When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  When Frankie started making some money, they’d decided to have Ash. As Franklin climbed the social ladder, Darlene Costanzano from the Bronx couldn’t keep up with the Potomac ladies that lunch. So Franklin had divorced her and left her with nothing. From what I understand, she was so shocked and heartbroken that he was actually leaving her that she couldn’t muster the strength to fight back, and the bastard took advantage of her weakness. He said he wanted custody of Ash and for her to stay away, and her response was, “Well Frankie is so smart. He knows best.” Poor woman didn’t know what had hit her.

  She loved Ash, but he’d always looked at her as though she were trash. Darlene hadn’t even come to our wedding because she didn’t want to embarrass anyone. After her divorce, she moved back to New York. To this day, she lives with her sister in the same apartment they grew up in. She’s never remarried, never even dated. Franklin shattered her.

  I’ve always felt a connection with Darlene. We were both thrown into worlds very different from the ones we knew. When my parents died, I’d been thrown into an elitist prep school—very different from the small, rural town I grew up in. Darlene had been thrown into the high society of Washington’s elite. The difference between us was that I adapted and she never could.

  I tap my fingers on my thigh while I wait for her to answer the phone. When she does, I skip the pleasantries and get right to the point. “Darlene, it’s Lily. I need to tell you something important.”

  “Oh hello, dear.”

  I inhale, hoping there’s some courage mixed into the overly recycled hotel air. “Ash was in a car accident. He died, Darlene.” There’s complete silence on the other end. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, dear. I heard you. I’m not sure what to make of it… I think I’m in a bit of shock,” she replies.

  “I think I’m still in shock too. I keep waiting for him to say this was one of his pranks.”

  “He has always been such a jokester,” Darlene laughs.

  She agrees to come down tomorrow to help me figure out what to do. It’ll be comforting to have someone parental around. At times like this, I really miss my mother.

  After I get off the phone with her, I make a call to my only friend in the world, Emily. We went to the same high school, but she’s two years older than I am, and we didn’t know each other then. I finally met her during my first week at the University of Arizona, and from that day on, we were inseparable—kindred spirits. We both had secrets to keep and were looking for a distraction from them.

  We lived together for four years, and I’ve missed her terribly. Despite being the one to encourage me to get together with Ashton in the first place, she had been vehemently against me marrying him. As a result, after Ash and I were married, Em and I had drifted apart. Even so, I know that even after all of this time, I can call her and she’ll be there for me.

  “Lily? Oh my God, how are you?”

  “Em, I need you.” I tell her the whole story.

  “Cocksuckermotherfucker,” she shouts. Her nickname for Ash has always made me laugh. “I cannot believe he’s done this to you. Well, actually, I can totally believe he’s done this to you. This is his flavor of bullshit.”

  I laugh. “He always said he was destined to be famous. Well, he’ll be infamous at least.”

  “How are you dealing with all of this?” she asks. “I’ve always wanted you free of that asshole, but not like this. I just wanted him to live a long and pitiful life with a venereal disease that made his penis fall off.”

  God, I’ve missed her. “I think I’m in shock. I’m sad and relieved all at the same time. I feel awful about feeling relieved, which then makes me sad. It’s a vicious cycle. I need to plan the funeral and find a way to put this all behind me.”

  She promises to get time off from work and fly into town tomorrow to help me sort through everything. For the first time since all of this has happened, I feel like I’m taking steps forward.

  After I hang up with Em I send Gavin a text, as requested, so he has my number, and then I slide under the covers. Craving sleep, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind. Nine-thirty in the morning in a downtown Washington hotel is about as quiet as a pre-school after snack time. Clopping feet storming down the hallway so hard the floor shakes—it’s like a heard of Sasquatch are staying on my floor. Tourists bickering about which Smithsonian to start at. Business people chatting about their widget presentations. And I’m fairly sure I hear a man kiss a woman good-bye just before dialing a cell phone to say good morning to his wife and kids. Men are scum. To drown out the hallway drama, I turn on the TV and promptly fall asleep to a rom-com.

  I’m woken up by the blaring tune of “God Save the Queen.” I jump out of bed and look around the room, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Gavin woke me the same way at least once when we were staying at Meredith’s, so I feel momentary surge of hope that he’s back—until I see the light of my new phone shining from my nightstand. I look at the caller ID, and it says “Oxford”. I’m laughing so hard I can’t get the word “hello” out when I answer.

  “There’s the laugh I adore,” Gavin says.

  I prop up a pillow and lean back against the headrest. “You’ve managed to one-up me, Oxford. Oh, I’ll have to rectify that. When did you manage to find the time to download this ringtone?”

  “I move fast when I’m motivated. Knowing this was going to make you smile and think of me was very motivating.”

  “Well, mission accomplished. I’ll always smile when I hear this song.”

  “Because you have finally accepted British superiority?” I can hear his pompous smirk through the phone.

  “No, silly, because it means I get to talk to you. It will be the best part of my day. And this does not mean Brits are sneakier!”

  “As long as we both can admit that I’m winning this war.” I can hear how big his grin is through the smugness of his tone.

  The air conditioning clicks on and the room goes from sweltering to polar almost immediately, so I pull the scratchy hotel blanket up around me. “Oh it’s on, Oxford. It’s on! I don’t know how or when, but I will get you back. Mark my words, you’re going down!”

  “I look forward to it,” he replies.

  “So, anyway, you made it safe and sound. Is it good to be home?”

  He sighs. “Not yet. From the moment I landed, it’s been one fire to put out after another. I tried to manage as much as I could while I was away, but there’s so much I’ve let slide while I’ve been away. It’s going to take me a year to get things sorted.” He sounds weary. The whole time he was here, I never heard him sound so spent. I suppose it’s all catching up to him.

  We make each other laugh with humorous observations from our day, like my spotting of a three-hundred-pound man in a speedo riding a scooter down Wisconsin Avenue and his recounting of the gentleman he sat next to on the plane that spent six of the eight hours with a glob of pudding on his chin. This man is going to give me deep laugh lines that will never go away. In the background, I hear his driver announce that they’re approaching their destination, but the crowd may prevent them from getting much closer. They must be at Brooke’s. I may be four thousand miles away, but a heat spreads across my cheeks, and the bed becomes suddenly uncomfortable. Or maybe I’m uncomfortable. I quickly jump off the line before I can feel more awkward than I already do. It may have been rude to hang up so quickly, but chatting with him as he pulls into his late wife’s driveway doesn’t feel proper either.

  Feeling the need to wash away my guilt and confusion, I take a long bubble bath, which I follow up with a horribly romantic movie trilogy about two people who randomly meet in Paris, fall madly in love for one day, and then spend a decade trying to find love in other places, but still somehow keep coming back to each other.

  I fall asleep wondering what will happen between Gavin and me. While a happily-ever-after for us seems as likely as a heatwave in Alaska in December, he’s made a mark on my life. Every man I m
eet moving forward will pale in comparison. Perhaps that’s my punishment for falling for a guy the day his wife died.

  Eleven

  Morning comes too quickly. I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head for one more day, but there’s a little boy in the hallway that wants his “zoobie” and it doesn’t seem he’ll stop screaming until he gets it. It’s the perfect motivation to get my act together and find a place to live. I call my credit card companies to have them issue new ones. Since mine were only melted, not stolen, they inform me they can overnight the new cards. Why didn’t I do this sooner?

  The next three hours are spent talking to the insurance company and the mortgage company. It’s not a great situation, but I won’t be underwater in the end. A year or so back, Ashton had taken out a big mortgage on the previously paid-off house. I owe a lot, but not so much that the insurance settlement won’t cover it. Sadly but fortunately, Franklin had a lot of expensive things in the house that were all insured. So whatever doesn’t go to paying off the mortgage company, I’ll get.

  My policy coverage will thankfully provide a much-needed stipend for living expenses until my claim is resolved, which really saves my hide. I’m told a check will come next week, so I just have to make it until then. I introduce the family lawyer and accountant so they can get to work sorting out the estate and repaying all of Ash’s debt. The lawyer seems to think that, between the settlement and what I’ll get when I sell the land, I’ll have a nice cushion. The last call is to a family friend that sells real estate. I’m determined to get the land up for sale as quickly as possible.

  Greene and Sully stop by to take me to lunch, and they bring me the best gift—a new copy of my driver’s license so I don’t have to go to the DMV. These men are saints. They catch me up on all of the FBI gossip. When we leave the diner, they remind me I only have a few more days in the hotel before I’m on my own. Time to find some new digs.

  Greene’s wife, Ellie, calls to tell me about a place that may be right up my alley. A colleague of hers is getting married and needs someone to sublet the last four months on a condo in Georgetown. It’s a bit far from a metro stop, but other than that, it’s a perfect location. I’ve always adored Georgetown. Before I know it, I’m eagerly signing a lease with TG Inc., the owner of the condo.

  Later, Darlene calls to let me know that she’s in town but needs to rest after her train ride. We decide to meet for brunch tomorrow. Most times, I would have enjoyed this rare chance to see her, but I’m dreading the plans we need to make. At least the restaurant we’ve chosen has a Bloody Mary bar. I’m going it to need it.

  Em calls around six, and just knowing that she’s nearby helps me breathe a little easier. Emily Harrington gave herself the self-imposed nickname Queen Bitch long ago, and it suits her perfectly. She’s the epitome of high maintenance. She knows exactly what she wants out of life and never apologizes for it. At first glance, she appears to be just another beautiful, rich airhead. In reality, she’s anything but. Her chestnut hair, green eyes, and legs that go on for miles distract people from the fact she has an IQ of 170. She’s constantly being underestimated, and she gets off on humiliating the people who do so. Coming from obscene wealth, she wouldn’t have to work a day in her life if she chose not to, but she’s too smart for that. Em would get far too bored just being a socialite, so she works for fun. I’ve never really understood what it is she does exactly. Something about analyzing the economy and stocks. It’s all over my head.

  Being the pampered princess she is, she refuses to stay in my mid-level hotel and checks us into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental. She’s said she’s staying for a week and she wants us to be comfortable. Better her dime than the federal government’s.

  Em takes one look at my FBI-inspired apparel and decides it’s her personal mission to restock my wardrobe. If it were anyone else, I would never allow it. But Em’s trust fund money was grown from ill-gotten gains, and she’s always seen it as blood money. She likes to do good deeds with it, and playing dress up with me seems to be her good deed for the day.

  After exhausting ourselves pounding the pavement between the high end stores in Georgetown, Em demands dinner. An unapologetic food snob, Em will only eat at five-star restaurants and wouldn’t be caught dead eating somewhere that lacked linen table clothes, disproportionately small servings, or food that average people can’t even pronounce. Cityzen is in the lobby of our hotel and meets all of her qualifications. I’d known it would when I saw that they only offer a tasting menu. For someone that hates to give up control, it’s always perplexed me that she prefers meals with a menu dictated by someone else. It’s a foodie thing, I guess. Me? I’d have been happier with a burger.

  Over our cold lobster soup, she catches me up on all of her escapades and all of the gossip about everyone we went to school with. She’s stayed in touch with all of our sorority sisters that I haven’t spoken to since before my wedding. Five years have gone by, but it doesn’t sound like I’ve missed much. People have jobs instead of classes, but for the most part, they’re still partying their way through life. While it makes me long for simpler times, I’m not sure I could ever go back to that life.

  It amazes me that Em still talks to everyone. U of A was never the right place for Em. With her intelligence and high society upbringing, she belonged in the Ivy League. During her senior year of high school, her parents died in a tragic and highly publicized murder-suicide. Had she gone to Harvard, as planned, she would have been bombarded by press and ridiculed by the blue blooded student body. Instead, she changed her last name and moved to Tucson to the playground for wealthy kids that want to attend as little class as possible. U of A gave her sanctuary. In the four years she attended the university, I was the only person that figured out her true identity.

  After the sommelier delivers our second bottle of wine, she raises her glass. “To you, my darling Lily. Life has dealt you bad hand after bad hand, but if there’s anyone that can rise from the ashes and set the world on fire, it’s you. You’ll get through this, and you’ll be stronger for it.”

  We clink glasses, and I smile, but I’m not quite sure how to respond.

  She swirls the wine in her glass. “The last time I saw you, you were just a shadow of yourself. Your body was here, but your spirit was MIA. Cocksucker, I mean Ashton, had sucked the life out of you. I couldn’t bear to see you like that again. Hence my distance. I never stopped loving you, but I couldn’t watch you be a doormat.”

  Em’s never been one to pull any punches, but that’s why I love her. “I had to stay. For Frankie. It was worth it, and I’d do it all over again. Even though it cost me my backbone and self-respect.”

  She tilts her glass toward me again. “Here’s to your reincarnation. Hopefully that backbone of yours will rejuvenate in your new life.” She sips and then warns. “I can see a flicker of life in your eyes, and I expect it to stay. If you go all Body Snatchers on me again, I will not hesitate to take you out. I watch The Walking Dead. I’m a zombie expert these days.”

  She’s not wrong. I shudder thinking about how numb and empty I had become over the last few years. “I’ll hold you to that,” I reply. “I never want to live that way again. It’s not living when you’ve lost your soul.”

  “That’s what happens when you marry the devil, my dear,” she says.

  Before I can respond, a team of servers swap out our soup bowls and replace them with plates of black bass and eggplant. When they leave, I glare at her. “You can spare me your ‘I told you so.’”

  She holds her hands up in defense. “I don’t need to say it, my dear. You’ve already been punished enough. Gloating would simply be poor manners.”

  I know that this won’t be the last time we discuss this subject. But I’m happy it’s laid to rest for the moment. Conversation throughout the rest of the night is light hearted, mostly focusing on Em’s dating life. Em rejects the notion of monogamy. She loves men, loves sex, and isn’t ashamed of the fact that she’s
got a guy in every port. Despite the fact that she makes it very clear to each would-be suitor that she’ll never be the girl he takes home to mom, she gets at least four or five marriage proposals a year. Who can blame them? Em’s stunningly beautiful, and she has a way about her that makes you feel like the best version of yourself. She pushes you, demands the best of you, and knows how to grab life by the balls. It’s addicting. But like most addictions, the high only lasts so long. As soon as she feels a guy falling too fast, she cuts him off cold turkey.

  Two more bottles of wine take us to last call. Somehow, we manage to stumble to our room afterward.

  Too tired to take off my dress, I crawl into bed fully-dressed. The flashing light of my phone catches my eye. I’ve missed a million calls and texts from Gavin. I send him an apologetic text and hope he understands.

  Two minutes later, God’s saving the queen again. “Allo, Guvnah” I say in a horrible cockney accent.

  “Oh, luv, I think that may be the worst impersonation I’ve ever heard. All of England is groaning right now.”

  I fingercomb my hair in the hopes that it won’t be too much of a rat’s nest in the morning. “That bad, huh? Sorry I missed your call. I went out with Em and left the phone in my room. We moved hotels. Now I’m staying at the swanky Mandarin,” I say, slurring my words. I proceed to drunkenly ramble on about random details of our night.

  “Oh,” he chuckles. “You’re positively hammered! Let me ask you a question, and then off to bed with you. Have you seen my blue shirt? I can’t find it anywhere. Do you remember packing it?”

  “No, Gavin. I know nothing about it,” I try to lie but can’t help laughing hysterically.

  “Oh boy, you’re totally legless. Get some sleep, dear. You have a long day tomorrow.”

  “Gavin?”

  “Yes, luv.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Me, too. Good night, Lily.”

  Motivated to change, I slip into said blue shirt. I take a seductive photo and send it to Gavin. At least, I hope it’s a seductive photo. Drunk selfies are rarely as good in the morning light as they were the night before.