Like right now.
“Tell the truth,” he said, partly into his pillow, “how long have you been awake?”
Nora took another hit of his soapy scent and sighed deeply. “A while.”
“If nothing else, babe, it’s sleep. You need sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when I’m eighty . . . or on the honeymoon—”
“Whichever comes first,” they said in unison.
“Before you even think it I know it,” Fisher said, chuckling. He turned over to face her. “I’m already inside your brain, wife.” He tilted his head and kissed Nora’s shoulder.
“Isn’t that bad luck?”
“Morning kisses?”
“No, using the terms wife, husband, before they’re legit.”
“Never heard that one. And I know everything there is to know about weddings and marriage and luck.” He gave her his half smile and his eyes lit up through the sleepiness. “Okay. Now that that’s settled, it’s the gym for me. What’s your plan?”
Nora moved her head slightly from him. “Tea party.”
“Of course,” he said, and propped up on his elbow, looking down at Nora. “How are you feeling about it?”
“I mean . . . I’m going.”
“Mack. Don’t be like that. It’s just tea. She’s done this for Rock’s and Asher’s wives and they were basically just teenage girls, fresh out of school, these bags of nerves in ridiculously high heels,” he said, grinning. Then, as if his brain changed channels on him without warning, Fisher’s chin dropped to his neck. He shook his head slowly. “When our father died, we were all too young to really remember much. It was sudden. I remember that; it was so quick. But my mother, she held all the memories for us, you know? And then Garrett”—he shook his head more, faster, and squared his jaw—“I was sixteen when he took his life. That, I remember. Always.” Nora reached out and stroked his arm. “Losing him really broke something in her. I mean, she was never going to be making us cookies. But when Garrett . . . there was a vacancy that just grew wider; you could see it behind her eyes. Like she’s operating on half a heart. With Asher landing in London and Rock all the way in Geneva, she really leaned on me to be the head of the family, for years. Except now I’m leaving it, I’m leaving her.” He glanced over at Nora and frowned. “It’s how she sees it. I can’t discount that. And she wants to feel like she’s giving you her blessing. With everything she’s lived through, it’s the easiest thing to let her have, you know?” He fell back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s just tea for you, but it’s important for her.”
Fisher turned his head toward Nora and gave her another kiss, this one landing between her brows. He rolled back over to his side of the bed and sat at the edge of it. Nora watched his back as he stretched. She knew the T-shirt would come next and grinned while waiting for it. On gym mornings, Fisher kept his gear on a nearby leather ottoman so that there would be no distractions, no tangents. He would get dressed right there from the edge of the bed—shoes and all—and go straight to the front door, only tossing a “see you in a bit” back at Nora. Turning back to even look at her, they knew from previous experience, would be a clear misstep. But before he left, she got to watch him get dressed. The way he’d put on his T-shirt was her favorite. It was quick and thrusting: arms punched through sleeves one after the other, shirt dragged over his head, just like the sexy thirty-year-old “teen” vampires did it on the television shows Nora refused to admit she enjoyed.
“See you in a bit,” Fisher said over his shoulder, and was gone.
Nora shot up from the bed and grabbed her phone on the nightstand. She had memorized the investigator’s number after starting to dial and hanging up a dozen times already. She pressed the numbers—all of them—and hit the Send icon. Nora cleared her throat and straightened out of her slump in the bed while it rang. When it stopped and she heard the crackling sound of connection, she leapt out of the bed and hustled into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
“This is Keith Wittrock.” His voice was heavy and dragging, as if opening his mouth to speak was a bridge too far.
“Yes, hello. Good morning. This is . . . I’m calling. I want to—”
“Ma’am. I’m a private investigator. Private being the operative word. Speak your piece. I’ve heard everything before. Do you need me to find someone purposely lost? Track down some proof on an intimate involvement? Defuse a scam? You let me know how I can help, and I’ll do my best.”
Nora took a deep breath and let it go. “I’m trying to find someone. A woman. From high school. She’s popped up again after about ten years and she’s trying to . . . stir things up.”
“Things that you don’t want stirred. Got it,” he said, flatly. Nora could hear his chair squeaking through the phone. “Let’s start here: What’s your name? It doesn’t have to be real, just something I can call you as we talk.”
Nora panicked. “Hyacinth,” she spat out and cringed. It was her middle and she hated it.
“Okay, Hyacinth,” he said. “That works.”
She rolled her eyes. Everything about him—from his disinterested, yawning tone to the mocking way he uttered her name—felt wrong. Regret crawled up her arm and nestled in her ear. This was a mistake. She can’t get to me.
“She can’t get to me,” Nora said, surprised that the thought leaked out into the air.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t think I’m ready to move forward here, Mr.—”
“Keith is fine. And if you want to think it over, that’s fine, too.”
“Great. Thanks. I’ll give it some more thought.”
“Right,” he said.
Nora hung up without saying good-bye. She had felt simple enough for even calling him, and now she wanted the silliness to end as quickly as possible. She deleted Keith Wittrock’s number from her call list, flung her phone onto the bed, and headed straight to the shower to get ready.
* * *
She knew she was fussing, but applied a third choice of lipstick anyway. Nora took a look at herself in the mirror once more, turning slowly to inspect everything in the reflection. She fixed the accordion pleats off the side of her summer beige Bottega Veneta dress by pressing the already sharp creases in between her fingers. She smoothed the floating wisp of hair into the rest of the loose side ponytail. She puckered her lips and rolled them together. This shade of rose pink was the right choice, she thought, and gave herself an overall nod. She sat back carefully in her dressing room chair—trying to maintain the integrity of her outfit’s crispness—and slipped into her nude-colored heels. Nora stood and took one more one-last-check of her full glow in the mirror before grabbing her flat clutch and turning out the lights.
“Shit. The car.” Nora reached into her bag for her phone to call down to Fisher’s new driver. Fisher had sent a text while she was in the shower insisting that she take his SUV and not roll the dice with a yellow cab.
She looked at her phone:
1 Missed Call & Voice Mail
Nora shook her head and smiled. “My God, Fisher. I’ll take the car already,” she said out loud, and clicked through to the voice mail.
Ms. Mackenzie, this is Jennifer calling from
Grace Carter’s office. If you could give us a call back when you have a moment today, that would be great. There seems to be a small issue with the seating plan; something’s not matching up. I’ve followed this call with an email. Thanks.
Nora stared at her phone as the message bounced around her brain. What issue? Did Oli forget something? One glance at the time made her shake off the small worry that was starting to creep in. Later, she said to herself, and dialed Fisher’s driver. Every fold was straight, every hair in place. She was ready to step into the den of rich, white-haired widows and nothing was going to distract her.
* * *
The chilly SUV stopped at the last intersection on Fifth Avenue before turning onto the quiet, tree-lined street with the famous Beaumont manse. Nora
drifted away thinking back to the first time she stepped foot into the palatial home, one of the most storied in the city. Fisher had taken her there to introduce her to his mother only weeks after they had met.
“It’ll seem like a lot at first,” he whispered to her as they pulled up to the spectacular seven-story residence, and Nora’s mouth sailed open. “But that’s just at first. It’ll settle in and you’ll soon see what I see: just the place where my mother lives.” That he never once called her mom, always mother (and occasionally, in reference, Lady Eleanor) was Nora’s first note-to-self that this prestigious address with its seven stories of neo-Georgian-style architecture—soaring ceilings, countless bathrooms, dormer windows, and steeply sloping roof—would never settle in and be anything but grand.
Every piece of furniture, plaster molding, framed artwork, fireplace, chandelier, and artifact—even the air moving through the seventeen rooms—in the Beaumont mansion was stately and perfect. Nora actually found herself trembling and a little breathless as she stood next to Fisher that first time she took in the staggering views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline from the generous roof. The buildings, even at night, looked like the lined-up trophies of a matchless champion.
“Will I be returning for you this evening, Miss Mackenzie?” the driver asked, bringing Nora’s attention back to the brightness of the day. Although she had heard him the first time, the frozen grin on her face seemed to spur the driver to repeat the question.
“Oh, yes. That would be nice,” she said, finally. “Thank you, Leonard.” Nora looked out her window past the iron fence at the lush forecourt of the Beaumont manor, trying to make out what she could of the secondary entrance on the lower level. A part of her hoped that Fisher would be standing there to surprise her, and she could catch a glimpse of him lurking. He told her that he had some business to attend to after his gym stop. It all sounded so vague, she thought just maybe, but ultimately knew it was a flimsy wish. “Actually, could you give me a quick moment, Leonard? I just want to finish a thought here.” Nora smiled at him through the rearview.
He raised his eyes in the mirror; they were soft and friendly. He smiled back. “Of course, Miss Mackenzie. We’re a little early. You have time.”
“Thanks . . . and, honestly, call me Nora. It’s really fine.”
Leonard gave an awkward nod that let Nora know that Miss Mackenzie was staying, that is, until it changed to Mrs. Beaumont in thirteen days. She pulled out her phone and sent Jenna a quick text.
hey you sure you don’t want to be my date for this?
Not for ALL the tea in CHINA . . . lolz!
hate you more today than yesterday. I swear!
Lies. #hearteyes
get off my phone!
call me later. Say wuzzup to Ellie Elle Cool J.
you are the worst. complete and total worst
Nora glanced up at the back of Leonard’s head. His hair was very slick and dark and looked hardened like he had only recently been introduced to sculpting pomade. His zealous hairstyling somehow set Nora at ease. It made him seem fallible, regular, instead of sitting in judgment like Mr. Wally. “I’m all good,” she said to his stiff hair. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and started getting out of the car.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Nora said quickly. “No need for you to open the door for me. Truly. It’s fine.”
He turned partway in his seat, a frown pinching his face. “Are you—”
“Yes, totally sure. It’s fine. But thank you.”
Leonard shimmied himself back into his seat, buckled up his seat belt, and gripped the steering wheel at ten and two. “I will . . . see you later, then? If you would, please have the doorman call over to me twenty minutes before I’m needed here.”
Nora nodded and hopped out of the car and stepped over to Leonard’s window. He looked confused still and suddenly self-conscious, almost unsure of his next move. She noticed a strip of sweat down the center of his nose. She gestured for him to roll down the window. As he did, Nora leaned in a little, hovering. “You’ll get used to me. You’ll get used to all of this, too,” she said, fanning her hand at the small castle behind her.
Leonard gave Nora a slip of a glance and returned to looking just beyond the steering wheel. “You’re all set, ma’am,” was all that he could seem to muster.
Nora backed away from the car smiling and waving as it drove off. The interaction, brief and labored as it was, gave her a boost, a surge that made her actually want to step into the tea party and everything that awaited her inside. She was taking her own advice she had given to Leonard; she was getting used to all of it.
Then, a voice from over her left shoulder: “Took you long enough.”
Nora spun around and her hand flew to her chest. Ghetto Dawn was standing off the side of the Beaumonts’ gate with her arm stretched out leaning on it. Nora peered at her. She was wearing a light blue summer dress with cap sleeves, cinched waist, and wide flared skirt. She looked pulled together and pleasant. Then she unleashed her smirk.
“So,” Dawn said. “We goin’ in or . . . nah?”
The words shot up through Nora’s chest and throat, scorching. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Pssh. I’m going to the tea party,” she said, and moseyed over to Nora. “Right? Isn’t that the plan?” Dawn slid her flat clutch under her arm. Nora stared at it in disbelief. The signature angled bottom, the brushed peach suede and distinct orange python across the flap, it was identical to the Narciso Rodriguez bag Nora had at home. The same one she had been obsessed with throughout the spring.
“Oh, you like my pocketbook?” Dawn said, shrugging one shoulder. “I should thank you for this. I saw you rocking it a bit ago—it was a photo of you in The New York Times”—she flicked her hand near her face as if fanning away a fly—“and I was, like, Wow, that is dope as hell. The real python part tripped me up, though. I kinda wobbled on that point—for PETA, you know—but then I said, Whatevs. Just get it. And here we are.” She wedged the bag deeper under her arm and said, barely under her breath, “Wasn’t my dime anyway.”
“What can you—how did . . .” Nora threw a glance over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “Are you fucking stalking me?”
“Hmm. Not really. I just like to make it my business to know your business. And, like Liam Neeson says”—she winked—” ‘I have a very particular set of skills’ that allow me to do that.”
“Are you crazy? What the hell is this? What do you want?”
“Nope, not crazy. This is us standing out here chatting, about to bop into this tea party. Now, are you coming? I don’t think the ladies who lunch are about that CP time.”
Nora moved in closer to Dawn and squinted as she looked right into her eyes. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to do, but it’s not happening. You can’t be here. You can’t go in there or anywhere with me. This is not a game,” she said, seething. “I got your cookies and your Facebook bullshit, and I’m guessing you’re the one who’s been fucking around with my credit cards, but that’s it. You’re done. And you can’t be here. I don’t even know how you found out about this.”
“Oh, thanks go to Olivia Chung on that.”
“What . . . Oli told you?”
Dawn made a face. “Yeah, but she doesn’t know that she helped me out. Once she emailed that RSVP, it was cake.” She shifted in her shoes, rocking from one side to the other. “And that’s all I’ll say about that. Can’t give away all my tricks, right?”
Nora thought for a moment. Her eyes flickered, searching the sidewalk, and her brows were furrowed so deep she could feel the strain across her forehead. Nora dropped back on her heels and looked up at Dawn with a start. “You hacked our email system? Identity theft—that’s your play.”
“Identity theft? Are you kidding me right now? Do you even have a real identity?” Dawn chuckled. “Girl, please. Now, let’s get on with this. We’re officially late to the party.”
/> Nora shook her head. “I told you”—she steadied herself and stepped toward Dawn again—“you can’t be here. And you’re not going in there or anywhere with me.” She was close enough now that she could smell the coffee on Dawn’s breath. “Do you understand?”
Dawn’s face folded. She bowed her head and turned away from Nora; her hand flew up to shield her eyes as her shoulder bounced. Nora exhaled over the sound of Dawn’s sniveling and released her clenched jaw. She thought about reaching for her phone and calling Jenna, Fisher, Leonard, the police. But as she moved her hand to the corner of her bag tucked under her arm, too, Dawn spun around. Her face was scrunched up, but she was laughing, not crying.
“You are good, you know that? I mean, you’ve got this white-woman thing down to the bone; you even flex your privilege like it’s regular. I mean, it’s masterful—for real.” Dawn shook her head as her laughter petered out. She stretched her arm to the gate and went back to leaning on it. Her expression hardened and her eyes narrowed at Nora. “Here’s what I understand: We’re going into that palace in there together because we’re dear old friends from boarding school in Vermont and we just ran into each other recently and now can’t bear to be apart because we need to catch up on all the things. I mean, this is kind of the truth, right? Except the dear old friends part is kind of sketch, but, hey, people change. The other version of this?” She tilted her head without breaking her stare. “I run up in there anyway and spill the whole fucking boiling pot of trash all over those sparkling hardwood floors. Choice is yours, coach.”
“Why are you doing this?” Nora said. She heard the desperation in her voice and hated it. “What do you want from me?”
Have You Met Nora? Page 16