“It’s my job,” Eddie says. He rubs his hands together; his stomach is now seriously rumbling. “I should go.”
Mitzi sees Eddie to the door and waves as he strides down Winter Street. “See you Tuesday,” she says. “With Allegra.”
Eddie waves back. He is so stunned at his good fortune that he’s already back on Main Street before he realizes that he forgot to ask about costumes.
JENNIFER
In theory, Jennifer is too busy to be unhappy. She’s finishing up a project she adores—an 1827 single-family home on Garden Street in Beacon Hill—and she is about to start a from-scratch job on a penthouse suite in the brand-new luxury building Millennium Tower, on the site of the original Filene’s in Downtown Crossing.
The two projects couldn’t be more different. The Garden Street house is owned by one of the most wonderful couples Jennifer has ever known—Leanne and Derek Clinton—who have moved back to the city from the suburbs now that their four children are out of the house. Derek is the head of the actuarial department at John Hancock, and Leanne works part-time as a pro bono civil rights attorney. They are gracious, evolved people who want to restore the house to the glory of its former heyday, but with modern conveniences and decorating vignettes in each room, which Leanne calls “moments of joy.” Jennifer blends classic paint colors and carefully curated antiques with her signature whimsy—a zebra-print rug, a feathered chandelier, a mirror in the powder room decoupaged with pages from Derek’s and Leanne’s old passports.
The penthouse, on the other hand, is owned by a man named Grayson Coker, who goes by the nickname Coke. He’s the fifty-four-year-old, thrice-divorced CEO of Boston Bank. (Jennifer has tried calling him Mr. Coker, but she gets reprimanded every time. “Coke, please, Jen,” he says. He is so insistent on this informality that Jennifer doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she loathes being called Jen.) Coke isn’t particular about how Jennifer decorates his apartment as long as the space is “sleek,” “modern,” and “intimidating.”
“Intimidating?” Jennifer asks, thinking she’s misunderstood. “You want your apartment to frighten people?” She has been decorating for twelve years, and this is the first time she has received this instruction.
“Not frighten, exactly,” Coke says. “But I’d like to put my visitors on edge. I’d like the space to make a statement. I’d like it to convey power.”
“Power,” Jennifer says. She’s already longing for Leanne with her offers of homemade maple-ginger scones.
“I’m thinking sharp angles, bold art. Nothing fussy. Nothing feminine.”
Jennifer nods. She is so far out of her comfort zone that she considers turning the project down. How did Coke end up finding Jennifer in the first place? She decides to ask him point-blank.
“A friend of a friend recommended you,” Coke says. “She told me you’re the best in Boston.”
Jennifer resists the flattery (the “friend of a friend” is likely one of Coke’s lovers; there are many, Jennifer is sure), but she decides to stick with the job because the payday is too phenomenal to ignore. Patrick has launched a new hedge fund, but it’s taking him longer to raise the capital than he initially anticipated. He works around the clock for little or no monetary gain.
Jennifer also hopes that by taking on a project so foreign to her nature she might beat back some of the cravings she’s been experiencing lately.
The cravings have become more frequent and more and more pronounced recently. Jennifer will be perusing fabric samples or making chicken salad for the boys’ lunches, and she’ll think: Something is missing. This niggling thought irritates her further. She has everything she could ever want: her husband is back, her children are healthy, her career is booming. But then Jennifer watches Leanne Clinton move through the world with such ease, such contentment and clarity of purpose; it’s like she’s keeping a wonderful secret, the secret of happiness. Aside from her part-time work on behalf of the commonwealth’s underdogs, Leanne goes to barre class six days a week and to Mass every Sunday.
Does Jennifer need more exercise? Does she need religion?
She misses the pills. There, she’s said it.
Once the house on Garden Street is finally finished, when there is nothing else she can purchase, tweak, or fluff, Jennifer fills with a sense of mournful good-bye like it’s the last day of summer camp. It’s time to get serious about the penthouse project. Before she makes her first big purchase for Coke, she sets up a meeting; the last thing she wants is to order eighty thousand dollars’ worth of furniture only to discover that he hates it all.
Coke works preposterous hours, and he says that the only time he can meet with Jennifer in the space is at eight thirty on Thursday night. Eight thirty is smack in the middle of the hour that Jennifer cherishes the most. It’s after dinner, the boys are doing their homework (or, more likely, playing Minecraft and Snapchatting), Jennifer is well into her third and final glass of wine of the evening as she cleans up dinner and makes the lunches. She is usually wearing her yoga pants and her Patriots T-shirt. The prospect of getting dressed up and going out at that hour is exhausting—but what choice does Jennifer have?
She decides to make the best of it. She encourages Paddy to take the boys out for barbecue at Sweet Cheeks for some father-son quality time. Meanwhile, Jennifer puts on a skirt and boots and takes herself out for a cocktail at Carrie Nation, next to the State House. She gets a few appreciative looks from the businessmen having drinks at the bar, which cheers her up. Why doesn’t she do this more often? She could meet one of her divorced-mom friends for drinks. She could even meet Leanne. But then Jennifer comes to her senses. She doesn’t frequent the Beacon Hill bars because she is busy running a business, raising three boys, and being happily married.
Coke is at the space when Jennifer arrives. She notices a bottle of scotch and two highball glasses on the black porphyry bar. An acoustic version of Bruce Springsteen singing “Fire” plays over the sound system. All the lights are out.
Coke is standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking northeast over the financial district and the seaport. To the west is Boston Common, the Boston Public Garden, and Back Bay. This penthouse has been designed to make the owner feel like the king of Boston.
“The views are much better at night with the lights off,” Coke says. “Can I fix you a drink?”
Jennifer is about to ask if he has any wine, but she doesn’t want to come off as fussy. She has never tasted scotch, although Patrick drinks it occasionally, so how bad can it be?
“Sure,” she says.
He pours them each a drink and they clink glasses. Coke says, “Not only the best interior decorator in Boston, but certainly the most beautiful. Do people ever tell you you look like Selma Blair?”
“All the time,” Jennifer says, because they do, and this gets a big laugh out of Coke. Jennifer laughs right along and takes a sip of her whiskey. It’s bitter firewater, but Jennifer savors the burn.
Jennifer pulls out her laptop, but Coke waves it away. “I don’t need to see the pictures,” he says. “I trust you.”
“Are you sure?” Jennifer says. These are the words every decorator wants to hear, but she’s wary. Most of the things she picked out are severe, but some are softer, such as two Kelly Wearstler soufflé chairs. The chairs verge on feminine, but Jennifer’s thought is that they will make the room seem inviting to women. She has also picked a selection of antique banks to line the accent shelf in the living space, since all she knows about Coke, really, is that he’s a banker. She also knows he’s a philanthropist to Boston charities—the Jimmy Fund, the MFA, Boston Ballet. And he’s something of a notorious bachelor, photographed with a different woman on the social pages of nearly every issue of Boston Common.
“I’m sure,” Coke says. “I did my research.”
“You looked at my designs online?” Jennifer asks.
“Some,” Coke says. “I learned what I could about you as a professional and as a person.
You grew up in San Francisco, you attended Stanford, you worked for six years at Christie’s, you’re married to Patrick Quinn, formerly of Everlast Investments, and stood by his side while he served time for insider trading. You live on Beacon Street in the house that has the Christmas tree in the bay window, the one all the tourists take pictures of.”
“Wow,” Jennifer says. “I’m flattered. And also a little frightened.”
“Well, I figure if I’m going to be paying someone north of half a million dollars and entrusting her with a budget that’s four or five times that, then I’d better know who I’m dealing with.”
Jennifer nods slowly and takes a closer look at Coke. He’s six feet tall, has salt-and-pepper hair. He’s reasonably well built, but he’s not overtly handsome. And yet he has something. He’s a conqueror. His confidence is the biggest thing in the room. It’s impossible not to notice, difficult not to admire. He heads one of the biggest banks in Boston, but what that entails Jennifer isn’t sure. Probably it entails being decisive, strong, and… intimidating.
“Did you learn anything else about me?” Jennifer asks.
He throws back his scotch and gives her a laser stare. His eyes are green, which gives him a touch of humanity somehow. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
Jennifer imagines divulging her dark secret—her addiction—and then the even darker news that she still thinks about the pills all the time. But she would never want Coke to know about her weakness. She would sooner take a dive off the wraparound balcony.
“No,” she says. “You can learn as we go along.” She worries it sounds like she’s flirting. Coke’s eyes are resting on her throat, and then they travel down the front of her body.
“There is something I want to ask you about the master bath,” Coke says. “I have a friendly enemy, a competitor of mine over at Bank of America, who told me that his master bath has an accent wall of lunar rocks.”
“Lunar rocks?” Jennifer asks. “Rocks from the moon? The actual moon?”
“Come, let’s look at it,” Coke says. His hand lands on the exposed bare skin of Jennifer’s back. The halter blouse she’s wearing is one she bought specifically to please Patrick upon his return from prison. Coke leads Jennifer into the next room, the bedroom, which is empty save for a California king platform bed and a black lacquered dresser. The master bath is on the far side of the bedroom, but Coke stops Jennifer in front of the south-facing window, from which one can see Washington Street, the theater district, Chinatown.
Jennifer is now very, very sorry she agreed to this meeting and even sorrier that she wore such a seductive outfit. The music changes to John Mayer singing the world’s sexiest song. It’s then Jennifer realizes that Coke intentionally laid a trap and Jennifer has fallen right into it.
She clears her throat and says, “Well, there’s no arguing with the view—” But before her words are fully out, Coke is pulling her toward him for a kiss. His hand runs down her spine.
She can’t believe this is happening. When his lips meet hers, she panics. What should she do? She pushes against the front of Coke’s beautifully tailored shirt.
“No,” she says. “I’m sorry, Coke, I can’t. I’m happily married.”
There is one instant when Jennifer thinks things might still be okay. Coke can laugh it off, apologize, blame his forwardness on the alcohol. He can promise to behave himself from here on out so that they can have a drama-free working relationship, and Jennifer can collect her half a million in fees and be the decorator for the most prestigious project in Boston.
But instead Coke pulls Jennifer in even closer and places his mouth on the sensitive skin just below her ear. He bites her lightly and says, “Come on, Jen. We both know you aren’t that happy.”
“What?” Jennifer says. Coke’s voice is that of her inner demons. She’s not that happy. But sleeping with Grayson Coker isn’t going to help; it’s going to make things far, far worse. Jennifer struggles to disentangle herself without actually striking out at him, but he won’t loosen his grip. She can still feel his breath on her neck. “Please,” she says. “Let me go. Let me go right this instant.”
He pushes her away and she stumbles in her boots, but thankfully doesn’t fall. She steadies herself and hurries into the other room, where she pulls on her coat. She should never have taken it off! She should never have worn this blouse! What was she thinking! She snatches up her bag.
“I’m leaving, Mr. Coker,” she says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this job will work out for me.”
Coke stands in the doorway, shaking his head as though she’s a disappointing child. “It’s your loss, Jen.”
“Jennifer,” she says. “My name is Jennifer Quinn.” With this, she storms from the apartment onto the elevator and prays he won’t follow her.
Walking home, Jennifer is shaking, addled, confused. How did that meeting go off the rails so quickly? Was it her fault for agreeing to the late hour, to the empty apartment, to the drink? She had worn the wrong outfit, and she should never have gone for a cocktail at Carrie Nation. She shouldn’t have worn makeup or perfume, a skirt or high-heeled boots.
Then Jennifer stops herself. It wasn’t her fault. Coke misinterpreted her body language or her nonverbal cues, maybe even the tone of her voice. Jennifer asked him nicely to stop; she was firm and clear, and still he persisted. He was in the wrong. Jennifer’s only choice was to walk away from Grayson Coker and his fabulous project and all his money.
It’s your loss, Jen.
She can’t help feeling he’s right. She and Paddy needed that money. Needed it badly.
Jennifer arrives home a few minutes before Paddy and the boys, which gives her enough time to change out of the cursed outfit into her yoga pants and Patriots T-shirt. Paddy looks happier than he has in weeks, maybe months; the time alone with the kids cheered him up. He has barbecue sauce on his cheek. Jennifer wipes it off, and he kisses her.
“How was the meeting?” he asks.
She hears the boys happily roughhousing out in the hallway.
“Fine,” she says.
Patrick leans farther in and kisses nearly the exact spot by Jennifer’s ear that Coke bit. Jennifer tries not to cringe. She likes to tell Patrick everything—or nearly everything—but she knows there is no way to share this story without ruining the night and creating a scene. It will be beyond a scene, as two issues are at stake: Jennifer’s honor, for one, and the lost money, for another. Jennifer can easily imagine Patrick deciding to walk over to Millennium Tower with a baseball bat, prepared to threaten Grayson Coker. And what if Jennifer takes partial responsibility? What if she shows Patrick what she was wearing?
“I Googled the guy,” Patrick says. “He’s the sixth-richest man in Boston.”
“I’m not sure it’s the right project for me,” Jennifer says.
“I thought we went over this,” Patrick says. “If you don’t stretch, you won’t grow. It’ll be good for you to try something different.”
Jennifer can’t find the words to refute him, and so she hugs Patrick close and nods against his chest. She’s going to have to tell him the job is gone, but she won’t do it tonight.
“I’m going downstairs,” she says. “I need to make the lunches.”
The next morning, despite a slight hangover from the scotch, Jennifer decides to meet Leanne at barre class. She needs to pulse out her anxiety. She thinks she might even tell Leanne what happened with Grayson Coker and ask her advice about how to handle it with Patrick. What Jennifer needs is a friend, a confidante.
What she needs, she thinks, is an Ativan.
She’s crossing the Public Garden when her phone pings. She gets a funny feeling and thinks: It’s Grayson Coker, apologizing. But when she sees the alert, she stops in her tracks.
It’s a text from Norah Vale.
It’s as if Norah Vale has read her mind or sensed that this morning of all mornings is when Jennifer is at her most vulnerable.
Jennifer plop
s down on the nearest park bench. She should delete the text without reading it, she thinks. Because what could it possibly say?
Well, Jennifer reasons, it doesn’t automatically have to be about drugs. Jennifer hasn’t seen or heard from Norah since the previous Christmas, when Norah kindly switched ferry tickets with Jennifer so that Jennifer, Paddy, and the boys could get to Nantucket in time for Kevin’s wedding. Kevin’s second wedding—because Kevin’s first wedding had been to Norah herself. Norah Vale should have been the last person to offer to help, but she did so anyway.
Curiosity gets the best of Jennifer. She opens the text. It says: Something I want to talk to u about. Will u be on Nantucket anytime soon?
Jennifer freezes and scans her surroundings, as though she’s worried Norah is somewhere in the Public Garden watching her.
Something I want to talk to u about.
Wait! Jennifer thinks. Norah asked her for a letter of recommendation last year because she was applying to business school. So maybe Norah wants to use Jennifer’s interior decorating business as one of her case studies. There’s no reason why Jennifer should automatically assume the worst. Norah is a person who has made authentic changes in her life.
Will u be on Nantucket anytime soon?
This seems odd, right? Because if Norah merely wanted to talk, they could do so over the phone. Very few topics require an in-person conversation… unless it’s something too sensitive for the phone.
Such as the pills.
Jennifer’s legs are shaky when she stands up. She needs to get a grip; she needs to get to barre class. She needs to put her eyes on Leanne’s placid face and hear about Leanne and Derek’s latest heavenly dinner at Giulia.
As Jennifer walks down the footpath in the middle of Comm. Ave., she realizes that she will be on Nantucket soon—next week, for Bart’s birthday party. It’s on a Tuesday and therefore wildly inconvenient, but Patrick’s former secretary, Alyssa, volunteered to stay overnight with the boys and even take Pierce and Jaime trick-or-treating. Both Jennifer and Patrick realize how important it is to Mitzi that they attend.
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