Her Perfect Life

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  “Sounds good,” I said, picturing it. “I guess good. If handled properly.”

  “I agree. But Ms. Atwood … doesn’t.”

  I tried to see this through Lily’s perspective. “Huh. Because it’s still the same tabloid backstory.”

  Smith nodded. “Home-wrecker, party girl, secret past, hidden daughter, and now, dismissive to the poor good guy who just wants to see his daughter. Keeping that adorable little girl away from her devoted but scorned father. Making her own celebrity image more important than her daughter’s well-being and personal emotional growth. Not a good look, I fear. That’s why—”

  “No, no, wait.” I waved away his words. “It’s not the same story if we present it as a different story. Still true, but with our spin. We get out in front of it, embrace it. All good, everyone happy, life goes on, Rowen has a cool dad. It’s adorable, it’s relatable, it’s all for Rowen, her perfect daughter, and hurray for the greater good. Love and logic conquer all.”

  I celebrated my idea with the last sip of wine and allowed Smith to refill my glass. Lily would be thrilled. I’d solved her problem, and in only half an hour. It’s my job to keep Lily perfect, and I’d done it again. As I always tell her, perfection is in the perception. “It all works. See?”

  “I do indeed. And my client does, too.” He replaced the wine bottle in the cooler. “And we offered the exact same opportunity. But Ms. Atwood refused.”

  “She did?” I stopped, wineglass midair.

  “Remember, Greer. She’s Lily Atwood, public figure, but private mom. She’s made a big deal of keeping her daughter out of the spotlight. No pictures on social media, no interviews with her on TV.”

  I winced, thinking about how I’d tried to weasel Rowen’s face on camera. I’d only been thinking of my story, not how it might affect the little girl. Much less how it would impact Lily’s life. I closed my eyes for a brief second, regretting. But it was Lily’s fault, actually. She should have trusted me. Should have told me. I produce her. I took a sip of wine.

  “But for my client,” Smith went on, “it’s all about being a dad. For years, his first wife held this transgression, this betrayal, this unforgivable sin—over his head. But now he’s free and happy and eager to move forward. Lily—is not. And poor Rowen is the victim.”

  Outside the room, the music had changed. Softer now, less recognizable, like a subtle heartbeat, an undercurrent to dinner table tête-à-têtes that had passed main courses, and finished dessert, and were winding toward the rest of the evening. Deciding who’d be going home with who, and what would happen after that. Emotional chess games.

  “You’re not asking me to convince her, are you?” I twisted the stem of my wineglass. “I mean, that’s impossible. The whole…” I waved a hand, encompassing everything. “I’d have to tell her I knew about this. She’d be furious, and accuse me of meddling, and she’s already iffy about—”

  I stopped. He didn’t need to know about our relationship, or lack thereof.

  “No.” I changed my tone. “Hard no. Full stop. Thanks for the wine.”

  “No, Greer, that’s not it, not at all, and you are so right. I’d never ask you to persuade her.” Smith leaned forward, fingers laced, elbows on the table. “But look. This is delicate. In so many ways. I get Lily’s obsession with privacy.”

  “It’s not an obsession, it’s realistic.”

  “And with her celebrity.” Smith went on, ignoring me. “Her reputation. It’s all fragile. But my client—he’s not interested in his reputation. He’s interested in his daughter. She’s part of him, and Lily’s taken that from him. But.” He spread his palms. “Against my best judgment, he’s willing to compromise.”

  “How?”

  “He just wants to talk to Rowen.”

  I looked at him, skeptical. “Talk to her.”

  He nodded. “In person.”

  I almost laughed, but it was more baffling than funny. “I’m not saying I will, but how am I supposed to get Rowen to have him ‘talk to her’?”

  “Aren’t you Lily’s emergency contact? If the school can’t contact Petra?”

  “Yeah. So?” It crossed my mind to wonder how he knew that, and about Petra. But he’s a detective.

  “So, easy. The school—Graydon—is planning an outing to the aquarium tomorrow. They have a new exhibit of some kind. Fish. So all you have to do is be at the aquarium when—”

  “At the aquarium.” This was almost entertaining now. “A place I have never been. Or mentioned.”

  “It’s by that hotel, right? You can be in the parking lot. Meeting a source, you’ll think of something. A friend. A business acquaintance, I don’t know, maybe your old college professor. I mean, does Lily always have to know where you are? She keeps that short a leash?”

  He looked into his wine. Then back at me. “You’ll see Rowen as she gets off the bus. The headmistress will be aware. Maryrose Glover knows you, I assume?”

  “Yeah.” Who knows if she’ll remember me, though. I’m only the flunky who keeps Lily’s life perfect by shepherding her daughter when Lily’s doing some personal thing and Petra’s unavailable. Just me, your ever-helpful Greer.

  “Good. You’ll tell Glover you’ll bring her in shortly. You’ll take full responsibility. You and your friend/source/professor chat with Rowen. Rowen tells her mom she’s seen you, all fine. If she mentions a man, who cares. You’ll think of something.”

  I know my face must have looked like I smelled bad cheese.

  “There’s no risk, Greer. Except the continued sorrow of an innocent man who happened to listen to his heart instead of his head. He could stalk her, or shadow her, or follow her, but that’s not his style. I got them to set up a fire drill at Graydon so he could see her. He watched her from the parking lot. But he made me call Lily. So she wouldn’t worry.”

  “That was you? But she did worry.” In the end, the wolf was there, Lily had said. “Hey. Did you get them to move the drill because Rowen stayed home that day?”

  He shrugged, admitting it. “What can I say. Things don’t always go as planned. Bottom-lining it here. Now that he’s seen her, he’s even more determined. I’ll never understand how it feels to be a father, but this is my client’s dearest wish. And your Lily will not allow it. Rowen has never met him. Never seen him. If she even mentions this encounter, Lily will never connect it. It’s a gift. A gift only you can give.”

  A gift. I took a sip of wine. My defenses were lowering, and I was having a hard time coming up with a reason why this wasn’t fine. And I had to admit he’d hit a nerve. A short leash? Huh. Why should I tell Lily where I am all the time? She doesn’t bother to tell me.

  Almost ten o’clock now. And honestly, thinking about it, Smith had a point about his client. He must not be that bad a guy if he’s married to Isabel DeSoto. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how horrible it would be, through no fault of your own, to be kept from seeing your own daughter. To have the women in your life whipsawing your little girl back and forth. I sneaked a look at Smith, but he seemed busy with his briefcase.

  Plus, he was right about Lily. She was good at that, getting the world to be how she wanted it to be. All she did was protect herself, while pretending it was best for Rowen. Keeping that perfect exterior, while her daughter was—well, without a father. And Smith was right, the meet-cute scenario could sound perfectly reasonable. Couldn’t it?

  “No. I don’t think so,” I said before my brain caught up. “It’s too—it seems wrong.”

  Smith nodded. Clicked his briefcase closed. “How?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it,” I had to admit, “but it’s manipulative. It might be reasonable in the short run, but something could happen, and Lily would find out, and she’d never speak to me again.”

  Smith raised his eyebrows. “And that’s the most important thing about this? You? How Lily feels about you?”

  “No. I mean, I just don’t want to lie.”

  “Look. Ms. Whitfield. I get how you
feel about Lily. You’re projecting that with everything you say. Lily is not the most—well, from my research, she’s standoffish. Protective. Almost obsessed with her celebrity. Her image. Right? To her, you’re a cog. Not a person. A means to her ends.”

  I tried to keep my expression noncommittal. That was a nasty way to put it, though not totally wrong. Still, I was used to it. I was her producer. It was my job to make everything work.

  “What if you could make her really happy? I mean, so happy that she’d be indebted to you forever?”

  I couldn’t have been more confused. And probably showed it.

  “Lily’s sister. Cassie. As I mentioned before. She’s never talked about her to you, I bet. Right?”

  Right. “So?”

  “She disappeared.”

  “Twenty-some years ago,” I said before I could help it. Damn.

  “I see. So you did your homework. Good. But Lily has no idea where her beloved sister is. Probably thinks she’s dead.”

  I felt my eyes getting bigger.

  “Exactly,” Smith said. “She’s not dead. And I think I can help Lily find her. Think what a story that might be. You’re the producer. You could do a reunion. On live TV.”

  With those words, I could actually see it. I could envision it, the gorgeous Lily, the moment Cassie entered, cameras rolling. The tears of joy and gratitude. The ratings. She’d be—well, who knew what she’d be, but it was the story of the century.

  Or a shit show of infinite dimensions. Risky as hell.

  “No way,” I said. “What if, I don’t know. Her sister hates her, or doesn’t want to be found? Or a million other land mines.”

  “Greer. Don’t you get it? This is why I’ve been giving you all those stories. To prove to you that I know my stuff. That you can trust me. It’s all been leading to this. The possibility that we—you—could find Cassie for Lily. And reunite them.”

  “Why do you care?” I’d suddenly grasped the missing piece.

  Smith nodded. Tried to refill his glass, but the wine bottle was empty. He returned it to the chiller, placing it upside down.

  “I knew Cassie, too,” he finally said. “I know what happened. And I need to make it right. You can help. But first, my client needs to see his daughter.”

  For some reason I felt like crying. Families were so complicated. It almost—not quite—made me relieved I had no siblings and that my parents were gone. Poor Rowen and Lily. And Cassie, whoever and wherever she was. And some pitiful guy, who’d fallen in love with the irresistible Lily, and now just wanted to see his daughter, a little girl who was stolen from him by fame and celebrity. I took my last sip of wine, too. Watched Smith watching me. Wait a minute.

  “Are you Rowen’s father?” I had to ask.

  Smith laughed, a short bark of what seemed like genuine amusement. “And that’s why you’re the producer. You know a good story. But I assure you, I am not Rowen’s father.”

  “If you say so,” I said.

  “But I am your Mr. Smith.” He tapped the white business card on the table. “And first, my client needs to see his daughter. And I’ll help you produce that. Then, we’ll talk about the big reunion, the one that’s certain to be your next Emmy-winning story. I’m a detective, right? I can find out anything.”

  “Well…” I pictured that scallop-edged photo. Had to be Cassie. Lily must care; otherwise, she wouldn’t have kept it. She’d told Rowen about Aunt Cassie. So she must hope for her return.

  If I didn’t arrange the meeting, the whole sordid story of Rowen’s father and Lily’s home-wrecking would fill the front pages. Lily would be unemployed and humiliated and canceled.

  And so would I.

  Plus, it wasn’t like this guy would give up—he’d just find another way. In fact, Lily was lucky he’d come to me. If I arranged this, I could control it. Like he said, produce it. And if we got a huge story out of it, that’d be perfect.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

  BEFORE

  CHAPTER 20

  CASSIE

  “Cassie?” The voice behind her came closer. The alarm bells inside Wharton Hall were still blaring, the klaxons earsplitting.

  She turned, her heart in her throat. She’d read that expression in some book, but never thought it could be true. But no. It was not Professor Shaw calling her name.

  Flannel shirt—Jem? Or something?—had come up beside her. They’d reached the front door, and he pushed it open.

  She rolled her eyes at him, couldn’t help it. Invisible, huh? He fell in step beside her, matching her stride for stride as they left the building, as if they were together.

  “What?” She had to yell over the alarm noise. And then, as they got farther outside, she couldn’t resist. She stopped on the front walk and turned to look at him, hoping her expression was sufficiently dismissive. “Did I somehow become visible? Suddenly?”

  “Hurry,” he said, not answering her. He pointed to the green in front of them, to the students clumped and mingling, some ambling away. “Go.”

  “What?”

  “Get away from the building. Now.” He grabbed her arm, actually pulled her along the front sidewalk, with such strength and determination that she stumbled, almost fell, but he’d steadied her and propelled her forward.

  “There’s smoke inside,” he said, moving forward, taking longer and longer strides. “Come on. Come on.”

  She followed him, only because he was an idiot and she wanted to tell him so as he trotted away from her across the lawn. She hurried toward him, trying to catching up, her Doc Martens boots tramping the clipped green grass.

  “Hey!” she called out. Smoke? She turned back to the building. She didn’t see any stupid smoke.

  The alarms blaring from inside the building grew softer as she moved away. Flannel shirt was still a few steps ahead of her.

  “Listen, dude—”

  He turned. “Jem.”

  “Jem, whatever.”

  A wild whoosh shook her, almost took her breath away, as she stumbled at the sound and the noise and the surprise. Jem caught her, and as he lifted her back to her feet, she saw what had caused it, and the noise, and the collective gasp of the students on the green who witnessed it, too.

  Plumes of black smoke billowed from the historic building, with a rumble and a thunder and almost stealing the oxygen from the very air they breathed. Glass shattered, and tiny flakes of ash billowed through the air like angry confetti. Someone screamed, screamed so loud, and then someone else, and the footsteps of the people running away mixed with the calls for help and the sirens, too far away now, too far, and Jem grabbed her arm again.

  “We need to go.” He grabbed her arm so hard she could never have escaped.

  “Zachary!” she cried out.

  “I told you it’s Jem,” he said, and he was pulling her away.

  She ran, almost backward, with Jem propelling her, never taking her eyes off the pluming black, what looked like—flames?—reflecting from the inside, bringing the stained glass windows to life with their destructive light. She imagined those faces in the hallway, the ancestors, their portraits singed and crisped and finally gone as if they had never existed, erased by the fire and never to return.

  “He’s inside, he’s inside.” Her voice came out a whisper, and she clenched at Jem’s arms, digging in her heels, trying to get him to stop.

  “Who?” Jem stopped, turned to her, focused on her. “Who’s inside? No one’s inside, everyone’s out, they—”

  “Professor Shaw.” She pointed pointed pointed toward Wharton Hall, jabbing the smoky air. She could hear crackling now, a simmer of flames, and saw orange tongues of fire licking against the gray stone. “He was still inside when I—we—left, and I never saw him come out.”

  Jem stared at her. The sirens screamed closer.

  “You’re sure?” he said.

  She watched his chest rise and fall under his black tee. She could almost hear him thinking.

  “Yes
. I’m sure,” she whispered. “I would have seen him. I was—watching for him.”

  With one last hard look into her eyes, Jem broke free from her and ran toward the fire. She saw his slim figure outlined by the green grass, then surrounded, blurred by gray smoke, then swallowed by the black. He was as gone as if he’d never been there.

  “No!” she called out before she knew what she was saying. “No!”

  NOW

  CHAPTER 21

  LILY

  “Greer?” Lily laughed at herself as she questioned her empty office. Clearly, Greer was not there. Which was odd, since after yesterday’s not-so-subtle cracks about Lily’s absence, she’d made a big deal about getting to the station on time. And now, it seemed, she’d even arrived before Greer herself. Tiny victories. From all the closed doors, she could tell no one was in her neighboring offices, either coming in later to work an afternoon shift or already heading out to their day’s assignment. A newsroom gets quiet midmorning—the early shows over, and street reporters seeking their next story.

  She put her half-empty thermal coffee mug on her desk. Out of habit, she clicked on her TV monitor, but kept the sound off. She’d dressed for a research day, a black tee under a black blazer. A necklace from the stash in her bottom file drawer would make her air-worthy, but as of now there were no shoots on their schedule.

  When her desk phone rang, she decided not to answer. She hadn’t finished her first coffee, hadn’t settled in. It wasn’t Smith, because he always used her cell, and that was the only call she cared about. The phone rang again. “Hey! Forget it!” she ordered it out loud. She let it go to voice mail and popped open her computer.

  The phone stopped ringing.

  “Thank you,” she told it, and put in her email password. The phone rang again.