m Helena.”
I’m so tipsy that my real name leaks out. “Theo.”
“What’s up, Theo?”
“So . . . what’s K.O.P?”
“The place that Mr. Wyatt and Ms. Renaux run on Parker Street . . . ?”
All the outcast girls are staring at me now. I’m obviously supposed to know this. Everyone else at the party knows this.
“You know,” Helena continues in the buzzy silence. “It’s, like, a place for girls. Like, girls who are going through sh—stuff back home or whatever, and they need a place to stay.”
“You mean a shelter?” The question sounds overly loud in my ears.
Helena’s eyes darken. “Yeah, like that,” she mumbles, “but we don’t really like that word. It’s more like a hostel. But just for girls.”
My complete lack of tact has done it yet again. I’ve managed to offend someone at a party I’ve crashed in, what, ten minutes? I gulp down what’s left of the champagne. My mind races with this bizarre new information. Emma and her fiancé run a young women’s shelter in Lower Manhattan. On Parker Street. Which is not far from the hotel or Battery Gardens. Not far from the Harbor Café, either.
“It’s K.O.P.’s anniversary,” Helena adds. “So Ms. Renaux planned the wedding, like, around the big anniversary so they could celebrate them together. You know what I’m saying?”
The girls are all squinting at me now, clearly wondering why the hell I don’t know any of this.
“Oh, yeah, cool.”
“Yeah, cool.” Her voice is flat. “I’m saying they invited some of us to the wedding as, like, ‘ambassadors,’ so their friends and family could meet us and see how good we’re doing—you know, thanks to K.O.P. That’s why I thought maybe you were the sixth girl, because nobody’s met her yet.”
I’m still nodding and smiling, but I feel squirmy and disoriented. On the other hand, at least now I understand Helena’s outfit—all their outfits. Hints of previously inked skin peek out from beneath their ill-fitting collars and sleeves. There are seven empty piercings along Helena’s right ear, a pin-sized hole where her nose stud should be. They’ve all been “scrubbed” and de-pierced—made over with dull, conservative frocks to showcase the transformative powers of K.O.P.
K.O.P. Making the world a better place, one dowdy floral dress at a time.
I try to picture Sarah in one of those dresses. Could she be one of these girls? Could she be staying at this K.O.P. shelter? Is she the “sixth ambassador”? Is she somewhere at this party wearing a dress even uglier than mine?
First, she’s not blonde; now, she’s not rich.
Is that even possible? I know I told Andy she might not be rich, but I never really believed it. Now I think of the insane suggestion I made that rainy night—that Sarah tried to pass off that Brooklyn townhouse as her own. Could I have possibly gotten that whole thing right? I feel a steady throbbing in my temples, synced with my heartbeat.
Three glasses of champagne, you idiot.
The pewter clock over the oyster bar tells me I have thirteen more minutes before Andy initiates Operation Rescue.
Helena’s voice drifts toward me. “Are you okay?”
“I need people to stop asking me that,” I mutter.
“Maybe you should sit down,” she says. “Do you want some water or something?”
Helena guides me to the couch, pulling the champagne glass from my hand. One of her friends runs to one of the bartenders and returns with a glass of water, which I pound down in three grateful glugs.
Then I suck in a deep breath. Three letters fall from my mouth as I exhale. “K.O.P.”
“Say again?” Helena says.
“K.O.P.,” I repeat. “What does K.O.P. stand for?”
“Oh. Keeping Our Promise. That’s the full name. Mr. Wyatt says it’s about the ‘unspoken promise’ we all make to help the poor and the needy, but all the girls know what it really means.” Helena rolls her eyes. “You know, the promise every girl makes to keep herself p—”
“Ms. Renaux at two o’clock,” her friend whispers.
Everything about Helena’s demeanor changes in an instant. Her posture straightens, her smile doubles in size, and her voice doubles in volume, bubbling with fake joy.
“Oh my God, I could go on about Ms. Renaux and Mr. Wyatt forever,” she gushes. “They are, like, the kindest, most amazing people I’ve ever met. I can’t even believe they invited us to everything—this awesome bar and the rehearsal dinner. It’s like a dream.”
Emma Renaux draws near. No longer a two-inch photo in the paper, but a living, breathing human being, moving slowly in my direction. The closer she gets, the woozier I feel. Sweat forms on my eyelids, stinging my left eye. Thank God the cam can pick up what I’m losing.
“And Mr. Wyatt, he is just the best,” Helena goes on. “It’s, like, totally true what everyone says about him. He really is an honest-to-God hero, you know?”
“Oh, that’s the truth,” her friend agrees far too loudly.
The conversation is clearly for Emma’s benefit, but she doesn’t seem to hear it. She’s not looking at us. She’s not exactly looking at anything. She’s smiling, but it’s the emptiest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s like a mask that only covers the bottom half of her face. The top half—the eyes—are telling the real story. Whatever that story is, it doesn’t jibe with the festive mood here. Even with my cloudy eye, I can see it. I wonder if anyone else can see it, because it doesn’t seem they can. Nobody looks concerned or worried for her. Nobody’s asking her what’s wrong. Why am I the only one who sees it?
“Oh, shoot,” Helena says, standing up and smoothing out her dress. “I forgot my soda at the bar. I’ll be back in a few.”
I know she’s lying to make a quick exit, but that’s fine. She floats out of frame, and my tunnel vision narrows to just one person. Emma. Her sad green eyes and slender shape are all I see now. Everything else is a blur. My bleary eyes follow her across the room—pink minidress hugging her tiny, twenty-five-inch waist; her blonde bob expertly cut with thousand-dollar highlights that shine like gold, even in the dim light. How could anyone that rich and skinny look so forlorn at her own bridesmaids’ party?
I realize I’m not just following her with my eyes. I’ve begun to tail her. I’m up and walking past the velvet couches, not ten feet behind her as she weaves her way through friends and family toward the glass doors at the end of the bar, where the vast New York skyline glows. The outdoor terrace is empty. Too windy for girls with salon hair. The hotel hasn’t even bothered to turn on the terrace lights.
But that’s exactly what she wants. She wants to be alone.
Emma walks the length of the terrace, hair battered by the wind, peering back through the windows to be sure no one is watching her. I wait until she’s on the far end before I step outside to join her. The wind is so deafening, there’s no way she can hear me approach even with my clunky shoes crunching on the gravel.
Once she’s sure she is safely hidden, she digs into her Fendi clutch and pulls out a cigarette, waging an epic battle with the wind to get it lit with a cheap Bic lighter. I know next to nothing about Emma Renaux, but I’m surprised that she smokes. Judging from the way she keeps looking over her shoulder, I’m guessing her friends and family would be surprised, too.
Finally the ciga
rette catches, glowing orange. She takes a long drag and exhales, waving the smoke away from her face. I don’t know why, but I take the sudden stillness in the air as my cue to speak.
“Excuse me, where’s Sarah?” I ask her. “She’s supposed to be here, right?”
Emma gasps and drops her cigarette. She turns and her eyes lock with mine. In that instant, she whirls away, fixing her gaze on the white gravel beneath our feet. She hugs herself tightly, clutching her taut shoulders, and begins to shiver. I think I’ve somehow terrified her. Is she that nervous about getting caught with a smoke? I can only see a sliver of her face. I take a few steps closer and realize she’s whispering something.
A prayer. She is whispering “Our Father.”
Over and over.
“. . . Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”
What did I do? How could I have frightened her this badly? I take another step, but her desperate voice stops me cold.
“Don’t come any closer,” she says, edging toward the railing, her back still turned to me. Her voice is quavering and weak. “Please. I know why you’re here.”
I want her to see me smile; I make my voice as light and apologetic as I can. “No, I don’t think—”
“You don’t have to say anything. Please don’t say anything.”
“No, I’m not—I’m just here for Andy. I’m just looking for—”
“Oh, God, please stay away from Andy,” she begs. “This isn’t his fault. He’s a good man. He’s only ever tried to do good. Please don’t punish him now. I’ll fix it, I swear.”
When she says his name, I feel something rise inside me, scorching the back of my throat. “What’s not his fault? What did Andy do?”
“Nothing.” She’s on the verge of tears. “Andy’s a saint. He still loves you more than anything in this world. Please. Please don’t come back here again.” She finally turns to me, her face streaked with tears. “Please, Sarah. Let me make it right. I’ll make it right.”
The Girl with the Wrong Name Page 9
