“Whoa, honey, slow down. Two things. First—good for you for giving it a shot. Clearly, she isn’t worthy of your fine ass. Or maybe she’s straight.”
“She’s not.” I wipe at my eyes. “She kissed me before she pulled her disappearing act.”
“Whatever. Second—it could be worse than having to tell your mom your dad is getting remarried.”
“How?”
“They could be getting back together.”
“Wash those words out of your mouth, Angie. You’ll go to hell.”
“Yeah, that’s what my mom said about eating pussy too. I’ll take my chances.” Angie winks over the rim of her mimosa. She is literally the only person in the world who can make winking cute. “So. What time are you meeting Daddy Dearest tomorrow?”
I look down at my phone and scroll to my messages. “Reservation is at one-thirty.”
“Oof. So late! Where?”
“Arnold’s.”
“Try the prime rib sandwich. It’s amazeballs. And your dad’s eyes will bug out if you order red meat in front of him.”
She’s right about that. I’m actually surprised my dad chose a steakhouse for lunch, but I’m not about to complain.
“I feel weird carrying this around.” I hold up the jewelry box. “I’ve got a meeting at a gallery in Williamsburg in an hour.”
“No big.” Angie stands. “Just do what I do—get the concierge here to stash the necklace in the safe. You can cab it out to Brooklyn and call me later. Are you flying out Monday?”
I rise, reaching for a hug. “Yes, thank you.”
Angie squeezes me tightly. “Okay, lady. Let’s get the necklace in the safe and you on the road. Love you.”
The concierge office is near—but not too near—the front door. I give Angie a hug goodbye and approach the desk.
A cute, plump South Asian woman looks up and greets me. “How can I help you today, Ms. Horvath?”
“I have something I need to store in the safe.”
“I’ll get the concierge for you.” She stands and disappears through the door behind her, returning a moment later, and my thanks dry up in my throat.
The woman following has shed black eyeliner and androgynous spiky hair for a severe yet feminine side part and barely-there makeup—but there’s no mistaking Nat’s strikingly high cheekbones and full lips. I’ve certainly fantasized about that face enough to recognize her, even in the most unlikely location.
For a split second, Nat’s eyes widen, then she smiles and extends a hand. “Ms. Horvath, it’s so nice to finally meet you. How was your breakfast?”
Wow. Not even going to acknowledge our prior meeting.
“Breakfast was lovely. I’d like to store this box in the safe for a few hours?” Oh, I hate how my voice lilts up in a question. Dammit, what happened to my famous self-confidence? I’m Rebecca Horvath, the scion of Hollywood royalty, and I’m shaking like a nervous teenager as if Nat will refuse me this.
“Of course. Would you like to follow me back to the office so you can make sure it’s secured to your liking?” Though Nat’s voice is as smooth and professional as ever, there’s a slight tremor in her hands as she reaches for the box. I’m perversely glad to see that I’m not the only one unsettled by the coincidence.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like that.”
Do Nat’s shoulders relax just a little? Does she want me to come with her? As Nat turns and walks away, I subdue the butterflies in my stomach and I follow.
“You look very nice,” I say, careful to keep my voice low. “Very different. But lovely.”
“Thank you,” Nat’s spine stiffens. “Through here.” The concierge office is scrupulously tidy, and as Nat works the combination to the safe, she shields it from my view with her body. A body clothed in a severe black pantsuit and high heels. I bet now we’d be the exact same height.
As she swings the safe open, she turns to face me and lifts her chin. “There are only three employees who have the combination to the safe, and one of us is here at all times.”
“Perfect.” I try a smile. “Nat—”
“Natalie.” The interruption is sharp and cold. “I’m Natalie. There is no Nat.”
Her flirtatious “you can use it if you like” from the night before is obviously cancelled. Okay, then.
“Oh.” I straighten up and try to hide my disappointment. “I see.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” If possible, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees. “I’m in a very precarious position. I need this job. I work my ass off day in and day out. There is an employee code of conduct. Nat? She doesn’t follow it.”
“But—”
“But nothing. I’m at your mercy, and I know it. I also know powerful people don’t take rejection well. Please don’t destroy me over it.”
“I wouldn’t!” My cheeks flush hot. “I’m not that kind of person.”
Nat—no, Natalie—scoffs. “Everyone is that kind of person, if they’re hurting bad enough.”
“You turned me down for a date. I’m not going to destroy your life over it. I don’t know what I’ve done to make you think I would.” I shrug, because it hurts to think that’s how she sees me. I’m not a retaliatory, manipulative bitch. I’ve seen enough of that behavior from the so-called adults in my life when I was growing up to know I never want to be that kind of person. “Natalie. You can trust me. I’m not going to expose you.”
Natalie’s eyes widen and her lips thin before she gives a short, tight nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
“I still think you’re fucking hot,” I murmur, not sure what’s come over me, as Natalie closes the safe and spins the dial.
“Oh my god.” Natalie’s forehead hits the front of the safe with a thunk. “Please don’t say stuff like that here.”
“Where is it okay to say it?” I touch the back of Nat’s hand.
“Nowhere.” Nat turns and stares at me, clutching my hand compulsively. “I’m sorry, because you’re gorgeous, and you seem sweet. And that kiss last night was—”
I smile. “Yeah, it really was.”
“But I can’t.”
And that’s that. No—no matter how unaccustomed I am to hearing it—means no.
“Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“Thank you.” Natalie smiles. “I do wish things were different. But this job is important to me, and some lines are uncrossable. In a different world, where you weren’t a member here…”
“I understand.” I let go of her hand and looked down at my shoes, feeling small—it’s an uncomfortable feeling, and I don’t like it. “I have to go. I’m going to be late.”
“Let me show you out.” Natalie leads me back down the hallway, past the concierge desk to the front door, which the doorman opens. She holds out her hand, and I shake it. Her palm is warm and slightly damp, like she’s as nervous as I am.
“Until next time, then?” I say with a tremor in my voice.
“Have a wonderful afternoon, Ms. Horvath.” Natalie’s voice is distant, but her wistful smile is sincere.
Sincerely all business.
“Thank you.”
I walk out of the club and hail a taxi. As I slide into the seat and give the gallery address to the driver, I take one last look over my shoulder.
Natalie is standing on the sidewalk, one hand on the door to the club, looking lost. Her gaze meets mine, and she raises a hand in what feels like a very final goodbye.
Four
Bex
* * *
The restaurant Dad’s chosen is one of those old school wood-paneled places with high-backed tufted red leather booths. It screams “mid-century steakhouse” and boasts the black and white photos of the Broadway stars of the day to prove it.
“Rebecca.” Dad stands as I approach, and he’s impeccably dressed in a tan suit. I know it’s manners and not a desire to intimidate that makes him rise, but I can’t help but feel like a little girl about to get a dressing-down. He might be my
dad, but he’s still Benjamin Horvath, one of the most powerful men in the entertainment industry, and he’s never once let me forget it.
“Hi, Daddy.” I fight the urge to fidget with the hem of my T-shirt. Why hadn’t I thought to pack a dress? Lunch with Dad was never a casual affair. At least my jacket and heels dress it up a little.
He leans forward to kiss my cheek, then waits for me to scoot into the booth before he sits again. Taking a sip from his water glass, he studies me, then frowns. “You’ve gained weight.”
Of course it isn’t a question.
My cheeks flush, but I lift my chin to hide my embarrassment. And why should I be embarrassed? He’s the one being rude. “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Are you still seeing your trainer? Your nutritionist?”
No, I’m not. I’m exercising and eating like a normal person, and I don’t give a fuck. So what if I’ve gained weight? I take a deep breath and steel myself for an argument.
“Daddy. I’m not talking about this with you. I’m fine. I feel good.”
“If it’s money, you know I’m willing to pay for—”
“For fuck’s sake, I’m fine. I don’t need your money. I don’t need to lose weight, I’m fucking happy, okay?” I cover my mouth, horrified. I try not to drop the F-bomb in front of my parents, but this is one topic of conversation that needs to be closed—permanently.
“Okay.” He shrugs. “I expected you would want to—well, never mind.”
He’s baiting me. I can’t believe him. I’m not going to talk with him about my weight. I’m not going to see his hand-picked “nutritionist” or the personal trainer-slash-torturer. I’m not going to let him guilt me into hating my body, and I’m not going to let him make my dress size the subject of the conversation.
A waiter appears at my side. “Something to drink, miss?”
“I’ll have the bottomless mimosas.”
“Really, Rebecca?”
I grin coolly at Dad’s moue of distaste. “Oh, come on, Daddy. I hear we should be celebrating. I saw Angie yesterday for brunch. She’s looking good. And full of gossip.”
“I see.” The moue turns into a full-on frown. He doesn’t like being out of control of this situation any more than he likes his daughter telling him where he can stick his opinions about her weight.
It isn’t often I get the jump on him, and I send a silent “thank you” to Angie’s jewelry store. “When were you planning to tell me?”
He glances over his shoulder, clearly agitated. “Things have happened quickly. I was going to tell you next time I was in LA—I’m planning to go out there next week.”
“Quickly is one word for it. I didn’t even know you were seeing someone. You’re getting married?”
“A gentleman doesn’t assume the woman will accept, but…” If he wasn’t my father, I’d probably consider the shy smile stretching across his face cute. Oh god, he’s being cute; maybe he really is in love?
“Oh my god. What happened to your legendary self-confidence?”
His smile falls. “The situation isn’t really—well, it’s taken me by surprise. After your mother, I didn’t think I’d ever marry again. To be honest, Rebecca, after that I didn’t think I was the marrying kind. Regardless, Karina makes me happy, and I think I can make her happy, so I’m planning to ask her tonight.”
“Well, good luck.”
My mimosa arrives and I fight the urge to tip it back like a tequila shot.
“Thank you.” He fidgets with his napkin for a moment, then reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I was hoping, if she says yes, you could help Karina plan the wedding. She’s only lived in New York a few months, and she’s—” He breaks off and smiles. “Timid, I think is an accurate word. She needs someone on her side. And I think you’ll like each other.”
Fuck it. I down the mimosa in a single swallow. “I live in LA, Daddy.”
“It’s just a few months.”
“Any venue in the city worth getting married at will be booked out for eighteen months.” Of course, I immediately start thinking of venues that aren’t traditional wedding venues—places I could pull strings with my connections at the Thorns. There is the art gallery in Williamsburg… No. I live in LA. I’m not going to plan his wedding any more than I’m going to let him talk about my weight. ‘“Maybe even two years.”
“You’re creative; you’ll figure something out. It would mean a lot to me. And to her, I think. She’s very curious about you.”
I ignore that. “What’s the rush? You didn’t knock her up, did you?”
He blushes.
“Oh my god, Dad.”
“It’s not something I’m used to thinking about.” He swallows and adjusts his tie.
“How old is she?”
Looking down at the table, he doesn’t answer me.
“Dad?”
“She’s twenty-eight.”
The waiter returns. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu?”
Though he’s looking at me, my father, obviously relieved at the interruption, starts ordering.
“She’ll have the cobb salad with the dressing, bacon, and avocado on the side. I’ll have—”
“No, I won’t.” I interrupt with a glare. “I’m not a child; I’ll order for myself.” I smile up at the waiter. “I’ll have the prime rib sandwich, extra horseradish, with sweet potato fries, please.”
Daddy flushes red again. “Fine. I’ll have the same. Make my drink a manhattan.”
As soon as the waiter disappears, I lean forward.
“Does your bride-to-be let you order her rabbit food with all the good stuff on the side? Do you cut her lean chicken breast into tiny bites for her? Twenty-eight? What the hell?”
“Rebecca, that’s enough.”
“She’s two years younger than me. And for god’s sake, you didn’t think to wear a condom? Let’s forget for a minute that men can continue fathering children as long as they can get it up, but did you even think about your own health?”
“I’m not going to listen to a safe sex lecture from my lesbian daughter.”
Ignoring the dig about my sexuality—a derailment tactic if I’ve ever heard one—I continue, “You fucking should, since clearly no one else taught you to wrap it up.”
“Language, Rebecca.”
“Have you even talked to her about whether she wants to be pregnant? Or married? Since you didn’t discuss birth control or STDs? Do you have any idea what she wants?”
“She seems very happy with the idea of being a mother.” He fidgets again.
“She seems. Because you’re so good at reading minds. Dad. You have to talk if you want a romantic relationship to work out. You can’t just assume she wants what you want.”
I can see it now. Some sweet young actress, smitten with his charm and probably his wallet, away from her friends and family—goddamn it. Karina really does need someone on her side. Not just someone who can plan a wedding, but someone with a law degree who can look over the prenup Dad’s lawyer is likely to insist upon.
“Provided she says yes to your proposal, I will come back to New York next week to meet her. If she wants me to, I’ll help her plan the wedding. But only if that’s what she wants.”
“Thank you.” He smiles across the table at me, clearly relieved. “I know you’re going to love each other. You always did want a sister.”
“When I was five, I wanted a sister. And I never asked for a stepmother who is younger than me. By the way, Mom wants to know if you’ll be back in LA for the You Pick Awards next month—” I hold up both hands. “I said I would bring it up, but you can give her your answer yourself. I’m not a message service.”
“I heard she signed on to Jen Lansing’s Harbinger project. Is Tammy really acting again?”
I nearly choke. My mother’s entire life seems to be one carefully orchestrated act. The fact that she’s making money at it again shouldn’t be so surprising. “When isn’t she?”
> “Good point. Well, what else is going on in your lives? Catch me up on the gossip. Sometimes New York feels like another world.”
“I don’t really move in those circles the way you and Mom do.”
He waves off my demurral. “You might not be in the business, but I’ve seen the guest list at the charity bashes you throw. Your circle is more famous than mine.”
“Are you angling for an invite to one? I’m raising money for GScholars next month. It’s five thousand a plate, and there’s a silent auction. It’s just a small affair—I’m keeping the guest list under a hundred, but since you’re family…” I pause, waiting for a reaction.
“I’d have to go, wouldn’t I? Not just send a check?”
I sit back in my seat and raise an eyebrow at him. Honestly, I’m shocked he’s even considering attending. I’d only offered to bait him.
He sighs. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“I’ll send you a rainbow lapel pin.” I tease. “All the allies love them.”
He snorts, and then laughs ruefully. “Thank you, Bex.”
“You mean it? You’ll come to my big queer party and get your picture taken and everything?”
He smiles indulgently, and just like that, he’s the doting father I remember from when I was little, before the divorce, before I’d grown old enough to disappoint him.
“Of course I will. I’m your dad.”
Nat
* * *
My feet are practically screaming when I let myself into my apartment and kick off my heels. The commute out to Brooklyn—made longer by delays on the R line again—seems twice as long at the end of the day without Uncle X’s cheery greeting and warm meal on the stove. I turn on the light in the tiny galley kitchen and miss him with a sharp pang.
“Rough week, X.” I murmur as I reach into the fridge and pull out the open bottle of chardonnay sitting in the door. “You would not believe the shit I’m in.”
What would he say, if he could answer me? I can almost see him, standing by the stove and gesturing for me to pour him a glass. After he retired as the executive chef at the Thorns, he took to cooking all his childhood favorites—the kind of fat-laden Southern food we both grew up eating. “Comfort food. It’s good for the soul,” he’d tell me.
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