“I called you last week, but you couldn’t talk.”
“Well, I had the Osterman’s daughter’s bridal shower. Do you remember her, sweetheart?”
“Which one? There were a few of them.”
“The middle girl is getting married first. And the oldest, I think she was in your grade, didn’t even come. Can you believe that? Her own sister is getting married, and she wasn’t at the shower.”
“Jaclyn. Last I heard she—”
“No, Kristin is the bride.”
“Right. But Jaclyn, the older sister, the one my age, I think she’s a marine biologist. She spends most of the year on a boat in the ocean, studying shark migration patterns or something.” We weren’t really friends in school, but we follow each other on Instagram and her photos are amazing.
“Are you implying that what Jaclyn is doing is more important than celebrating her sister’s upcoming wedding?”
Yes. “It’s probably just not that easy for her to get off work. I’m sure she’ll be there for the wedding.”
My mom huffs. “I should hope so. The most wonderful day in a woman’s life; she should have her family around to support her.”
“There’s more to life than marriage, Mom.” There better be. Because my prospects in that area are looking pretty bleak. “And besides, most people don’t exactly stay true to their vows.”
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening. My mother and I have never discussed what I saw when I worked for her the summer before I left for college. For a while, she was the go-to caterer for events held at an old mansion that cost a fortune to rent but didn’t have on-staff chefs. It was popular for weddings, sweet sixteen birthday parties, bar and bat mitzvahs, and corporate events. Events where my mom could make more in a night than my father made in his bi-monthly paycheck.
The mansion was run by a man named Paul, who couldn’t get enough of my mother. And the feeling seemed mutual. She was all smiles around him, laughing and flirting. I even noticed him following her into the garage, where there was a second refrigerator. He closed the door, and when she eventually came out, her hair was all mussed, her lipstick smeared, and her clothes disheveled.
I didn’t want to think that my mother was cheating on my father, but it was clear that something happened between her and Paul. And toward the end of the summer, just before I left, I overheard an argument between my parents that left no room for doubt. I couldn’t hear everything, just words and phrases that plunked into my conscience like pebbles, the ripples forever disturbing the placid surface.
I should kill him.
No. He’s not worth it.
Did Vivienne see—
Of course not.
You’re never going back.
Will you ever look at me the same?
And lots and lots of tears.
“I hope that’s not how I raised you, Vivienne. When you find a man who loves you like your father loves me, how I love him, it’s truly something to celebrate.”
I feel slightly nauseous as her soft goodbye hits my ear. I’m just not sure if it’s because I know she’s lying, or because she does it so well. Like she believes every word.
Or maybe it’s just the bitter seed of envy taking root. Because I wish I knew how it felt to be deeply in love with a man who loved me right back. Even if it’s only an illusion . . . for as long as it lasts, it must be wonderful.
Chapter 36
Lance
17 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
The blare of trumpets breaks my concentration, reminding me that I still haven’t gotten around to replacing the bell. I make a mental note to ask Vivienne if it’s something she can take care of. God knows she’s done just about everything else in the house. Hung paintings, changed the hardware in the kitchen, swapped out doorknobs, installed blinds when I happened to mention that the glare on my computer screen in the mornings sometimes made it hard to read.
When I asked her to turn the house from the shoddy state it was in when I first arrived into something better—I really didn’t think much of it. It was a task to make Vivienne feel useful, to give her something to do, so she wouldn’t leave.
Moving back here after being gone so long, and without a bustling corporate office to spend most of my days, I found the idea of Vivienne staying here with me . . . pleasant. And convenient.
But somewhere along the way, Vivienne turned this house into a home. Every time I turn around, she’s bringing something into the house. Not just random shit she thinks looks good. No, Vivienne has a way of asking me the most casual, innocuous questions—favorite authors, memorable places I’ve traveled, what got me interested in cybersecurity—and somehow manifesting my answers physically. She found an artist out in Montauk that creates sculptures using discarded computers and electronic components. She etched RiskTaker’s mission statement onto a piece of driftwood and hung it behind my desk. Leather-bound copies of my favorite books sit on my bookshelves. She’s left her stamp, and mine, in every room.
My calendar taunts me on a daily basis. Soon, I’ll be back in California. In a big, sterile house that has places to eat and sleep and fuck and work but not an ounce of personality. And no one in that bustling corporate office will ever take the place of Vivienne.
The trumpets blare again. “Coming!” The Fed Ex driver must be impatient today.
But it’s not the documents I’m expecting.
“I thought you would call me.” Missy is wearing a white tennis dress, her hair in a ponytail.
I snicker. “You thought wrong.”
Missy purses her lips and looks over my shoulder. “Can I come in?”
“Be my guest.” I step aside, closing the door behind her.
Her head swivels as she looks around, making a low whistle. “Look at you, coming back to your roots in style.”
“We’ve both done well,” I say impassively.
“No. Not really. I’ve just come from Jacob’s lawyer’s office.” She throws herself on the couch, displacing one of the pillows. “Want to know why?”
“Not particularly.”
“One word. Prenup.”
“Come on, don’t tell me you expected to marry him without one?”
“That was my hope. But no, I expected one, just not the one he wants me to sign.” She sits up so fast, another pillow falls to the floor. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”
I squint at her. “And prolong your stay? No.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She gets to her feet and strides across the room to the bar cart.
Vivienne came home with it last week, the cart wrapped up like a mummy in the seat beside her. But since she didn’t like the chrome finish, she took it out onto the patio and spent two days outside with paint, brushes, and a wad of steel wool to rough up the metal and transform it into an interesting mix of silver streaked with gold. And then she set it up in a corner of the living room, stocking it with liquor and crystal tumblers.
Now Missy sloshes vodka into one and tosses it back. “My prenup is ridiculous. I barely get pennies if we divorce in five years. And if he catches me cheating, I won’t even get that.”