The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  The light turned green, and Jill continued to the home she shared with Marc.

  The house was built on a hill, above the rest of the neighborhood, and was clearly visible from the front gates. She’d been stunned when Marc first showed it to her, overjoyed to call such a place home. Eight thousand square feet. Seven guest bedrooms, each one en suite and all guest-ready, though they’d never been used. Downstairs was the foyer with its marble floor and double staircase, designed to give visitors a lasting first impression. Beyond that was what Marc called “a statement kitchen,” with quartz countertops and professional-grade appliances. The formal dining room comfortably sat twenty-two and was used often to host Marc’s friends. The library, the media room, and Marc’s office were also on the first floor, in the east wing. Down one level was a home gym with a sauna and spa showers. Outside, just past the rose garden, was an oversized pool with a detached pool house that Marc’s grown children were very fond of. The oversized trellis was threaded with climbing roses and provided shade for daytime parties.

  Jill had heard the real-estate pitch so many times she could recite it herself.

  The house she and Marc shared was called a showcase home, meant to demonstrate the level of quality that buyers could expect in one of Marc’s custom builds, and it was impressive. But what agents didn’t mention during showings was almost as important. That the appliances in the kitchen were bought on close-out, dented in the back, and their warranty was nearing the end. That the dramatic curved staircase wasn’t genuine mahogany, just stained to give that impression, and the wool runner on the stairs was actually a poly-blend bought from a liquidation sale.

  Agents’ exaggerations made her so uncomfortable that she’d questioned Marc about it, shortly after they’d married. Marc’s reaction had been harsh and unexpected. He had said she couldn’t possibly understand, given her background, and that she should leave the real world to him. He’d had a point, so Jill had never brought it up again.

  She slowed the car as she approached the driveway. She’d planned a simple but elegant party for her husband’s fifty-first birthday, and she found herself looking forward to it. Because she wanted to get to know Marc’s friends better, she’d kept the guest list small and the setting casual. An outdoor party near the pool house, cold beer and wine on ice, and burgers on a charcoal grill might be just the icebreaker they needed to become friends. When the sun set, she’d light the tiki torches and the floating candles, and they’d all retreat to the pool house to chat.

  So when she pulled into the driveway, she was a little surprised at the commotion that greeted her. A maze of box trucks and catering vans lined the driveway, though she hadn’t expected anything delivered today.

  She slipped into a spot behind a truck and got out of her car.

  Someone came to carry in her packages and Jill gave instructions to hang the clothes up to prevent wrinkles.

  “Mrs. Goodman?” A young man jogged toward her dressed in khakis, Top-Siders, and a white polo embroidered with Marc’s company logo. “Mr. Goodman told me to keep an eye out for you. Says he wants to see you.”

  “Okay. Who are you?”

  “I’m Kyle. New intern,” he said as he thrust his hand forward for her to shake. “Mr. Goodman hired me to assist with the presentation tonight.” His smile revealed a neat row of perfect teeth. “One good sale and I’ll have earned next year’s tuition.”

  Jill frowned in confusion. “I think you might have your dates mixed up. Mr. Goodman’s birthday party is tonight. I arranged it myself and it doesn’t include sales presentations.”

  “Um… I got the call from Mr. Goodman himself, this morning. We all did,” Kyle said as he pointed to a battered white van near the garage, back doors open. “Support staff got called in too. Even Mr. Garcia.”

  Standing behind the van was an older man whom Jill recognized as Manny Garcia, the best electrician in the company. Manny scowled at an assortment of tangled wire and circuits. At his feet was a bucket filled with hardware.

  “He doesn’t look happy about it,” Jill remarked.

  “He’s not,” Kyle agreed.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Kyle,” Jill said smoothly. “Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Goodman? I think we can straighten this out.”

  Kyle gestured to the backyard. “He said to meet him out back. I think he’s supervising the tent.”

  “The what?” Jill turned back to Kyle but was interrupted by Marc, striding toward them.

  At fifty-one years old, Marc still had the power to make her heart flutter. Tall and lean, he was desperately handsome, and he knew it, which was part of his charm. Jill watched him approach, moving with a powerful confidence that she found intoxicating. Years of consultations with personal shoppers had taught him the type of clothing he looked best in and he rarely wavered from that formula: a neatly tailored dress shirt with the cuffs folded back exactly three inches along the forearm, dark silk trousers, and handmade leather loafers, worn without socks.

  “Hello, Jilly.” He leaned in for a quick kiss. Jill noticed the ends of his hair were damp and his skin was smooth, as if he’d recently shaved. Both seemed unusual for this time of day because Marc was a creature of habit. His days started early and followed an unwavering routine: showering, shaving, and dressing the moment he got out of bed. But maybe he was excited for the party and had wanted a fresh change of clothes.

  “Kyle, can you make sure Garcia has what he needs for the screens?” As Marc gestured toward the van, Jill detected a hint of Marc’s spicy cologne, also odd. The scent had usually faded by now.

  “Sure, Mr. Goodman.” Kyle nodded and jogged across the driveway to the electrician.

  “What’s this about a presentation?” Jill asked as she fell into step next to Marc, moving toward the backyard.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Marc…” Jill came to a full stop at the edge of the yard, struck by the transformation. An oversized party tent had been erected near the rose garden. Someone had rigged a DJ station on the patio of the pool house. And on the lawn near the pool, carpenters pounded together parquet sections that looked suspiciously like a dance floor. But the worst part was the television monitors mounted by the entrance.

  “It’s not a big deal.” Marc lifted a shoulder in a dismissive half-shrug.

  The pieces fell together, and Jill was stunned. She pointed to the screens. “Is that why Manny’s here? Are you hosting a work presentation? This isn’t the party I planned for you. I sent a guest list and bought decorations; we were going to have a cook-out. What is this, Marc?”

  Marc sighed as if he were dealing with an errant child, a habit Jill loathed.

  Jill’s anger sparked, though she tried to keep her tone even because anger would get her nowhere now. “Did you call in a sales team? Is that what Kyle meant by ‘earning his tuition’? This isn’t anything like the birthday I planned for you, Marc.”

  “It’s a slight change of plans. And it’s good for business so I hoped you would be supportive.”

  “But—”

  Marc ended the discussion with a single look. “It’s my birthday, Jilly. I should be able to do what I want.” His voice was calm, but Jill understood the warning.

  Jill looked away because he had a point. She was doing it again, taking over. If he wanted to celebrate his birthday with a work party, he should do it. But was it too much to ask that he at least recognize the effort she’d made to arrange a party in the first place?

  “Don’t pout, Jilly.” She felt his arm on her shoulder and heard his voice soften. He’d won—they both knew it. “More important right now is your meeting at the Brockhurst mansion. Did you get the job?”

  “She hasn’t decided,” Jill lied, still annoyed with how he’d changed the party.

  “Jillian.” Marc’s voice deepened. “I hope you realize how important a connection to the Brockhurst family would be for my company. I’ve been trying to break into that circle for years, and it hasn’t been eas
y. A wedding invitation would offer a tremendous opportunity to network with other guests.”

  “A wedding invitation? Is that what you want?” Jill glanced up at him. “Marc, the interview was for a job, for Libby’s bridal portrait. It’s nothing to do with the ceremony or the reception.”

  “You’re already friends with Libby, aren’t you? That spin class I pay for?” Marc frowned. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to get invited. Hundreds of couples are going—why can’t we be one of them?”

  “Because it doesn’t work that way.”

  “The world works that way, Jillian,” Marc pressed. “A simple wedding invitation isn’t a lot to ask in exchange for the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on photography equipment and classes. An investment in a hobby that has yet to return a single dollar, I might add.”

  Jill stiffened. It was an old argument, but it seemed to be gaining more traction lately—how much Jill’s “hobby” had cost him. It was true that her camera was one of the best, but Jill had bought it used. The classes she’d taken over the years were just a fraction of the number she’d wanted to take. She loved photography, being behind the lens, bringing forth an image that may have gone unnoticed before. The whole process felt like alchemy to her and there was so much more to learn, but Marc didn’t believe in pursuits that didn’t recoup their investment.

  “I’ll try again,” she conceded, but only because she didn’t want to spoil his birthday.

  He leaned in to kiss her forehead. “That’s all I ask.”

  Kyle jogged back across the lawn toward Marc, so Jill turned her attention to the activity in the yard. This was nothing like the party she’d arranged. The pool house, where she’d planned to serve Marc’s cake, was closed, the curtains drawn tight. A catering van had pulled up and workers were unloading supplies. A florist rolled a cart overflowing with centerpieces toward the entrance of the party tent, and behind him a row of workers hauled crates of wine glasses and silverware.

  “I can’t believe this,” Jill muttered, her heart sinking. Marc’s parties always came with strict rules, for dress and for conversation, and that wasn’t what she wanted. It had begun to feel as if she were expected to become another person altogether.

  Marc tensed beside her and Jill followed his gaze across the yard toward the rose garden to the cause of his distraction. There, a young woman in a too-short black dress and too-high stiletto heels stood by the pool. She’d arrived too early to be a party guest and she wasn’t dressed like one of Marc’s staff, so Jill couldn’t place her. She watched as Kyle moved toward her and saw the woman laugh a moment later at something he’d said. As the woman tossed her long blonde hair off her shoulder, she turned, aware that someone had noticed her. When she saw that it was Marc and Jill, she froze.

  Marc gestured for her to join them—no doubt she’d be warned about her dress and behavior. As the woman walked toward them, Jill recognized her from the summer before.

  “Is that Brittney?” Jill asked.

  “It is.”

  “Dewberry Beach Brittney?”

  “Yes.” Marc’s answer was curt.

  The Dewberry Beach house was a remote project, finished before she and Marc were married. One of Marc’s largest builds, it was decidedly upscale, built right on the beach in a quaint New Jersey shore town. It was perfect for entertaining, and she and Marc had hosted several client parties there. The house itself wasn’t Jill’s taste and it seemed that buyers agreed because it had been on the market for years. Marc’s solution had been to hire a live-in property manager, the idea being that she’d be available for immediate showings. Her name was Brittney and she’d graduated college just a few weeks before Marc put her in charge of marketing the million-dollar home. She hadn’t been able to sell it either.

  “Why is she dressed like that?” Jill asked.

  She watched Brittney, who was not much older than Marc’s eldest daughter, pick her way across the lawn, her spiky heels sinking into the soft earth. As she approached, Jill noticed that her dress had been tailored to fit her body. Odd choice for an employee to wear to a work party.

  Marc offered a steadying hand as Brittney transitioned from grass to gravel, which she accepted with a shy smile.

  “Brittney, it’s nice to see you again,” Jill began, because Marc didn’t. “I believe the last time we spoke was at the summer clambake?”

  “Yes. Hello, Mrs. Goodman.”

  “Brittney’s come to field offers for the Dewberry Beach project,” Marc offered, and that was the end of it.

  Across the driveway, Kyle staggered under the weight of two cardboard boxes. It didn’t look like he was going to make it to the table.

  “Brittney, go help Kyle. He’s supposed to be putting pamphlets on the welcome table.”

  When they were out of earshot, Jill turned to Marc for a further explanation of Brittney’s dress. There was a time when Jill would have chosen something similar, but Marc had made it very clear what he thought of that.

  To her surprise, Marc shrugged it off. “I’m sure she just made a mistake. She’s young.”

  So was I, Jill thought as she tracked Brittney’s progress across the driveway. Her heels wobbled on the gravel, and if she tripped, Jill predicted that she’d fall out of her dress completely.

  “Do you have something nice Brittney can borrow? Like a necklace or something?”

  The question was so jarring that it took a moment to process. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know.” Marc swirled his hands in the air. “Something. She looks… plain. I’m sure you can find something.” He shrugged absently as if the details didn’t matter, but Jill didn’t believe him. For Marc, details always mattered. Marc was a man who lived in details.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird to ask me to lend my personal jewelry to an employee?”

  “Her dress is missing something,” Marc said again.

  “I see that. Maybe a sweater would help.”

  He frowned. “Don’t be like that.”

  “She shouldn’t be dressed like that in the first place,” Jill countered, confused by Marc’s obvious double standard. “Kyle’s part of your sales team and he’s wearing khakis. Your whole sales team is dressed appropriately. So why isn’t Brittney?”

  “The Dewberry Beach house is unique… it needs a different touch,” Marc said. “Besides that, she’s a property manager and he’s an intern. She doesn’t need to wear the uniform.”

  “What’s wrong with the Dewberry house?” Jill asked, steering the conversation back because she didn’t want to talk about Brittney.

  To her surprise, Marc seemed to take the question seriously. He frowned as he considered it. “I thought the clambake Brittney organized would have generated new interest in the house. It didn’t. Things aren’t progressing as well as I’d hoped.”

  Jill had attended Brittney’s party and she hadn’t been impressed. The theme was “A New England Clambake” and, properly executed, clambakes were one of the joys of summer. In fact, the highlight of childhood summers spent with Jill’s Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney had been the clambake. It was an all-day event and it started early, with a walk to the beach with Uncle Barney to prepare the site. As the men dug a pit in the sand, the kids were charged with gathering seaweed to steam the food and collecting twists of driftwood to feed the fire.

  When the fire had burned to embers, the women arrived with food: ears of sweet New Jersey corn, baskets of tender red potatoes, buckets of clams, mussels, lobster, and shrimp, all of it dotted with butter, wrapped in foil and ready to steam. The trick to layering the food was to alternate the packets with handfuls of seaweed and strips of burlap soaked in seawater, and techniques were a closely held secret.

  As they waited, the men gathered around a battered radio to listen to the Sunday afternoon baseball game while women chatted and yelled at kids who had wandered too far into the surf. When the food was ready, the men dug it up, unwrapped the foil and laid everything out on enormous pla
tters, placed in the middle of the table. And that’s when the magic happened. For Jill, the best part of a clambake was sitting with your neighbors and sharing the treasure.

  Jill couldn’t imagine that kind of party would be welcomed by the upscale crowd who had been invited, though it turned out she needn’t have worried because the party Brittney had arranged wasn’t a clambake at all.

  Engraved invitations were sent to guests, complete with suggested attire. The guests, almost all from the Hamptons, arrived in a predictable uniform. Seersucker sports coats, slim linen pants and driving moccasins for the men, and breezy black silk dresses, summer tans and perfect blow-outs for the women. Jill remembered dressing differently for those earlier clambakes, in cut-off shorts and summer tees.

  Brittney had arranged for valet parking, a bartender on every floor, and a string quartet on the rooftop. The caterers had “re-imagined” traditional New Jersey Shore food. Instead of steamed lobster, there was puff pastry filled with lobster mousse. In place of fresh corn dripping with butter, there were shot glasses filled with chilled corn chowder. But worst of all, at least to Jill, fresh garden tomatoes had been pureed to “reveal their essence” and served as a paste. Guests were visibly disappointed, and if Jill had been in charge, she would have fired Brittney on the spot, but Marc had let it go, calling it a “learning experience.”

  “Why is Brittany here at all? This isn’t her market,” Jill asked.

  Marc’s gaze cut back to Jill, then he frowned. “She’s young and needs guidance, that’s all. Cush and I both think she’s got potential.”

  Jill scoffed but said nothing. She didn’t like Cush, never had, but now wasn’t the time to open that can of worms. Her annoyance lay firmly with her husband. He’d changed the party without consulting her and had allowed one of his employees to dress as if she belonged in a red-light district.

  Marc had been watching her and his expression hardened. Jill lifted her hand in surrender. She’d made her point and nothing good would come from pushing it.