by Geneva Lee
She seems to have flourished. Jetting off to Paris, wearing haute couture, she’s become the Valmont stereotype. Unlike her, Adair is in jeans and a t-shirt, her attitude as fiery as her hair—until she saw me. This Adair is at odds with the woman at the funeral. She reminds me of the girl I met years ago. The question is: which one is the real Adair? Does she even know?
I turn back to my meal, confronted by curious, round eyes. The little girl is hardly tall enough to see over the table. From here, it looks like two wide blue orbs hanging over a soup bowl. I wink at her and her eyes scrunch up with a smile.
“Why don’t you eat some soup, love?” Poppy suggests, nudging a spoon into her tiny hands. The girl looks down at the bisque and her face screws into a grimace.
“What is it?” she asks in her tiny voice.
“Lobster. Just eat it, Ellie,” Ginny snaps.
Ellie drags her spoon through it but doesn’t take a bite. “I want dinner not wobster.”
My thoughts exactly. I’ll never understand why rich people have to eat in courses for hours.
“It’s coming,” Poppy promises her.
“Are you going to join us?” Malcolm asks Adair, who is still standing in the doorway watching this play out.
I see a tremble roll through her body, hardly noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know Adair’s body like I do. Her shoulders square, her head tilts, pointing her button nose toward the ceiling, but her eyes fall on the empty seat next to mine. She might act high and mighty, but she has no choice. Soon that will be true about more than her seat at the dining table.
“I guess you didn’t get my voicemail about dinner,” Malcolm says, disapproval dripping off him as he surveys her casual attire.
This snaps Adair out of it. “Was I supposed to wear a ball gown?”
She saunters toward the table, yanks her chair back and drops into it without the slightest acknowledgment of my presence.
“We’ve never worn jeans to the table in this house.” It’s a simple observation laced with warning. For a second, Poppy and I lock eyes. We’re two Christians in the Coliseum, and the MacLaines are on the verge of a battle.
“I assumed daddy’s rules died with him.”
Malcolm’s mouth opens, his nostrils flaring, but Ginny jumps in.
“We have a guest,” she reminds Adair, but it’s a reminder for Malcolm as well.
“Yes,” Malcolm says through gritted teeth. “Adair, do you remember—”
“I think so.” Adair shoots a puzzled look my direction as if she’s trying to place me. “Freshman year?”
So, this is how she wants to play it. She can pretend not to know me. Maybe she’ll even sell Malcolm on her charade, but it’s written all over her body in a language I’ve read before. She doesn’t know what to do with me.
My fingers close over my butter knife, but I slip on an easy smile. “Seems like forever. Seems like yesterday.”
“Feels like forever,” she murmurs, picking up her spoon.
“Mr. Ford is interested in MacLaine Media,” Malcolm says, each word heavy and purposeful. By now, the entire family knows that their legacy is on the line. There’s no need to be more overt with his warnings. She knows what they stand to lose.
“It’s Mr. Ford now?” Adair sips bisque from the tip of her spoon with delicate calm.
“Sterling,” I correct her. “Old friends don’t need to be so formal.”
“Cyrus mentioned you were back in town.” Poppy’s interjection is met with a grateful smile by Ginny, whose been watching Adair and me with the paralyzed fear of a deer on the highway. “I told him we must do dinner. I feel terrible he’s not here.”
“Cyrus Eaton?” Malcolm is genuinely surprised.
“My old roommate,” I explain.
I see something click into place in Malcolm’s mind. Does he really think I came around asking about his sister on a whim?
“That’s right,” Adair says. “I’d forgotten you two had a dorm together.”
“Good man,” Malcolm says. “Did you room together all four years?”
“I left during my freshman year,” I say nonchalantly. Next to me, Adair’s spoon freezes midway to her lips. It’s only for a second—a pregnant pause—and then she goes back to her feigned indifference.
“That sounds like a story,” Malcolm says.
“It is.” I recognize an invitation when I receive it, but I’m not about to tell any of them what they want to know. They’re not getting through this that easily.
“I’ve been thinking, Adair,” Poppy continues her attempts at small talk. She’s always been good at sensing tension. “We should have a photo booth. The Clarks had one at their wedding, and everyone loved it.”
“That’s a good idea,” Adair says, side-eying me and then looking away.
“A photo booth for what? Are you and Cyrus getting married?”
“No!” The nervous laughter accompanying this clarification suggests that’s not down to her desires. “My family is hosting a gala for the local animal rescue. Adair has been helping me with a few last-minute details.”
“A gala?” I emphasize the words, so my interest is clear to all parties. “Sounds fun.”
Malcolm immediately seizes the opportunity. “You should come. It will give you a chance to see old acquaintances. If you knew Cyrus, then you’ll know several people there. Being new to town, it might be a way to reconnect.”
“New,” Adair scoffs under her breath. I ignore her.
“Of course,” Poppy says looking flustered, “I’m afraid you have to sponsor a table.”
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. My chance to dangle my wealth like a prize over the MacLaine family’s heads. “That’s not a problem. I can write you a check right now.”
“Tables cost $7000,” Adair says with a note of challenge.
“Seems like a worthy cause. Naturally, being new in town,” I emphasize the phrase her brother used, “I won’t have a full table to invite.”
“Join our table,” Malcolm says. “We’d love to have you.”
Adair’s spoon clatters into her soup bowl, splashing bisque on the tablecloth.
“I don’t think—” she begins.
But I take advantage of her surprise. “I’d love to.”
I turn my attention to Poppy, not wanting this to undermine my earlier effort. “You can count on me for a table fee regardless. It’s better this way. Everything will go to the animals.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Poppy says pleadingly, her entreaty directed at Adair, whose scowl could kill a man.
“Sometimes, I think I like dogs better than people,” I say, meaning it. Dogs are loyal. They don’t test you or manipulate you or leave you.
“Do you have a dog?” A tiny voice pipes up from the chair swallowing her across the table.
“Ellie,” her mother says in a strained voice, “what is the rule at the table?”
“Children should be seen and not heard,” she squeaks, her eyes turning down to the full bowl at her place. She drags her spoon again. No one’s noticed that she hasn’t had a bite.
The hollow place inside me that I’ve learned to ignore groans for recognition. She has so much of the things I never had but she’s missing out on the one thing I’d always wanted, too. I lean across the table to see her better. She has her daddy’s hair. “I don’t have a dog. Do you?”
Her gaze darts between her mother and father. She doesn’t dare answer until Ginny nods. “No. Mommy won’t let me get one. She says dogs pee on the carpet.”
“That’s quite enough,” Malcolm cuts her off.
“This is why we don’t have Ellie at the table,” Ginny laughs nervously but she’s glaring at Adair not the girl. “She doesn’t understand how to behave appropriately.”
“She’s four,” Adair spits back.
A nerve has been touched, and now I’m stuck in the middle of a passive-aggressive tournament of champions. I suspect this is about more than the little g
irl coming to dinner.
“She’s happier in the kitchen with Cara at dinner,” Ginny disagrees. The two women glare at each other.
“She doesn’t enjoy eating the same things,” Malcolm explains to me, trying to distract me from the fight between his wife and his sister. “I suppose I didn’t have much of a palate then either.”
“Then bring her food up here,” Adair says.
Ginny turns away from her and gives me a brittle smile. “It’s just so important for us to have adult time.”
“That’s all you ever have,” Adair murmurs.
While the adults argue, the glum frown on Ellie’s face deepens as she pretends to play with her soup. She can hear everything they’re saying. She knows they don’t want her here. Maybe her aunt does, but Adair has never had a talent for going about things the right way.
“Regardless, when we have company, she doesn’t belong at the table.” Ginny reaches for her wine. She’s on the second glass of the evening, but it isn’t mellowing her a bit. Every word from her mouth is clipped, strung as tightly as she is. One wrong move and she’ll snap.
Tears well in Ellie’s eyes and I try to think of something to say or do to end this that won’t result in hurting her. Someone should fucking consider that. I turn to Adair, my jaw clenching tightly as I try to think of what to say. Despite her antics, she seems to care the most about the girl. When our gazes lock, I see it there: the trapped, wild look she always wore in this house when we first met. It’s like a bird caught inside beating against the window for release. I start to open my mouth—to demand she do something—but before I can she mouths one word:
Don’t.
Another time I might enjoy ignoring this plea, but this isn’t about us.
Adair pushes her chair roughly back, its legs catching on the Persian rug. “I’ll get her ready for bed.”
“That won’t be necessary. You’re not her mother,” Ginny says, her voice as smooth and cold as glass. But she doesn’t move to stop Adair as she circles the table. “Cara!”
“I said I would do it,” she repeats, lifting Ellie into her arms.
“Adair,” Poppy calls to her friend softly, “why don’t we—”
“It’s not your place,” Ginny hisses, abandoning any pretext of forced civility.
A woman appears dressed in a pressed, white dress that makes her look like she just stepped out of the goddamn nineteenth-century. She halts at the table and waits with her arms behind her back. “Cara, please put Ellie to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She reaches for her and waits for Adair to release her. When she does, the nanny exhales in relief. Adair leans over and kisses Ellie’s forehead.
“I’ll come in and read you a story in a little bit,” she whispers.
“I think we’re ready for the main course,” Malcolm says to Ginny who sits like a seething volcano at the other end of the table. She’s on the verge of eruption.
“I’m not hungry,” Adair says, and Ginny moves to stand.
For a second, I think that I might actually be privy to a chick fight, but before it can come to blows, Poppy interrupts. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late. I need to go!”
“Yes, you do. I’ll walk you to the door.” Adair grabs Poppy’s hand and leads her out of the room.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Malcolm says. “MacLaine women are feisty.”
Ginny sniffs as though she suspects this doesn’t apply to her. Now that Adair is gone, she looks as though someone dumped water over her anger. It’s still there smoldering, but it can’t do anything but slowly fade.
Malcolm presses forward as the entrees arrive. It’s as if nothing happened. “I’ll have my secretary send the details over about the Gala. I think it’s in…”
“The second week of May,” Ginny says dutifully.
Ginny MacLaine is a walking calendar—and little else—to her husband, except maybe an accessory to hang from his arm at parties. It’s hard to believe they even procreated given the constant chill between them.
“I look forward to it,” I say. Lifting my napkin from my lap, I stand. “Would you mind if I use the restroom?”
Malcolm directs me to the nearest one. I don’t need it, but I do need to put some much-needed distance between the two of us. I pace the length of the hall until I reach the solarium doors and stop. It doesn’t matter how far I go. I can’t escape my thoughts.
I should be thinking about Adair, about forcing Malcolm to make a deal with the devil, planning how to humiliate one of them at the gala. Instead, my thoughts are with the little girl thrust into the family rivalry. Where the child is concerned, there’s probably always drama. I know what it’s like to be caught in the middle between warring parents, even if I never sat at fancy dinner tables with too many forks while my parents argued bitterly about having to put up with me. But I do know what it’s like to want to crawl under a table and hide—to hope you turn invisible. Maybe it’s not the same for her as it was for me but I saw the look in her eyes when her mother and father apologized for her existence.
I know what it’s like to be unwanted.
“What are you doing?” Adair’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
I turn to her slowly. She’s regrouped and climbed back atop her pedestal, but her haughty demeanor feels forced. There was a time when she ruled over this house. Her reign is drawing to a close, and judging from the fear she’s trying to hide, she knows it.
“Looking for the family silver,” I tell her. “You know I have sticky fingers. All these years, I’ve been waiting for a chance to get at it.”
Her lips flatten to prove she’s not amused. “What are you doing here? Back in Valmont? Surely, you’ve moved on from petty theft.”
“Investing.” If she wants to play coy, then we will. “I’m diversifying my portfolio.”
“Suddenly, you’re interested in telecommunications?” She doesn’t buy it, but I never meant her to. I want her to see me coming. I want her to dread it.
“Communication is the future, Lucky.”
If looks could kill, Adair MacLaine would be facing murder charges by morning. I’m the only person whoever called her that. Now even I don’t get that privilege.
“How can you even afford—” She stops mid-sentence. She didn’t mean to voice this question out loud.
“Of course, that’s what you’re wondering. How did I become wealthier than you?” I circle around her. She might be on her home turf, but I’m the one in charge. “How did Sterling Ford, the boy who couldn’t compete with your trust fund, buy into your father’s company? Isn’t that what you really want to know?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Her silence echoes in the empty space around us, louder than anything she can say. In the end, she whispers, “I never asked you to compete with the trust fund.”
“No, you didn’t.” That’s the problem. She never even gave us a chance.
“Is that what this is about? You have a lot of nerve acting like this is my fault.”
“Oh, it is.” I take a step closer, savoring how she backs away. It feels so good that I continue herding her, until she’s flattened against the wall. There’s no where for her to run. No escape. Leaning closer, I press the palms of my hands to the wall, caging her to the spot. I want to know her attention on me is absolute. “You had a choice to make. Did you make the right one, Adair?”
She chokes on her denial. “I never—”
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s unbecoming to make a bed you refuse to lie in?” She still wears the same perfume, notes of magnolia—honey-sweet but hiding a subtle tartness—bloom in my nostrils, awakening memories I’d locked away.
“I’m not interested in being a lady,” she whispers.
I’m close enough to kiss her. Her body strains toward mine despite her pretense that she hates me as much as I hate her. There’d be no fight if I unbuttoned her jeans and slid a hand down her panties. My hand drops to her hip, on board with this plan. Adair stills in expec
tation, not moving to stop me. I slide the tip of my index finger along her waistband.
“That’s probably wise,” I say. “You were never any good at it.” My head angles, drawn to the curve of her neck. I pause before my lips touch her skin, lingering in the temptation of her scent, feeling the heat of her this close to me. For a moment, her green eyes search mine looking for the answer to some unknown question.
“Why did you come back?” It’s no longer an accusation on her tongue.
I know what she wants to hear.
I hate that it’s the truth.
“For you.”
14
Sterling
The Past
This isn’t what I imagined when Cyrus invited me to an off-campus house party. When he drove toward Adair’s neighborhood, I had realized this wasn’t going to be some college gathering. The gated entrance is open when we arrive, thrown wide to welcome us to the Garden of Eden. Ferns and palms clutter the grounds, their midnight-green shadows cast by precisely placed lights, and lush trees line the path. It empties into a small parking lot, already half-full of luxury vehicles. Cyrus shows me inside, stopping for hugs and high fives every few feet. He introduces me to everyone who stops us, but I’m too overwhelmed by the size of the place to remember any of them.
“Let’s grab a drink,” he suggests, nodding past the packed living room that’s so full I can’t even see furniture.
I glance over my shoulder at the crowded kitchen that looks like it’s straight out of Architectural Digest. The stale smell of spilled beer and the clashing colognes from overheated bodies doesn’t match the polished quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances. The crowd swallows Cyrus and I’m left searching for his blond head among the other party-goers. Behind me, a grunt catches my attention. I shift to see two guys hauling a keg into the middle of the room. Perspiration drips down its aluminum sides as some genius tries to tap it and fails.