Then again, the company meant everything to her. Was it possible in the heat of the moment she grabbed—or rather, pushed—an opportunity?
Jamie went on. “I’m afraid my mother will find out about Dad’s indiscretions one way or another. And it could devastate her. So, I was thinking it might be best if it came from me—I know how to deal with her, and I think I could find a way to soften the blow. But Megan disagrees.”
“My point is that it’s possible his mother will never find out,” Megan said. “I mean, if Eleanor is cleared, then none of this will come up.”
“But the police are going to be digging pretty deeply into my father’s behavior. And I just hate the thought of her being blindsided.”
“The cops aren’t going to tell your mother unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Dana said.
“I wish I felt confident that wasn’t going to happen,” Jamie said. “And I hate lying to her. She seems to suspect he was cheating—asked me all kinds of questions about what happened at the party. I feel like I have a duty to tell her the truth.”
“I’m trying to convince him to at least hold off,” Megan said.
Jamie rubbed his forehead. “It worries me.”
“Maybe I can help,” Dana said.
Jamie looked at her. “How so?”
“I have a rapport with Eleanor. Maybe I can get her to open up about her visit here. If it turns out it had nothing to do with your father’s indiscretions, you don’t have to burden your mother.”
Jamie took a sip of his tea as he considered it. “How long do you think that would take?”
“Not more than a few days.”
He bit his lip in contemplation, and although his expression softened, he stayed silent. It looked like he wanted to speak but was holding back.
“Say yes, Jamie,” Megan pressed him.
He sighed, as if he had no choice but to respond with the tired joke, “Yes, Jamie.”
But it was clear he meant it—he wanted Dana to do some digging.
10
“What are you doing here?” Chelsea asked, when Dana showed up on her doorstep.
She had taken an Uber straight from the Dennisons’ house to her older sister’s home in Roslyn. It was a sprawling colonial Dana had affectionately dubbed the House of Seventeen Gables, due to the abundance of rooflines. But the trendy suburban architecture, supersized as it was, felt homey compared to the cold and incongruous mansion.
“How warm,” Dana said. “I’m touched.”
Chelsea folded her arms. “Seriously,” she said. “You’ve never just shown up unannounced.”
Dana surveyed her sister’s appearance looking for the signs of depression she had exhibited after her miscarriage, when she couldn’t bring herself to get out of her bathrobe and into the shower. Today, Chelsea looked like her normal suburban self, dressed for yoga in one of those Lycra outfits that came via monthly subscription. It was the kind of ensemble wealthy Long Island women were more likely to wear to Starbucks or the hairdresser than to a workout.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said.
“So you came all the way out to Long Island just to visit me? Without even checking to see if I’d be home?”
“Is it a crime to pop in to see my sister?” Dana said, hedging the question.
Chelsea squinted at her. She wasn’t buying it.
“Have you turned on the news today?” Dana asked, testing whether her sister might have heard about Ivan’s murder.
Chelsea shook her head. “Should I?”
Dana shrugged. “You going to let me in?”
Chelsea pushed open the door and Dana followed her into the kitchen.
“Where are the boys?” Dana asked, referring to Chelsea’s husband and four-year-old son. The house, she had noticed, was especially quiet.
“Soccer.”
“How come you didn’t go?”
Chelsea took in a quick breath. “I had things to do.”
Dana bent to look at the laptop on the kitchen table. The browser was open to a shoe store website featuring a cream-colored wedge in satin, with an ankle strap and a bejeweled toe. “I can see,” she said. “Planning a mountain hike?”
Chelsea huffed and closed the computer. “So now you need a blow-by-blow on my day?”
“With video, if you don’t mind.”
Chelsea didn’t laugh, but the joke seemed to soften her defenses. “Look, I know you’re worried about me. But I promise, I’m fine.”
Dana scanned her sister’s face. If she’d had a miscarriage, she was handling it much better than last time. But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she had simply gotten her hopes up about being pregnant this month, and got her period when she was at the restaurant. That would explain the sudden drop in her mood. They were usually so open with each other, but perhaps this time Chelsea just felt the need to keep her cards close to the athleisure-wear. Dana could understand that—her sister probably felt like dealing with her own disappointment was enough. She didn’t need it compounded by having anyone else keep track of her ups and downs.
Dana placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to be nosy. I just want to know you’re okay.”
Chelsea looked into Dana’s face as if deciding what to say. At last she exhaled. “And I don’t mean to be so secretive,” she said. “I’m just...not ready to talk about it yet. Tell me about you, first. Didn’t you have that company party last night?”
If Chelsea wanted Dana to distract her with light chitchat, this wasn’t the topic. Still, she didn’t want her sister to think she was punishing her by withholding her own news. “Let’s talk about it over lunch,” she said. “I’m starving.”
Chelsea admitted that she was hungry, too, so the sisters went to work grabbing food from the fridge, chopping salad at the counter and hip-checking each other when they got in the way. At last they sat down at the center island to eat, and Chelsea brought the conversation back to the Shopping Channel party. “So how was it?” she asked, a smile indicating she was ready for some juicy gossip and inside dirt.
“Brace yourself,” Dana said, and went to work having a few more bites of the salad to fortify herself for the appetite-suppressing conversation.
“Didn’t you have fun?”
“Fun,” Dana mused, as if the word were almost too difficult to contemplate. “There were a few things in the way.”
“Such as?”
“Let’s see...someone drugged my drink and the new CEO was pushed off the roof and fell to his death. On the plus side, Megan met a nice guy.”
Chelsea blinked, stunned. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, they really hit it off.”
“Dana!” her sister scolded.
She finished chewing a piece of cold chicken and swallowed. “It’s just hard to explain everything.”
“Did the CEO really get killed?”
“Dead as your old Tamagotchi key chain.”
“What happened?”
Dana stirred her salad thoughtfully. “First, the generator died and everything went dark. And after that, I don’t know. There was a scream and then...” She closed her eyes to search for any hidden memory.
“Then?” Chelsea prodded.
Dana shrugged. “I passed out.”
Chelsea studied her face as if she needed to decide if Dana was telling the truth “Were you really drugged?”
“It seems somebody decided to make the roof party a roofie party, and slipped something in my drink. At least, that’s my guess. I had a drug test, so I’ll know in a few days.”
Chelsea poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher that had pieces of fruit floating in it. She took a long sip. “This is all so chilling.”
They were both quiet for a moment before Chelsea asked Dana if she had seen the body.
“Not that
I can remember. But I got a pretty gruesome description.”
“That poor man.”
Dana shuddered, thinking about how she felt when he had her cornered against the railing. “To be honest, he was kind of a pig.”
“I’m sure he didn’t deserve to die.”
“I suppose,” Dana said, with little conviction.
“What about his family?” Chelsea asked.
“Disabled wife, couple of adult sons. That’s where I was just now—visiting with his wife and younger son.”
“Oh, Dana. They must be devastated. But what happened? Do you have any idea who pushed him?”
Dana shook her head. “But I can tell you this much—there were a lot of people at that party who wanted him dead. He had made this terrible speech, saying he was changing the whole direction of the company. He tried to sugarcoat it, but everyone knew it meant their jobs were at stake.”
“The whole direction of the company?”
“No more fashion.”
Now Chelsea looked truly stricken. “I...don’t understand.”
“He said the Shopping Channel would be an all-electronics network. No clothes, no handbags, no shoes, no jewelry. But Megan assures me my contract is rock solid—they can’t fire me.”
“No jewelry?” Chelsea repeated, as if her sister had just questioned the existence of God. Or Balenciaga.
“Don’t panic,” Dana joked, “we could always broadcast from your basement.” It was meant in good fun—Chelsea’s lower level was where her shopping addiction manifested. The whole space was lined with deep shelves stocked with every nonperishable item imaginable, including household items, gifts and clothes she couldn’t wear in ten lifetimes. Dana didn’t often tease her sister about this, as it was so clearly an illness. But she also didn’t think she should normalize it.
Chelsea took it in stride. “The company spent years building its fashion reputation. I don’t understand how he thinks this could work.”
Dana nodded. Her sister had a good point. “He’s an electronics guy. That’s his background. To him, I guess this seemed like the only road to success.”
“I get it,” Chelsea said. “To a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail.”
“And to Ivan Dennison, the whole world looks like something he wants to nail.”
Chelsea made a face. “He came on that strong?”
“I literally felt like he was threatening me.”
Chelsea put down her fork, her face turning even more serious. “Was he the one who drugged you?”
Dana thought about how aggressively he had insisted she take the drink he brought her. “Probably.” In the past, she would have been more emphatic. But dating a detective had taught her to be circumspect about conclusions.
Chelsea’s eyes flashed with fear. “But you weren’t...” She trailed off, and Dana understood her point.
“No, no!” she quickly assured her. “That much I can say for certain—thank god. My memories are fuzzy, but I know I never left the party.”
Chelsea rubbed her forehead like it was all too much for her. “You’re sure?”
“I wasn’t assaulted. I promise.”
“Oh, Dana,” Chelsea said, reaching out for an embrace. As they hugged, she whispered into her sister’s shoulder, “If anything had happened to you, I would have killed him myself.”
“I know.”
Chelsea released her. “What does Ari say about the whole thing?”
Dana let out such a long, extended breath she was pretty sure it pushed all the oxygen from the room. And then she proceeded to tell her sister what had happened with Ari.
When she was done, Chelsea shook her head. “Sometimes you are so stupid it’s hard to believe you can put your own pants on.”
“I don’t know what else I could have done.”
“First of all, you shouldn’t have taken the apartment.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw it.”
“Yes, I would.”
Dana put down her fork. “Like you’re the model of restraint.”
“That’s different. My shopping doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“I didn’t think I was hurting him. I did it for us. It’s such a great apartment, Chelse. I know we could be so happy there.”
“So you’re going to move in, no matter what?”
Dana pictured living in that spacious apartment, and the tingle of excitement almost equaled her anxiety. It only she could get Ari on board, it would all be so perfect.
“Have to,” she said. “I signed a lease. But don’t worry. Ari will come around. He will.”
Chelsea considered it. “I know he loves you like crazy. I just hope this isn’t some subconscious effort to push him away.”
“Stop it,” Dana said. It was infuriating to have her family question her every decision. Sure, she had made some mistakes in the past, but this was different. There was no subconscious sabotage going on. She was trying her best to make this work.
“You stop it,” Chelsea said.
“Stop what?”
“Stop being an idiot,” Chelsea said. “Stop wrecking your life.”
Dana stood. “Maybe I should go.”
Chelsea held up her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s a great apartment.”
Dana sat back down. “You don’t have to be such a shit about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you with a housewarming gift.”
“Can’t I just go shopping in your basement?”
Chelsea sighed in mock exasperation. “I hate you,” she said, her tone light.
“I hate you more.”
Her sister winced, and Dana at first thought she had misinterpreted her banter. But when Chelsea put a hand on her stomach, it was clear she was having some kind of gastrointestinal distress.
“What’s wrong?” Dana asked.
Chelsea held up a finger. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and excused herself to the bathroom. She was gone for quite a few minutes, and when she returned, it was clear she had touched up her makeup and applied fresh lipstick—a soft matte pink shade.
“I vomited,” Chelsea said, as she sat down and resumed eating.
Dana pushed her plate aside. “Was it something I said?”
Chelsea took the last bite of her salad. “Hormones,” she explained. She waited a beat and smiled. “I’m pregnant.”
Dana gasped and smacked her sister’s shoulder. “You fucking idiot! I thought you miscarried or something. Do you know how worried I’ve been?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I thought I miscarried, too. That’s why I dashed out on you and Dad. Turned out it was just spotting.”
Dana gave her a hug. “Well congratulations, you little shit.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wanted to wait until I cleared the first trimester. It’s hard not to get superstitious about these things.”
“When are you due?”
“May fifteenth. Pretty close to Wesley’s birthday.”
“Is this why you didn’t go to his soccer game?”
“My doctor wants me to take it easy for a bit. I’m not even supposed to get myself worked up about anything.”
“Now you tell me,” Dana said, understanding why her sister hadn’t turned on the news. “After I dumped an avalanche of misery on you.”
“It’s okay. I would have been more upset if you kept all that from me.”
Dana sighed, and started clearing away the dishes. When Chelsea stood to help, Dana pushed her back down with a stern warning.
“Tell me what else I can do to help,” Dana said when she finished.
Chelsea bit her lip as she thought about it.
“Anything,” Dana pressed. “I’m at your disposal.”
“There is one thing,�
�� Chelsea said.
Dana scraped out a chair and took her sister’s hands. “Name it.”
“Try not to be an idiot for a couple of weeks.”
11
On Sunday morning, Dana headed downtown to meet with her acting troupe, the Sweat City Company. For almost six years, the experimental theater group had felt like the beating heart of her life. In fact, she almost didn’t sign on with the Shopping Channel, because there was a clause in her contract forbidding her from participating in any acting gigs without getting an official waiver from her boss, the granite-hard Sherry Zidel. Dana knew Sherry would never grant permission, so she solved the problem by signing the contract but continuing with the group in secret, playing the lead role in a powerful drama under the stage name Kayla Bean. She almost pulled it off, too. But on opening night, Sherry got wind of the performance, and actually showed up backstage to tell Dana she was through.
For Dana, it was the climax of her vexing relationship with Sherry. It seemed that nothing she could do would please her impossible boss. Fortunately, Dana found out that Sherry had a secret of her own—one that could have cost the stony supervising producer her job, too. And so, they reached an uneasy truce, keeping one another’s secrets...and their jobs.
Today, the Sweat City players were doing a table read of a new script, written by their director, Nathan Thompson. It was their first comedy, and there were several roles Dana would have been happy to play, though of course she desperately wanted the lead. Entitled Harte of Brooklyn, the story revolved around Penny Harte, a hyper-earnest life coach from Park Slope with a touch of OCD that manifested in an obsession with fitness. There would be a treadmill onstage, and Penny was on it so frequently that most of her dialogue was delivered from that spot. But the core of her character was that she wanted desperately to prove her political correctness to everyone in her sphere. She had a habit of sticking her foot in her mouth on that front, which gave the play its humor, but also an edge of danger. The critics would either get it and love it, or want to eviscerate everyone involved for getting so close to the red zone.
“If it’s not at least a little dangerous,” Nathan had said, “it’s not art.”
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