“So what we need is proof that Solomon Rivers isn’t a fabric wholesaler or a dealer of any kind,” I said. “If we can prove that, then we can prove that all those charges Sasha made over the past however many months were fraudulent, right?” I looked at Alex. “Can you do that?”
I glanced at Chase. He sat perfectly still, his lips pulled into a tight line across his face. I’d explained everything when I’d called him; he knew he didn’t have to be involved unless he wanted to be. I didn’t have anything to lose, really. I’d already lost my job at LeFranc and left New York. But Chase did.
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I’m suddenly wishing I’d taken that class on forensic accounting when I had the chance.” He moved to the door. “If Solomon Rivers is incorporated, then the location of their headquarters, the president of the LLC, general contact information, that’s all publicly accessible information on file with the state.”
“What if it’s registered overseas?” Chase said. “That’s what people do, right? If they embezzle money, they store it in offshore accounts to avoid taxes?”
I raised an eyebrow in Chase’s direction.
He shrugged “What? I watch a lot of movies.”
“Let me do some research,” Alex said. “I think I might know someone who can help. My friend, Angelica, did specialize in forensic accounting. I think she’ll at least be able to point me in the right direction.”
I raised my arms into a shrug, motioning to the room around me. “And in the meantime?” I asked.
“Oh, start sewing,” Alex said. “This woman is going down.”
As soon as we heard the studio door close, Chase leaned in. “Okay. All jokes aside? I need to know what’s going on between you two.”
I huffed a laugh. “What does it look like?”
“Uh, it looks like he’s going to a lot of effort to help you steal back a wedding dress.”
“It’s not about that for him,” I said. “This is his family we’re talking about. It’s personal.”
Chase crossed his arms. “Stepfamily.”
“Still.”
Chase just looked at me, doubt written all over his face.
“Why is it so hard for you to imagine two people working together to reach the same goal for different reasons?”
“Maybe I could if we were talking about any other two people. But the two of you were in love less than a year ago. I think I’m justified in saying that complicates things.”
“It’s been more than a year,” I said. “A year and . . . four months.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “But who’s counting, right?”
“I know. It’s weird. But it’s like we’ve landed in this strange middle ground where we’re polite and courteous and we get along. We just don’t talk about anything that happened.”
Chase huffed. “But that’s not sustainable. Eventually, stuff will come up.”
“What else is there to say?” I countered. “He apologized in New York.”
“But you’re still mad,” Chase said.
I stared at my hands. Mad wasn’t the right word. “I’m scared,” I finally said. “I feel like I barely came out of the fog a few months ago. It was worse than just getting over a broken heart. It was getting over it without any sense of closure. I finally feel okay again. I don’t know if I can risk opening my heart to him again.”
“I know, sweetie,” Chase said. “But you’re still standing, even after all that. And now there’s this man who is so good in so many ways. And it might be worth recognizing—at least acknowledging that it’s a possibility—he’s doing this big thing because he still cares about you.”
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. “Don’t say that. I can’t think about that right now.”
“You know what Mark Twain said about denial?” Chase asked. “It ain’t just a river in Egypt.”
I shook my head. “It’s not about being in denial. It feels like I just got the dam built, you know? My feelings for Alex are contained, safe, walled up. If you mess with that wall right now? It’s not like a little bit might trickle out. It’s all or nothing. The whole dam will break, and I can’t deal with a deluge. I’m afraid it will break me for good.”
Chase stood and crossed the tiny room to where I sat at my makeshift sewing station. He pulled me to my feet and wrapped me in a hug. “Okay,” he said softly. “I get it. I won’t push.”
I gave his shoulders a quick squeeze and draped my measuring tape over his shoulders. “Ready to make an ugly dress?”
“Absolutely not. I’m ready to go to the beach. We can start the ugly dress tomorrow.”
“What is it with you and the beach? It’s November. It’s not even warm enough to be at the beach.”
“It was sixty-five degrees when we pulled up this afternoon,” Chase said, indignant. “That’s plenty warm enough. I didn’t say I wanted to swim.”
“But it’s forty degrees now. And windy. I promise it isn’t as magical as you think this time of year.”
He tossed my measuring tape back at my head. “You’re a terrible buzzkill, you know that, right?”
I grinned. “What if we compromise and go get seafood for dinner?”
“Ohhh, I’m intrigued. All of us?”
I shrugged. “Sure. But you’re buying. I’m totally broke.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “I miss the days when Alex was making enough money to buy us all dinner, all the time. How much does your brother pay him anyway?”
“I doubt it’s half as much as he made at LeFranc, but he doesn’t seem to care.”
“Yeah, I’ve picked up on that. He seems happy here,” Chase said. “Different, but happy. It’s like Alex 2.0.”
I couldn’t tell Chase how much I agreed with him; if I did, I was pretty sure he’d pick up on the hope in my voice—the hope I’d just tried really hard to convince Chase didn’t even exist.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alex
I’d never really loved Thanksgiving. Since I lived with my Dad full time, I’d always spent holidays with Mom and Alicio. Thanksgiving at the LeFranc house had always looked like it belonged in a magazine. Everything looked perfect, right down to the coordinating outfits Mom made us wear to dinner. The meals had been extravagant, prepared by a kitchen full of personal chefs I always felt sorry for because wouldn’t they rather have been cooking a Thanksgiving meal for their own families?
Once a photographer from ELITE Fashion had come to dinner and taken a photograph of Alicio at the head of the table, a cashmere scarf loosely draped around his neck, the glistening, perfectly browned turkey displayed on the table before him. In the photo that made the magazine, he held my mother’s hand. Though he stared at the camera, smiling broadly, she stared at him, warmth and affection in her gaze. In the foreground, two boys in matching sweaters sat on either side of the happy couple. I had taken my sweater off before dinner, claiming the wool made my neck itch. That was the reason my mother gave later, after the magazine had gone to press with the third son cropped out of the shot. My lack of a sweater.