I frowned. “You sure?”
Something as sharp as a knife flashed in her eyes. They might be the color of cooing doves, but they turned hawkish in a second.
“Do you think I don’t know my own name, Mr. Zola?”
Oh, she was a sly little fox, wasn’t she? Bits and pieces of our actual conversation, wine-soaked as it was, were coming back to me. I’d known even then there was a connection between Nina and the de Vrieses. And she had lied, point-blank, even while cultivating my sympathy for her plight.
“Grandmother wasn’t particularly…soft. She cared for me, of course. Not as much as my cousin, who lived with her. But she did. And then they fell out, and I was the one who stayed behind when he ran off. I took care of her and visited when she was ill.”
So. Nina was an heiress.
“And when E—when my cousin returned after years away and got married, Grandmother left him everything. Our family’s entire business. Our properties. All of it.”
Was, then. That’s right, I remembered that too. Celeste de Vries had died last November and willed the company to Eric—his reward for getting married. Huh.
Her hands moved gracefully as she paged through the files she had brought. Every so often, though, she darted a look at me I couldn’t quite read. Suspicious, maybe. Fearful? Confused? Yeah, that made two of us.
I downed the remainder of my wine, then sat back in the armchair, brooding until Jane and Eric’s bickering pulled me out of my daze.
“Nina,” Eric was saying. “Look, I get that this is a big deal, but we were kind of in the middle—”
“Shh, Petri, take a Xanax, all right?” Jane interrupted. “No one delays the Met Gala.”
Eric and I both frowned at her. I vaguely knew what she was talking about—some big party at the museum that shut down the Upper East Side every spring. Was she really talking about a fuckin’ social event like it was more important than my updates about John Carson?
“The Met Gala,” Jane repeated, like we should completely grasp the gravity. When we clearly didn’t, she went off. “Eric! Come on, I would have expected better from you, at least. The Met Gala. First Monday in May. Fashion prom. It’s the giant fundraiser of the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum, overseen by the editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine. One of the most exclusive tickets on the planet, and something you do not say no to. Ever!”
By the time she finished ranting, Eric seemed to know what she was talking about. I, however, was still more interested in Nina, who had gone quiet. From what I recalled, this was a woman who knew fashion. Organizing a fancy event with a bunch of designers seemed like something she’d be capable of doing—more, probably, than a novice like Jane.
Nina seemed more interested in studying her nails than meeting anyone’s gaze. I followed hers. Right to the rock on her left hand.
“Is there someone else?” My heart pounded as I asked. But I had to. I probably knew the answer all along.
Guilt flooded her beautiful face. “I—yes. I’m so sorry, Matthew, but yes, there is.”
Every cell in my body deflated. Fuck. Fuck.
I sighed, but forced myself not to look away. “Married, or just…”
Her shoulders hunched. “I’m married, yes.”
The memory faded, but I still felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
“Okay, so what’s up?” Jane asked Nina, who jerked out of her own daze.
“It’s awful, just awful,” she said in a strange, rushed voice. “I took over Grandmother’s seat on the committee, of course. There wasn’t time for them to find someone else. I had intended to give it to you—I think that’s what she wanted, since the two of you spent so much time at the Institute in her last days, and to be honest, I don’t really know much about fashion beyond the houses I like myself. But you and Eric had so many…challenges…lately, I thought it best to do it myself this year. Except I’m absolutely all wrong for it!”
I sat back in my seat again and continued to study her. Call me crazy, but me thought the lady protested a little too much.
“Wrong for what, Nina?” Eric wondered.
Nina flipped to a large picture: a black-and-white photo of a man about to break his guitar over the words London Calling. “Wrong for this. I can’t help organize an event around this theme. I know absolutely nothing about it.”
Everyone bent to look.
“Oh my merry Mick Jones,” Jane murmured. “You have got to be kidding. Have I died and gone to heaven?”
“What?” Eric wondered.
“Is that The Clash?” I asked with a grin. “Hey, I like that song.” Hell, I was just glad to contribute something to this conversation.
“It’s the theme,” Jane practically sang. “They choose one every year for the exhibit and the gala itself, and this year it’s ‘London Calling.’ Cora Spring and the Metropolitan Museum are using The freaking Clash as their inspiration!”
“Which is why I don’t know what I’m doing!” Nina burst out.
Okay, so she lied about who she was. And no, I didn’t exactly believe that she was that stressed about planning any kind of fashion event, punk-themed or not. But in that moment, I didn’t really care about what lies Nina Astor-de Vries-Gardner-whatever-her-name-was had to tell. I heard the note of true panic in that beautiful voice of hers, and all I could think was make it better.
My hand shot out before I could help it, and barely stopped before it landed on top of hers. Nina stared. Jane and Eric stared. And by some Herculean effort, I managed to pull it back into my lap and pretend that nothing happened. Except something already had. Less than five minutes, and I was like a magnet. Good fuckin’ God, I needed to get out of here.
“So you see,” Nina turned the conversation awkwardly around with a single nervous glance my way. “You have to take my spot, Jane.”
“Come again now?”
I stared at my hands while the three of them went back and forth. I should go. I needed to go. But the truth was, as long as Nina was sitting in front of me, I wasn’t going fuckin’ anywhere.
“Just to be clear,” Jane said. “You are asking me to help the editor of the world’s most prestigious fashion magazine and a bunch of the other most stylish people in the world plan the world’s most exclusive fashion event?”
Without a flinch, Nina nodded. “Please, please, please. I look like a fool.”
I frowned. Not fuckin’ likely. I had a feeling that the calm, competent woman sitting in front of me had never looked like a fool in her entire life.
“Well, I only have one question,” Jane said. “Do I get to go too?”
“Oh, of course! You and Eric are already on the guest list. Heather and Mother too. Didn’t I tell you? The family always has a table.”
“Ah, no! You most certainly did not!”
And then Jane started screaming the same way my sisters did whenever one of them won five dollars on Keno tickets. Eric and I sat back like we were being blasted by a fog horn. Jane launched herself at Nina. And Nina…grinned.