by Meg Cabot
“I know,” I say with a sigh. I peel back the curtain and look down at the car. The driver is leaning against the passenger-side door, chatting with someone on his cell phone. “And I’ll be there, Coop. But just so you know, hanging out with your dad wasn’t real high on my list of things I was hoping to do tonight. Getting into my PJs, ordering a pizza from Tre Giovanni’s, and watching Tabitha Takes Over in bed with you was more what I had in mind—”
“Forget Tabitha,” Cooper says, sounding relieved. “I’ll let you take over. You can hire as many people as you want to clean the house. Federal Emergency Management Agency, Mary Poppins, the National Guard, whoever you want.”
“Really?” My mood brightens.
“Really. Just get over here.” He lowers his voice. Apparently someone has just entered the room. “Fair warning, though, Jordan’s here, too.”
“I figured.” Hanging out with my ex and his new wife is even lower on my list of things I was hoping to do tonight than hanging out with Grant Cartwright. “How’s Tania doing?”
“Well, remember when we saw her that night at the Allingtons’ apartment,” Cooper says, “and all she’d do was sit there and kiss that damned dog—whose name is Baby, by the way?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Picture her the same way, but times a thousand.”
“That’s not good.”
“No,” Cooper says. “And now my sisters have shown up—”
“Your sisters?” I haven’t seen Cooper and Jordan’s twin sisters—the result of a late-in-life “surprise” pregnancy from which Mrs. Cartwright never quite seemed to recover—since they were shipped off to boarding school, at their father’s request. They have to have graduated from college by now.
“Yes,” he says. His voice dips sarcastically. “Nicole has volunteered to be a source of comfort to Tania, who’s blaming herself for what happened to Jared, although of course she’s claiming she doesn’t have a single fan who’d ever want to hurt a hair on her head. Jessica has already volunteered to murder Nicole. Between the three of them, I might swallow some rat poison myself.”
“See you in forty-five minutes,” I say and hang up.
The Town Car drops me in front of a building on Park Avenue that I remember only too well from the many uncomfortable dinners I attended there back when I used to date Jordan. Even the doorman is the same.
“Hello, Ms. Wells,” he says, smiling at me with what looks like genuine pleasure. “How are you? It’s very good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too, Eddie,” I say. Suddenly I feel nervous. The lobby is a thousand times fancier than I remember it being. Everything has been tastefully updated, from Eddie’s dark-green uniform to the multiple gilt-frame mirrors showing me my own reflection. The only thing that looks out of place is me.
That’s because I’m so much older and wiser now than I was the last time I was in it, I tell myself. My blowout is long gone, but my long blond hair looks shiny and healthy, and though the dress I’m wearing might have been picked up at a deep discount, it fits perfectly, emphasizing all the right things and hiding what I don’t care to advertise. If my feet are already throbbing because I’m so unaccustomed to wearing the high heels into which I’ve stuffed them, at least no one but me will be able to tell.
Still . . . what am I doing here? Why did I agree to come? Sure, Cooper said he needed me, but he has a gun. He could whip it out and tell his family to leave him alone.
“Mrs. Cartwright called down to say she’s expecting you,” Eddie informs me, smiling as he guides me toward an open elevator and presses the button for the penthouse. “She said you can go straight up.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling queasy. The elevator doors close before I can turn around and run for my life . . . not that I’d have made it far in my heels.
When the doors slide open again—far sooner than I’d have liked—it’s onto a stunning vista. The Cartwrights’ building lobby isn’t the only thing that’s been remodeled: the penthouse has been redone too. Now, instead of stepping into a stuffy foyer, the elevator doors open directly into Cooper’s parents’ living room, most of the walls of which have been torn down and replaced with floor-to-ceiling glass doors to the terrace, so the first thing you see when you step off the elevator is the fiery glow of the sun sinking down into the west.
What isn’t glass is white pillars, stainless steel, and concrete. The place looks like something out of Architectural Digest, and knowing Grant Cartwright, I’d guess that the penthouse has probably been featured in it.
I step onto the highly polished ebony floor. “Hello?”
“Heather?” I’m startled when a petite, rail-thin young woman—with vanity sizing, she’s probably a two—and stick-straight dark-brown hair steps out from behind a white pillar and eyes me, her manner guarded but not unfriendly. “Oh my God, it is you. It’s me, Jessica.”
Then, to my surprise, she pulls me into her arms and hugs me. It’s like being held by a very skinny cat . . . if cats wore a lot of smoky eyeliner and silver wrist bangles and smelled like cigarette smoke.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says into my hair. “It’s been ages. You look great.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice a little hoarse since her head is jammed into my throat. “So do you.”
The last time I saw Cooper’s little sister Jessica, she was in pigtails and on the way out the door to her pony-riding lesson. She had braces, a lisp, and attitude that was worse, in many ways, than Cassidy Upton’s.
“Cooper told me everything,” she says when she finally lets go of me.
“He did?” I have no idea what’s she talking about. Cooper’s not close with either of his sisters, since his dad threw him out when he was so young, and the age gap between them is more than fifteen years.
“Well,” she says, motioning to me to follow her and leading me into an open kitchen, all stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, “I more or less bribed it out of him. I’m working this summer as an intern for Marc Jacobs, and I told him I could get you all the clothes and accessories you want for, like, free. But he wouldn’t’ve told me if he didn’t want me to know, because it’s not like you can get Cooper to tell you something he doesn’t want you to know. You know?”
It’s only then that I realize that Jessica is half in the bag. She’s not falling-down drunk, but she’s barefoot—a look that doesn’t go badly with her silver bangles and the flowy black blouse and pants she has on. But she’s definitely not sober.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks. “Everyone else is having martinis before dinner out on the terrace, but I freaking hate martinis. I’m having pink greyhounds. I’ll make you one, if you want. It’s a brunch drink, but who the hell cares what time it is when someone’s trying to kill you, right?” She giggles, then holds a finger—the nail painted black, of course—to her lips. “Oops, sorry, I mean Tania. I don’t mean to steal her thunder. Nicole’s the one who thinks someone’s trying to kill us all. But you know how Nicole is.” Jessica rolls her eyes as she pours a generous amount of vodka into two highball glasses filled with ice.
“Watch out,” I say as she spills half of what she’s pouring onto the counter.
“Oops,” Jessica says again and giggles some more. “Anyway, I’m super glad about you and Coop. Jordan’s such an ass. I always thought you could do way better.”
I realize Cooper really did tell Jessica everything.
“Gee,” I say as Jessica pours freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice from a pitcher into the glasses. “Thanks.”
“No, seriously. I know Jordan’s my brother and all”—she plops a sprig of rosemary as a surprise garnish into each glass, then begins to stir the contents of each violently with a long silver spoon that was probably passed down to her family from some Puritan who was on the Mayflower and never envisioned his family heirloom being used as a cocktail stirrer—“but he’s such an ass kisser. He does whatever Dad says. Here.” She passes me one of the
glasses. “Cheers to being with the right guy. L’chaim. Oh yeah, Nicole is converting to Judaism to piss off my dad.”
“L’chaim.” I clink the rim of my glass to hers. Pink greyhounds taste like heaven, if heaven can be something concocted by barefoot girls wearing a lot of dark eyeliner. “Wow,” I say.
“I know, they’re good, right?” Jessica beams. “Let’s get shit-faced.”
“You’re here.” Cooper appears in the kitchen holding a tray of empty glasses.
As usual, I feel a twinge in my solar plexus at how handsome he looks, especially since he’s wearing jeans and not the cargo pants he couldn’t find because I hid them behind the dryer. There’s no sign of a fanny pack. He’s wearing a gray short-sleeved linen shirt that makes his eyes look even more blue than gray, two colors between which they’re always shifting. The shirt is untucked, though, which gives me a qualm as I remember what Pete said.
“I’m here,” I murmur. Our gazes meet, and I want to throw down my drink and run across the kitchen and leap into his arms, despite the fact that he’s probably packing. But something in his glance says, Don’t.
At first I think it’s because he doesn’t want me feeling for bulges where his gun might be. A second later I realize it’s because his mother is right behind him.
“Cooper, why have you stopped in the middle of the kitchen, how am I supposed to get by—oh.”
Patricia Cartwright looks startled to see me standing in her kitchen, even though her doorman said she’d told him to send me up. Dressed all in tones of beige and holding an empty martini glass, she’s either been taking very good care of herself or has an excellent plastic surgeon, because she looks younger than the last time I saw her.
Then again, her husband’s company—and my manager—made millions of dollars off the songs I recorded for them. Cooper’s mother can afford the most expensive skin care products in the world, even ones made out of baby-whale placenta.
“Heather,” she cries, floating toward me with a tiny smile on her face . . . tiny because I’m not sure the rest of her face can move, thanks to all the Botox she’s had. “How wonderful that you could come. I’m so sorry it had to be under such terrible circumstances. Was it awful?”
Mrs. Cartwright throws her arms around me exactly the way Jessica did, only the mother is, if anything, even bonier. If hugging Jessica was like hugging a skinny cat, hugging Mrs. Cartwright is like hugging the skeleton of a cat.
I look over her shoulder at Cooper and watch as he shudders comically for my benefit. Jessica, standing beside me, notices her brother’s antics and lets out a horse laugh.
“It was pretty awful,” I say, trying to cover for Jessica’s laugh as Mrs. Cartwright releases me.
“I can believe it,” Cooper’s mother says, her blue eyes—so like Cooper’s and yet so unlike them—narrowing with disapproval at Jessica. Apparently she didn’t miss the laugh. “The poor man was right here in this house only last week, filming footage of Tania and Jordan for their show and trying to get me to invest privately in some horrible documentary he was doing about a death row inmate. And now he’s the one who’s dead.” Patricia places a hand over her heart, and I can’t help noticing the large emerald on her left finger. “ ‘Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, ask not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.’ ” She lowers her hand and says solemnly, “F. Scott Fitzgerald. Such a wonderful writer.”
“John Donne, actually,” Cooper says, setting down the tray he’s been holding. “Born approximately four centuries before Fitzgerald, but who’s counting? Why don’t I get you a glass of water, Mother? Or some coffee?”
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Cartwright says. “We’ll be serving dinner shortly. We should open the wine. Heather, I hope you won’t mind, we had to order in from the Palm. After such awful news, no one felt like cooking, much less going out. Palm doesn’t normally deliver, of course, but the owner does it as a special favor for Grant, because he knows how much Grant loves their steaks and they’re close, personal friends.”
“And,” Jessica says, rattling the ice in her glass, “since we were supposed to be in the Hamptons, Mom gave the staff the week off—”
Patricia Cartwright holds her empty martini glass imperiously at her outspoken daughter, not even glancing in Jessica’s direction. Jessica, getting the message, takes the glass and walks over to the bar at the end of the kitchen counter to mix her mother’s drink.
“Heather,” Mrs. Cartwright says, reaching up to stroke a loose strand of hair away from my face. “It’s been so long. Too long. I’m so sorry about what happened between you and Jordan. I won’t speak to any of that unpleasantness except to say that it was such a blow to me personally. I really did feel as if I’d lost a daughter.”
I notice that Cooper is making himself a drink in the background, putting ice in a low glass and reaching for the vodka bottle his sister used to make our pink greyhounds. He doesn’t bother with the grapefruit juice.
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Cartwright,” I say.
“You know, Mother,” Jessica says as she fills a silver martini shaker with ice, “you may not have lost Heather as a daughter after all. Maybe your other son might—”
The next thing I know, Cooper has his sister in a headlock.
“While Jessica and I are refreshing everyone’s drinks, Mother,” he says casually, as if it’s not unusual for him to walk around with Jessica’s head trapped in the crook of his elbow, “why don’t you and Heather go out onto the deck and join Dad and the others?”
“Ergh,” Jessica says, struggling to set herself free. I notice she can’t be in that much distress, however, since she’s holding the martini mixer carefully aloft and hasn’t spilled a drop.
“Yes, of course,” Patricia Cartwright says. She takes my arm and begins to lead me toward the floor-to-ceiling glass doors to the penthouse terrace. “I’m sure you’re anxious to see the rest of the apartment. You haven’t been here since we renovated. We used Dominique Fabré, do you know him? He’s a simply fabulous architect. We had quite a lot of trouble getting the plan through the board, of course. Oh my, how soft your skin is. What products do you use, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“The tears of homesick college students,” I reply gravely.
Mrs. Cartwright looks up at me sharply—in my heels, I’m quite a bit taller than she is.
“Oh, you’re joking,” she says. “I see. Yes, you were always clever, I remember now. I often wondered what you saw in Jordan, because though I love him dearly, I’m well aware he isn’t my brightest child. That would be Cooper, though he’s always been his father’s biggest disappointment. So talented, so bright, he could have done anything, but he decides to become a private detective.” She gives a rueful laugh. “You should hear what our friends say when we try to explain. What kind of person becomes a private detective?”
It’s an idle question, tossed off casually as she pulls open one of the glass doors and we step out onto the roof deck. I’m sure she doesn’t expect an answer, but I give her one anyway.
“Someone who wants to use his gifts to help people who are in trouble. In a different era, I think they were called knights in shining armor.”
Mrs. Cartright glances at me in surprise. “Yes,” she says, her tone no longer casual. “He certainly rescued you, from what I hear.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, flushing. “I just do his client billing.”
“Of course,” she says, her smile catlike. “His billing. Why not? Well, come along and say hello to everyone.”
The Cartwrights’ roof deck is a great deal longer and wider than the Allingtons’ terrace. A helicopter could easily land on the putting green that Grant Cartwright has had planted at one end, and the pool, while not Olympic size, could fit enough Victoria’s Secret models to make even a celebrity nightclub promoter happy.
The members of the Cartwright family, including Tania, are sitting on luxuriously cushi
oned lounge chairs ranged around an outdoor firepit, the gas flames set low because it’s so warm outside. I can see that Mr. Cartwright is texting busily away, completely ignoring the beautiful sunset before him, but Jordan is giving it his full attention. Tania is curled on a lounge chair not far from Jordan’s, looking even smaller than when I saw her last time, “Baby” in her lap. Even from where I stand, her skin tone looks off. Her eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses.
On the opposite side of the firepit, a girl I recognize as Nicole—a decade older than when I’d last seen her—is strumming on a guitar. She resembles her twin in only the most basic ways. Her long hair is the same chocolate brown, but she’s twisted it into twin braids. She isn’t wearing the slightest bit of makeup, and instead of silver bangles, she has on beaded leather twists. She’s about fifty pounds heavier than Jessica, and instead of all black, she’s wearing a white vintage dress dotted with cheerful red cherries. On her feet is a pair of red flats, and thick-framed black glasses are balanced on her nose.
“Oh God,” I hear Patricia murmur when the notes from the guitar drift toward us. “Not again.”
“Why?” I ask. I cock my head, straining to catch more of the sound. The wind on the thirtieth floor is warm, but not gentle. I’m keeping a careful hold on the hem of my skirt. “She sounds great.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” I hear Jessica snarl as she comes up behind us. She’s holding her pink greyhound in one hand and her mother’s drink in the other. “Mom, I thought you said you were going to make her stop.”
“What do you want me to do, ” Mrs. Cartwright asks, “gag her?”
“You will if you want to keep me from jumping,” Jessica says and barrels past me. “Nic,” she shouts angrily as she strides toward the firepit, “give it a rest already. Daddy’s not going to buy your stupid songs.”
I follow Jessica, having to be extra careful with my drink since the path to the firepit is made of real grass and my high heels are sinking into the soil.