by Minka Kent
At least that’s what Harris said.
The breakup took months, but it came as no surprise. I have my own issues, and Harris is a complicated man. It was always something I liked about him. He’s deep. A thinker. They don’t make them like him, at least not in mass production.
There’s a melancholy sweetness and an air of sadness swirling together as I breathe him in the way I always used to. Part of me wishes he were coming with me to Utah, but someone has to stay back and keep the business going. The two of us leaving for an undetermined amount of time isn’t an option.
“Call me when you land,” he says.
“I’m going.” I pull myself away from Harris and grip the purse strap over my shoulder, turning to leave after giving him a parting glance.
The unfamiliar gnawing of helplessness and uncertainty threatens to sink into my bones, but I draw in a deep breath, stride toward the elevator, and head toward my waiting cab.
I’m going to find my sister.
CHAPTER 3
MEREDITH
Thirty-Three Months Ago
“I can’t believe you live here.” Greer drops her bags on the marble-tiled foyer, her eyes floating to the top of the two-story entryway and landing on a Schonbek chandelier, complete with sixty-five lights glimmering through thousands of teardrop crystals. “Sure beats those shoe boxes we grew up in.”
“Can we not?” I ask.
Greer’s icy blues land on mine. “Can we not what?”
“Can we not make a big deal about the house?” I bite my lip, fingers interlaced on my hip, brows raised and head tilted.
As soon as Greer told me she was coming out for a visit, my stomach twisted into knots for days. It turns out the human body doesn’t always know the difference between excitement and anxiety.
“So I’m supposed to pretend that you didn’t pick me up in a Bentley, take me to a Michelin-starred restaurant for a five-course dinner on your husband’s dime, and bring me back to your multimillion-dollar ski chalet?” Greer smirks, like she’s razzing me, but I know her. There’s a layer of something beneath her teasing tone, though what it is exactly I haven’t a clue yet. Doubt? Skepticism? Disappointment? Jealousy?
It’s not like I’m asking her to be proud of me. None of this is anything that I’ve earned or necessarily deserve. I married well. I got lucky. And I own that. I just want her to know that someone’s taking care of me now.
And that I’m no longer her burden.
Wrapping my arms around her tense body, I squeeze her tight until her shoulders relax. “I love you, G. And I’m glad you’re here. I just want us to have a good time.”
My sister exhales. “We will. I’m sorry for gawking. It’s just . . . this life you’re living is insane. You’re so young.” She pulls away from me, her eyes locking on mine.
“It’s not unheard of to be married at twenty-two,” I say. “And you can’t control fate.”
“I just hope you don’t forget who you are and what you want, you know? I didn’t raise you to be a kept woman.”
I reach for her bag, winking to keep things light and to keep this conversation from having a mother-daughter dynamic.
“I believe we already had this conversation,” I remind her. “The night before my wedding?”
Her eyes roll. “I know, I know. You love him. He loves you. Everything’s perfect, and I have nothing to worry about.”
My lips pull up at the sides. “Glad you were listening. Want to see your room?”
The security system beeps twice as I wheel her bag through the foyer.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Andrew must be home.” I glance toward the kitchen, waiting for the sound of his calfskin oxfords shuffling across the floor, his keys chinking on the counter, and the gentle whoosh of the wine fridge as he retrieves our nightly bottle of red.
“Mer?” he calls a moment later. “You home?”
“In here.” I wheel the bag toward the sound of his voice, Greer in tow. “Look who made it!”
He’s seconds from uncorking a bottle of Merlot when he glances up, meeting my sister’s steely gaze. I told him she can’t help it—she looks at everyone that way. She doesn’t trust most people, and she hardly likes anyone. She’s slow to warm up, but she will warm up . . . one of these days. She just needs to see that what we have is legit and not the premise of a Lifetime Movie of the Week. Regardless, Andrew promised me it didn’t matter, that he had thick skin, and that it wouldn’t change the way he feels about me. Ever.
“Andrew.” Greer forces herself to smile. I can see she’s trying to be cordial, so that’s a step in the right direction. It suddenly hits me that this is only the third time they’ve met. Expecting them to be fast friends is unrealistic, so I’ll sit back and be patient and let this happen naturally.
My husband takes three crystal wineglasses with platinum-plated stems from the cupboard and pours them to the curve of the chalice.
“Did you have a nice flight?” he asks, sliding our glasses closer. “They were calling for snow. I was worried there’d be a delay.”
She takes a small sip. “Guess I lucked out.”
“Where’s your boyfriend? Harris, was it?” Andrew asks.
“Ex . . . ,” I remind him under my breath, twisting the stem of my drink between my fingers.
Greer shoots me a look, and I shoot one back. It’s not fair that my love life is always on the table, but hers is a padlocked diary. God forbid we discuss the fact that they broke up years ago but still act like nothing happened. They may not share an apartment anymore and they might have ditched the relationship labels, but nothing else has changed.
“My apologies,” he says. “You came to the wedding together . . . I just assumed.”
Greer takes another swig, wallowing in silence as her gaze lands on the polished wood floor. For a moment, I think back to our wedding, which was rather elaborate and impersonal, everything taking place in a posh hotel at the top of a snow-covered mountain, no one setting foot in our new home for brunch or to watch us open gifts. We shipped our guests in. We shipped them out. A laundry list of festivities left little time for small talk and catching up.
“I’m going to show her to her room,” I say to my husband, leaving my wineglass untouched. My period is a few days late, but I haven’t shared that with him—or anyone else—yet. “Thought she could stay in the guest suite down the hall from us if that’s okay?”
Andrew chuckles, rounding the kitchen island and slipping his hand around mine. “You don’t have to ask for permission. This is your house, too.”
Now I feel silly, but I smile through it. I’ve lived here for months now, but it still feels like his place. I don’t think I could ever get used to living in a house the size of a megachurch. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like home yet, and it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it’s mine.
“That said, I had Rosita prepare the guesthouse earlier,” he adds. “I thought Greer might be more comfortable there.” He glances at her. “More privacy. Less noise.”
I turn to her. “He has a point. It’s his week—our week—with Calder and Isabeau. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
My sister grips her bag, studying him. He can’t see it, but I do. Her thoughts may as well be broadcasting across her forehead. If I know my sister, she’s fixating on how he’s trying to put a wedge between us, how he wants to keep me all to himself and create distance between us. But he isn’t like that. He’s only thinking of her, of her comfort. Andrew simply wants her to enjoy her stay. Once she gets to know him, she’ll see.
“The guesthouse is amazing,” I say. “I can show you, if you’d like?”
Her eyes dart to mine. “That’s fine.”
I wave for her to follow me, and Andrew takes his time releasing my hand. A moment later, we’re passing through the sliding door off the back of the house and trekking beyond the covered, heated pool and lighted, bubbling spa toward the entrance of the guest lodge.
The
guesthouse is lit like Christmas, the dark siding juxtaposed with the warm light emanating from the professionally styled interior. Everything from the grand, cognac leather sofa and reclaimed wood ceiling beams to the chinchilla-covered throw pillows was hand selected by a designer he flew in from Telluride.
Andrew calls the house quaint, but last I checked, most people wouldn’t consider a twenty-seven-hundred-square-foot, four-bedroom cottage “quaint.” I imagine there’s some perspective dwarfing going on here. Anything placed next to the main house would appear quite “quaint.”
Once inside, we pass a table in the entry with an oversize bouquet of fresh flowers in shades of wintry white accented with sprigs of pine. A collection of wickless candles flicker in the fireplace, and Ella Fitzgerald croons from speakers in the ceiling. The faint scent of cedar mixed with spearmint fills the air, and every couch cushion and throw pillow is fluffed and arranged just so. It isn’t the holiday season anymore, but it sure feels that way. Andrew says there are two seasons in Glacier Park: Christmas and almost Christmas. I suppose there’s no better way to take advantage of the long winters.
“You’re going to love it here,” I tell her as she stands in the foyer, inspecting her surroundings with her arms tight at her sides, like I’ve just abducted her and deposited her into a UFO. “The guest room is nice, but the guesthouse is nicer. It’s basically a private five-star hotel. Housekeeping and everything. And the kitchenette should be stocked. Anything else you need, just dial zero on the phone, and someone will help you.”
I roll her suitcase to the bedroom, leaving it at the foot of a downy, king-size bed, but she doesn’t follow.
“Greer?” I call for her, stepping back toward the living room. “You can still have the guest room down the hall from us if you’d like. If this is too much, just say so.”
“It’s fine,” she says, lips flat and eyes focused. I’m sure the day of traveling has exhausted her, and it didn’t help that the second I picked her up from Salt Lake City International Airport, we hit the ground running. Before dinner at Maesano’s, I gave her an hour-long driving tour of Glacier Park, showing off the beautiful French-inspired and Gothic architecture. I fawned over the way the mountains frame the city like a little fortress, and I taught her how to spot tourists. They were always walking at a turtle’s pace. Pointing. Wearing North Face and UGGs. If a GP local wore North Face or UGGs, it would be an abomination. Moncler and Bogner are all the rage here, at least among the women, and sometimes I make a game of trying to talk about the latest in skiwear trends without actually having to pronounce those brands.
I’d definitely butcher them if I tried.
Greer sat quietly—or perhaps politely—impressed as I dragged her around the city, but I wasn’t trying to show off. I just wanted her to feel at home in my new home. I want her to feel like she can visit anytime.
I haven’t made many close friends here yet, and aside from Andrew, I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t have much of a life. Seems like there are plenty of women around here who are content to stay home doing nothing, to fill their empty days with facials and manicures and spur-of-the-moment Bunco lunches with their other stay-at-home friends.
I joined them once when one of our neighbors invited me, but the women were all my mother’s age, and when they weren’t fawning over how “perky my breasts are” and how my “skin glowed like a newborn’s bottom,” they were treating me like their daughter.
“Meredith, be a lamb and grab me a glass of ice in the kitchen, please?”
“Meredith, you’ll have to explain this Instagram thing to me. I have no idea how it works.”
“Meredith, I should take you shopping with me. I bet you could pick out some clothes my niece might actually wear for once . . .”
I left the Bunco lunch with a bitter taste in my mouth and the realization that fitting in to Andrew’s world wasn’t going to be as smooth of a transition as I’d hoped.
The other night, I mentioned maybe looking for a part-time job to Andrew, but he just chuckled and kissed my head, telling me money wasn’t an issue for us and that it never would be.
That wasn’t my point.
I’m bored.
And lonely.
But it’s not like I can come out and tell my husband, “Sorry to be ungrateful and I love you to death, but this opulent life you’ve given me is dull and boring, and I kind of hate it.”
“You going to call it a night?” I glance at the clock, mentally calculating what time it would be back in New York.
My sister inhales, nodding, inspecting her surroundings with her feet cemented to the floor.
“I have barre in the morning,” I say. I hate barre. I hate exercising in general, at least out here. Leaving the warm gym in sweaty, sticky clothes and walking into an icy cold parking lot always makes me rethink whether or not I want to renew my membership each month. But working out kills time—roughly three hours if I include the time for my preworkout shower, getting dressed (which includes full hair and makeup because that’s what women do here), driving to the gym, sweating my ass off in a couple of classes, driving back, showering, dressing, and fixing my hair and makeup all over again. “And then spin class right after. I should be back by ten or so. Let me know what you want to do while you’re here.”
Greer offers me a reserved half smile. “Sounds good.”
Showing myself out, I trek across the backyard, making my way to the house. When I reach the back porch, I stop when I see Andrew seated at the head of the dining room table, a glass of wine to his right and a plate of heated leftovers before him. He’s reading the news on his tablet, the little line between his brows deep and pronounced, and my heart feels full.
He’s always working, always providing.
The quiet whoosh of the sliding door grabs his attention, and when he looks up at me, his expression ignites. The fact that this powerful, well-to-do man lights up like a firecracker every time I come into the room is enough to make me want to marry him all over again.
Placing his fork aside, he pushes his chair from the table and makes his way to me. Cupping my face in his hand, he kisses my forehead.
“It’s going to be really hard not having you all to myself for the next week,” he says, a playful tone in his voice. “I’m a selfish man when it comes to you.”
CHAPTER 4
GREER
Day Two
The driveway is cluttered with vehicles, marked and unmarked, all of them shiny and black and serious, crammed in one behind another. I climb out of my Yellow Cab and meet the driver near the trunk for my luggage.
My joints ache from sitting so much, and my legs are heavy. I wheel my luggage to the front door, which is open a crack, and I show myself in.
A uniformed officer stands guard by the front door, his fingers hooked on his duty belt. He peers my way, looking me up and down before strutting over like he has all the time in the world.
The lack of urgency with these people concerns me.
He’s young, and his eyes are a boring shade of brown that complements the uninterested expression on his baby face. He’s skinny, his uniform baggy around his shoulders, and I bet when he’s not working, he’s hanging out in his mother’s basement playing Battlefield.
“Ma’am, this is a—” he begins to say, stifling a yawn. His lips press together. His eyes water, quiver. I’m guessing it’s nearing the end of his shift, and when he’s called to a scene with no blood, no corpse, and no active shooter and told to be a glorified security guard, he finds himself second-guessing his life choices.
I straighten my shoulders and square my jaw. “Greer Ambrose. Meredith’s sister.”
He stops talking and stands back, pointing me toward the kitchen, and I follow a trail of low voices.
Andrew notices me the second I appear in the doorway. We lock eyes from across the room, but we might as well be locking horns. His gray slacks and navy cashmere sweater are a noticeable departure from his custom three-piece suits, but he st
ill looks as though he woke up this morning, showered as if it were any other day, and put time and effort into his appearance.
“Greer.” He comes toward me, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me tight. He’s never hugged me this way before, not even for show when Meredith was around. “I’m glad you could make it.”
He pulls away but leaves his hands on my shoulders. I don’t like them there. I don’t like him touching me. Just because my sister is missing doesn’t mean I’m going to forget that he’s a pompous egomaniac who plucked my sister from obscurity, all so he could have the shiniest of trophy wives in all this pathetic little ski resort land.
“What’s the latest?” I try to ignore the distracting weight of his hands.
“Nothing.” He exhales, his eyes drifting over my shoulder and focusing on something behind me as worry lines spread along his forehead. “The forensics team had her phone overnight. They’ve requested her phone records, but so far nothing unusual. She wasn’t texting anyone out of the ordinary . . . making plans with anyone . . .”
“I just don’t understand what led up to this. Did the two of you have a fight?” I ask. “Is there any chance she left on her own?”
“Absolutely not.” His brows rise. Defensive, perhaps, that I would even suggest such a thing? “It was just an ordinary day. I kissed her goodbye, left for work . . .”
His words trail into silence, and for a moment I think he may be getting choked up.
“So catch me up here.” I brace my hand on one hip and exhale. “I need to know everything.”
His eyes take their time finding mine. “Like I said, Greer, she went to the grocery store yesterday, and no one’s seen her since. There was no fight. No marital discord. We’ve contacted all the area hospitals, jails, shelters. Everything. No one’s seen a woman matching her description.”
“What about her car? Any signs . . . ?”