“You need to get up.” Skylar’s husky voice was sharper than usual, leaving no room for jokes.
I pushed off the big goose-down comforter and padded into the bathroom, where I set the phone on the sink. “What’s so urgent that I have to be up by the crack of noon?”
I yawned as I put on my glasses—my favorite gold Guccis today—then scowled at my reflection and immediately took them off. My dark circles looked like checkable suitcases, and another night of tossing and turning had not been so good for the old mane, which would have looked right at home in an eighties hair band video. I could have doubled for Slash with the right top hat.
“Eric’s back.”
I stood up mid-wash of my face, water dripping down my chin. “He’s back?”
“He called the firm this morning. And so did the de Vrieses’ lawyer. Everything is set for the funeral this weekend.”
I collapsed onto the toilet seat. Immediately following Eric’s impromptu exit, his grandmother—the same grandmother who had concocted this whole marriage scheme to begin with—had collapsed right there in the church, dead before the paramedics arrived. She was in poor health, having fought cancer for several years, and Eric running out was just too much for her frail body. Her heart gave out. In seconds, the matriarch of the de Vries clan, one of the oldest and most powerful families of the Upper East Side, was gone.
Without Eric, however, I hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the funeral plans or anything else to do with the woman with whom I’d become surprisingly close over the past six months. Celeste de Vries might have been the most Machiavellian schemer on the planet, but she and I had cultivated a sort of adversarial fondness for each other.
I was the exact opposite of what she’d intended by insisting her grandson get married to keep his fortune. The de Vrieses were demure where I was loud. Rich where I was poor. Eric’s family was well-bred, blond, and perfectly polished; I was a half-Asian mutt who practically cosplayed Rainbow Brite.
But after so many lunches to plan the wedding turned into trips to the museum or Bergdorf’s, I’d spent more time with the crotchety old matriarch in her final months than anyone in her family. And now that she was gone, I actually missed her.
Enough that when Eric’s family refused to let me help with any of the funeral obligations, I had fled to Boston to nurse my wounds. But in a way, it made sense. If Eric himself had walked out on their wedding, what right did I have to anything else in the family?
Still, it hurt. It hurt a lot.
Of course it does, peanut. That’s grief.
I shook my head. My own father’s voice—well, the voice of the man I’d thought was my father—tended to pop up in lieu of a conscience since his death last year. Yeah. I wasn’t in any place to be dealing with that.
The stab deepened as I realized that after coming back from…wherever he went…it wasn’t my phone Eric finally called.
“So that’s that, then,” I said, unable to kill the forlorn tone. “We’re officially communicating through lawyers now?”
I should have been happy. I should have been relieved. Our marriage was in a limbo state—a quick consultation with Skylar and the minister had confirmed it. While the minister had said he was happy to declare us husband and wife (as Eric and I had both spoken the key vows), the fact that neither of us had signed the marriage certificate (since the groom had basically sprinted away before his autograph was required) meant that the union wasn’t legal. Not in the eyes of the state.
I was dodging a bullet, right?
Then why did this phone call feel like I’d just taken one in the chest?
“He didn’t say,” Skylar said. “He asked if you were all right, though.”
“He couldn’t have asked me that himself?” I demanded, growling more than I wanted.
“I really don’t know, Janey.”
Skylar sounded defeated. This was an awkward situation for her—being in the middle of us always had been. Eric was her friend and business partner, but I was her ride-or-die bestie. I knew her loyalties were first and foremost with me, but she obviously had sympathies for both me and my errant...whatever he was.
“So is that it?” I stood up and rubbed my still-damp face more violently than necessary, turning my pale skin pink. “You’ve been texting me all morning to tell me the Great Disappointment didn’t actually fall off the face of the earth? He’s just been ghosting me like every other dude bro this side of the Mississippi?”
Skylar exhaled. “No,” she said. “The lawyer told me that Celeste made some changes to her will. Jane, he’s going to read it next weekend after the wake. And apparently, you’re in it.”
I sat down all over again, my bare feet slipping on the stone tiles. “You mean as Eric’s spouse, right?” I shook my head. “I thought that was part of the prenup. Twenty million, but only if we were married for five years.”
“No, no,” Skylar said. “This is different. Tom—that’s the lawyer’s name—told me this is specifically for you alone. And he also said that Celeste requested the will be read to everyone in the same room. At the same time.”
I stilled. That could mean only one thing. Eric would be at the funeral. The De Vries Shipping heir whose inheritance was dependent on his legal marriage to me was probably going to want to know whether or not his claims would be honored without his grandmother alive to verify them.
Honestly, I wanted to know that too.
“When?” I asked as I examined my single red bedraggled lock. Vaguely, I wondered if I would have time for a quick dye job, although almost immediately I realized I’d have to wait a while unless I wanted my hair to fall out completely. Suddenly I wanted this shit—this fucking reminder of Eric and his pretty girl bullshit—out of my hair, my life, my everything.
“The funeral is this Saturday.”
That was in tomorrow. I knew this. I’d known it for over a week at this point. But until now, I wasn’t actually sure I was supposed to be there.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll go. Of course I’ll go. But first I need to visit my beloved’s apartment here in town.”
I could practically see Skylar rolling her eyes in front of me. “Jesus, Jane, why? You didn’t even live in his Boston apartment with him.”
But it wasn’t what she thought. I wasn’t interested in shoving my face into Eric’s rows of designer suits, lolling around in his old icebox condo just to collect trinkets and remember better times. Fuck that.
“Because I’m done with his secrets,” I said. “And if I have to face the entitled little twerp, I’m doing it with my eyes wide open. I have a key. It’s not trespassing. Sky, it’s time to do some digging.”
Two
I wasn’t the only one interested in playing Inspector Gadget that day. Tweedledee and Tweedledum—otherwise known as Skylar and Brandon—were hot on my tail. The doorman looked up as the three of us entered Eric’s building in the North End. I stormed into the lobby, shoving away the uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu.
The last time I was here, Eric and I had taken exactly two seconds to tear each other’s clothes off. He had reawakened a part of me I had forgotten, like a tree blooming after a long winter, though perhaps not as elegantly. I did kick him in the ass, after all. And right after that, I’d agreed to marry him. It wasn’t the most romantic night of my life per se, but it was certainly one of the hottest. And the memory of it made my chest squeeze.
Now the cherry trees in the churchyard across the street were bare-branched and trembling in the frigid November wind. And in jeans, my favorite Clash hoodie, and a leopard-print trench coat, I was wrapped up tighter than a pork sausage. These legs were closed for business, at least to this man.
“Paul,” I greeted the doorman. “Do you remember me? I’m Jane Lefferts. Eric’s…” I drifted off. I really didn’t even want to think the word “wife,” much less say it.
“Of course,” said the doorman with a slight tip of his head. “Congratulations on the nuptials, ma’am.”
/>
Skylar and Brandon made faces at each other. Fantastic. Someone had bothered to tell the doorman Eric and I were getting married, but not that it had been spectacularly torpedoed.
“Eric just asked me to get something for him from the apartment,” I said as I pressed the elevator call button.
Behind me, Brandon snorted.
But Paul didn’t act like anything was out of order—after all, why should he?
I stared at the black diamond that flashed on my finger alongside the matching band I hadn’t bothered to take off. I couldn’t have told you why. I wasn’t ready to think about it.
We rode to the top floor in silence. Brandon and Skylar looked like they were waiting for me to pop as we rode to the top floor.
“Can you stop?” I said, if only to break the silence.
“Stop what?” Skylar asked.
“Stop looking at me like I’m a cardboard volcano about to blow over. This apartment isn’t a cup of baking soda, and I’m not made of vinegar.”
Brandon’s face twitched. He had been helping Jenny, his daughter, with said science experiment just last night.
“You’ve really never been here?” I asked them. “I thought you two were his best friends.”
Skylar shook her head. “He moved a few years ago, but he’s not really one to hold a housewarming party or anything. You know Eric.”
Brandon cleared his throat loudly. His meaning was clear. Did I know Eric? Did any of us?
“I know Eric doesn’t tell people shit,” I replied as the elevator doors opened. “If there is any information about my ‘father,’ this Janus society, or where Eric went, it would be here, not our place in New York. I decorated every square inch of that apartment. Eric left his personal crap in Boston. Clearly, I can’t trust the man. Considering there’s a good chance we’ll end up in court sooner rather than later, I need to know what I’ve gotten myself into.”
They followed me down the hall to Eric’s corner apartment, where I stared at the shiny silver number on the door for a good thirty seconds.
* * *
“Once upon a time,” I said as I slowly drifted my mouth around the edges of his lips, “you used to know how to quiet this crazy mind of mine. You knew how to own it. Did you forget?”
Eric was a statue, but his eyes were stars. “Absolutely not.”
My eyes closed, almost like I was meditating. But when they opened, Eric’s lips grazed mine.
“Then do it,” I murmured against his mouth. “Make me your pretty girl again…Mr. de Vries.”
* * *
I took a deep breath and shook the memory away. Then I stuck the key in the lock, and turned.
Inside, it was just as sterile and crystalline as I remembered, all white and silver and glass. Skylar and Brandon looked around with curious distaste while I immediately scanned for…something. What was I looking for, anyway?
Brandon ran a finger over the stainless steel island. “This reminds me of—”
“Your place when we split up?” Skylar finished. “I know. It’s like a refrigerator.” She wrinkled her freckled nose. “Good thing you didn’t actually have to live here, Janey.”
I shrugged. I didn’t hate the apartment, exactly. The white, silver, and chrome decor was aesthetically pleasing and well put together, likely with the help of a decorator. It would have never been home, but there was more to a home than furniture.
Home.
Suddenly, I had a sharp, urgent hankering for the spacious apartment on the Upper West Side. I missed our big feather bed, the creamy prewar walls splashed with art, the eclectic mid-century furniture I had painstakingly collected for us. How many nights had we lain together in that bed, staring at the ceiling after giving with our bodies what had always been so much harder to give with our hearts? I had thought that in the end, we both finally let go of all those barriers. I had believed we were all out in the open. Bared. In love for the first time—it was always the first time with Eric—in my weird black sheep of a life.
How stupid was I?
After being left like that at the altar, I couldn’t bear to spend one more night in that false haven. I had stopped there only to pack my biggest suitcase before escaping to Boston with Skylar and Brandon. For a while, I thought that when Eric found me missing, he’d come looking. But one, two, ten days later, nothing. Until the lawyer called.
Stupid, stupid me.
“So, what are we looking for, exactly?” Brandon asked as he wandered through the sparse living room. “What is there to find?”
“Everyone keeps secrets somewhere,” I said, aimlessly pawing through the small bowl of keys and change by the door. “People are record keepers in the most random ways. Philanderers leave love notes. Serial killers have calling cards. Sam Berkowitz literally wrote letters to the police.”
“Eric’s not a serial killer.” Skylar opened the fridge, which currently only held a few bottles of unopened Perrier. “He’s been keeping his entire life buttoned up since we’ve known him, what, eight years now? You didn’t even know who his family was until six months ago.”
“I also never looked.”
Skylar looked at me like she didn’t believe me. I turned back to the key bowl.
“Two years ago we were working a case against this shark in Chicago,” I said. “An underground gambling ring downtown. I came in at the tail end because it took ten years to rack up enough evidence against him to prosecute. He was that good at keeping it hidden. But what really got him were the emails he sent to his ex-wife bragging about how much money he had made without her. The guy cared more that his wife remembered him than he did about his own freedom.”
Skylar scowled. “Idiot.”
I just shrugged. “Human, I think. I wouldn’t want my life’s work to be forgotten, even if it was a brilliant crime. Or a brilliant revenge on your ex-girlfriend.”
I really, really didn’t want that to be true. But I couldn’t help but wonder if this was supposed to happen the whole time. Eric never cared about his family before. What if he wasn’t the genuine, if guarded person I thought I knew? What if he saw a chance to punish me for what I did to him nearly six years ago…and took it?
* * *
“After the exam, I was thinking I should make some changes. I haven’t seen my family in a while. It’s time to check in.”
“Oh?” I asked as I popped a cherry in my mouth and examined a study question.
Eric watched its progress with an intense, distracted look.
“That sounds nice,” I said.
He blinked, like he’d just remembered the conversation we were having while studying for the bar exam. “I think you should come with me. Jane, I want to take you home. I want to do this for real.”
His hand clapped over mine on the table, covering my scraped black nails with his smooth, pale palm.
I took a deep breath and set down my pencil. I could say this. I had to. “I think we should stop this.”
Eric’s head snapped up. “What?”
I twisted and turned in my chair like a toddler who needed to pee. “I…I can’t, Eric, and you don’t want to bring me home, you know you don’t. Look at me…”
I gestured at my cropped hair with its four different colors, the ripped jeans, the chipped nail polish. Eric was a J. Crew catalog. I was a one-woman homage to Hot Topic.
“I am looking at you, pretty girl.”
I blushed. “Stop. Stop that. See, that’s what I mean. You call me that, but I’m not pretty. Not in the way everyone else will expect of someone with you. You said you’re from the Upper East Side, right? Well, I don’t know anything about your family, but I’ve been to that part of New York with Skylar, and… Well, let’s just say you don’t see a lot of women who look like me walking around.”
“The Village is only a few miles from there. And New Yorkers love black.”
“But do Upper Easter Siders love it with blue stripes through their hair or men’s boots?” I asked, pointing at two things tha
t I was currently sporting.
Eric leaned forward over the table and took my hands. “I. Don’t. Care. When are you going to get it through that head of yours—I only want you.”
For a moment, I almost said yes. I almost believed his face would actually beam the way I imagined. I almost bought into the idea that in some weird way, I would belong in his perfect, pristine world.
But reality has a way of keeping those things from happening. It ruins everything.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “It’s over.”
* * *
I meandered into the kitchen and started pulling open drawers. Perfectly sharpened knives, way too much coffee paraphernalia. Nothing of interest.
“Well, I did a little more digging last night,” Brandon said by the shelves in the living room. “Made a few calls. But I couldn’t get straight answers from anyone about the Janus society. No one would confirm anything beyond what I already knew. Most people had no idea what it even was.”
The way Skylar pressed her lips into a thin line told me she wasn’t very happy her husband was asking around about this issue.
“John Carson, on the other hand, is pretty well-known,” Brandon said. “The guy’s a phantom, but he’s the CEO of a major engineering firm. They make communication systems. Some combat equipment, but mostly munitions. Ray said they are a big recruiter at MIT, but John Carson is the kind of guy you can only reach if he wants to talk to you.”
“You’d think he’d at least resurface after he stole his daughter’s new husband,” I said dryly. “After all, it’s been thirty years, right? Don’t I, as the presumed heiress, deserve an audience?”
Skylar patted me on the arm sympathetically. I didn’t even want to think about the fact that I was turning thirty in a few weeks. I wanted to pretend this birthday wasn’t evening happening.
The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Page 3