Liz wrapped her arm about Honey’s shoulders. “Did I ever mention that this couch folds out into a bed?” She jerked her chin toward the sofa upholstered in zigzagging acid-orange stripes likely from the seventies. Like most of her furniture, it was salvaged from sidewalk throwaways or picked up for pennies from thrift shops. “With Jonathan and me using the living room as my home office, this isn’t the quietest of apartments, but it’s a safe space, and you’re welcome to share it with us for as long as you like.”
“My place is a studio and kind of a dump, but you can crash with me for as long as you want,” Brian offered, shy-eyed.
Peter piped up. “Pol and I just finished renovating. We have an actual guestroom done all in Ralph Lauren—the fabrics, the paint colors, you name it—thanks to my discount. In the spirit of false modesty not being modesty at all, I outdid myself. It’s scrumptious, and we’d love to have you.”
Sarah chimed in. “Whoa, wait a minute. What are Cole and I, chopped liver?” She whipped her head back to Honey. “I don’t know how you feel about taking a hiatus from the city, but our house in Bridgehampton is all yours for as long as you want it. With the baby and my deadlines, I don’t know when we’ll get down there next. For sure not before summer.”
“Sarah, Peter, Liz, Brian, this is amazing of you, but I couldn’t possibly—”
The blond beauty and new mom to Colvin Christopher Canning III dismissed Honey’s protests with a flick of her fingers. “Puh-lease, of course you can—and should. Besides, you’d be doing us the favor. Between the baby, my book deadlines, and Cole’s fundraiser schedule, we’re lucky to get down there every other weekend in the summer, and we hardly ever get out there in the winter. I’ll get you the keys and a ticket for the Jitney and you can have the place to yourself.”
For the first time in her life, Honey got what must be meant by “an embarrassment of riches.” Stunned into speechlessness, she realized she’d gone from having nowhere to stay to having a Soho co-op, Brian’s studio, a Brooklyn brownstone, Marc’s Washington Heights apartment, and a Hamptons beach house all at her disposal.
“Darlings, thank you! But the thing is, I already have a place to stay—with Marc.”
“The dishy doctor?” Peter asked, eyes alight.
Honey nodded. “He’s even asked me to help him redecorate.”
Liz hesitated. “That’s great, Honey, but isn’t it a little soon? You just left one long-term relationship. Don’t you think you deserve a break … from the living-together part, at least?”
Though Honey also worried about once more being wholly dependent on a man, having her bubble burst, even by friends with her best interest at heart, was a bitter pill to swallow. “Marc is the opposite of Drew in every way imaginable. He cares about people, his patients, a lot more than he does about money or status. He has the loveliest manners and the biggest heart imaginable. And he hardly even drinks. Before you judge him, shouldn’t you at least meet him? He’s already asked about meeting all of you.”
Liz eased back in her seat. “Marc sounds great and for your sake, I hope he is. But it’s not him anyone’s passing judgment on. Six years ago Drew swept you off your feet and you dove in headfirst. You seem to be following the same pattern with Marc.”
Exasperated, Honey pitched her voice higher than she ordinarily would. “This is totally different. Marc isn’t married. He isn’t even dating anyone else. And we’re in love—at least I’m pretty sure he feels the same. Is it so hard to believe that a really good guy might fall for … someone like me?”
A chorus of “no!” answered. Sarah intervened. “Look, I get it. Sometimes when you meet the right person, you just know, and everything falls into place very quickly. At least that’s how it was with Cole and me—well, at least once we stopped fighting our feelings. Still, Liz makes a good point. It’s never a bad idea to look before you leap—and living together is a pretty big leap.”
Liz nodded. “All I’m saying is to take some time and think things over. And of course we’d love to meet Marc.” She paused, running a hand through her curly black hair, gloriously grown out to shoulder-length since the chemo treatments ended a year and a half ago. “Does he uh … know about FATE and why it was formed?”
Honey hesitated. “Yes and no. I told him about the group, but I sort of … left out the part about me working as an escort. He thinks I got in because of being a mistress, that you all stretched the rules or something.” Okay, so maybe she wasn’t as free from hypocrisy as she’d like to think.
Quiet greeted the admission. “When the time is right to tell him, you’ll know,” Liz finally said. “In the interim, we’re here for you. Always.”
Honey had thought she was finished with crying, but her suddenly misting eyes told her otherwise. “Knowing I have all of you in my corner means everything, truly it does. I don’t know how to thank you, what to say.”
“Say you’re never going near Jerk Face again,” Peter said, vehement.
“That you’re finished with him—that’s pretty much all I need to hear,” Sarah agreed.
Drew’s barrage of text and voicemail messages, teetering between berating and apologetic, had been nonstop that first week. Clearly her radio silence was doing little to dissuade him. It was time to stop being nice, to take off the gloves and hit him where it hurt, really hurt—his wallet. She’d messaged that she wasn’t coming back, not ever. If she received even one more text or phone call from him, the next call she made wouldn’t be to him or even the police. It would be to his wife. Katharine. Small surprise, she hadn’t heard from him since.
She sent a watery smile on a circuit of the room. “That, darlings, is one promise I can absolutely make.”
Chapter Eight
“The best thing to hold on to in life is each other.”—Audrey Hepburn
Coming into her second week at Mark’s, Honey acknowledged she couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d have to return to Forty-One Park and pack her things. Once she took stock, she’d get movers in to carry out the furniture she chose to hold onto, assuming she could afford short-term storage. Afterward she’d turn in her key to the doorman and close out that chapter of her life once and for all.
They arranged to go on a morning when Marc’s schedule allowed him to come with her. He insisted it wasn’t safe for her to go alone or with another woman such as Liz and as much as she disliked admitting it, he was probably right. She doubted Drew would come around during a weekday morning but then again he was a wildcard. She couldn’t bee too careful, especially now that she had so very much to live for.
Stepping inside the silent unit, she gasped, grabbing at Marc’s forearm. “Oh, no!”
Drew’s final revenge: her beautiful clothes, the fruits of more than six years of canvassing vintage clothing stores and flea markets throughout the city’s five boroughs, littered the floor in torn scraps. Her hats had taken it too, the crowns crushed, the ribbons and scarves, rosettes and other embellishments torn off. Pearls spilled everywhere. Mr. Pinky’s head was torn off, the stuffing bleeding out onto the bedspread. The sight, a tangible reminder of Drew’s viciousness, brought tears to her eyes. The stuffed animal cat, a gift from her mom, was her last link to Omaha and her childhood. Thank God she’d gotten the real-life Cat out in time.
Following her gaze, Marc crossed to the bed and picked up Pinky, scooping up the remains in his big, gentle hands. “I’m pretty sure there are people who specialize in repairing stuffed toys.”
“Thanks, but it’s okay. I have a real cat now.” And you. I have you, she almost added but bit back the statement. She didn’t want her declaration of love to take place amidst Drew’s destruction.
He set down the mutilated toy. Hands fisting, he shook his head. “There is nothing about this that comes close to okay.”
“You’re right, there isn’t,” she conceded. “But clothing and jewelry can be replaced. Living creat
ures can’t. I hate what happened here, but I’m also really grateful to be safe, to have Cat safe—to have you safe.”
He set his hands on her shoulders, their reassuring warmth seeping through her Ann Taylor linen trench coat, one of a very few clothing purchases she’d allowed him to make for her. Though new and off the rack, it reminded her of the trench Audrey had worn throughout Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Like Holly Golightly, she’d escaped from her past choices in the nick of time.
“I know that look. What else is on your mind?” Marc asked.
“I’ve been thinking about our … my living arrangements. Once I pass my GED and get some sort of job, I should start looking for a place of my own—just for a while.”
His face fell and his hands slid away. “I know Washington Heights isn’t exactly Park Avenue, but I have plenty of room and with a little practice, I can probably get my dirty socks into the hamper on the first shot. And Cat’s already used to it—and me.”
His offer warmed her but the more she thought about what Liz and Sarah had said in group, the more right her friends seemed. She needed some space on her own to figure things out. She still hadn’t scraped together the courage to tell him about her call-girl past. That was a lot for any man to accept. Marc cared for her deeply. She could feel it, see it in his eyes. He might even be on his way to loving her. But in love as in life, there were no guarantees. Once she admitted to going on “dates” with men for money, he might not feel the same about her.
“Darling, thank you, but I’m afraid I—”
“Can’t accept,” he finished for her, looking unhappy yet resigned. “Mind telling me why?”
It would be all too easy to cast aside any plans of her own and slip back into the pattern of allowing a man to take care of her. But if the past six years with Drew had taught her anything, it was that the easy way out wasn’t so easy at all. If she and Marc were to have a shot at a future, preferably one that led to a real-life Happily Ever After, first she was going to have to do the hard work involved in coming to him, and into their relationship, as an equal.
“I’ve never really had a place of my own. Before Drew, I was sharing a one-bedroom in Union Square with three other girls, and back in Omaha I lived at home with my mom and stepfather. I need to make it on my own … for a little while at least. Please try and understand.”
He hesitated and nodded. “I think I do. That doesn’t mean I have to like it—or stop trying to change your mind.”
Honey found her smile. “I’d be disappointed if you did.”
Could she really be this happy? Could her life be working out despite all the mistakes she’d made?
“I have to run some errands but will you at least let me buy you lunch later? Despite all this, I feel like we should celebrate.”
“New leaves and new beginnings?” Honey suggested, the familiar words having a bitter ring.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a whole new book. Marc lowered his head and brushed his mouth across her. Pulling back, he smiled. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
*
“Honey Gladwell?’
Outside of Forty-One Park, Honey froze in her tracks. Another “friend” of Drew’s? Or perhaps a former client? Unsure which was worse, she spun around. A tall, slender man in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and black wingtips stood on the sidewalk before her. Short-haired, clean shaven, and square jawed, he might have been in finance except for his suit, clearly off the rack. That and the dark tinted sunglasses gave him away; the latter were cheap as well but effective in completely hiding his eyes.
Her heart hammered. Perspiration broke out on her forehead despite her side of the street being all in shade. The urge to bolt was huge. She’d run in heels on plenty of occasions to catch a cab or the crosstown bus, only her legs seemed to have turned to Jell-O. Should she cry out for help instead, scream at the top of her lungs? But help from what—who?
Finding her voice, she managed to answer, “That depends. Who are you?”
“Special Agent Carlson. FBI.” He whipped out a badge, holding it low and cupped in his palm so that only she could see. “And you are Honey Gladwell, or Hortense Gustafson.”
Jesus, he really was with the FBI. Despite the bright sunny day, the scenario suddenly took on a film noire quality, a sense of sinister expectation dimming the lights and adding an inner chill to the otherwise soft spring breeze. The last time she’d felt this same frightening sense of helplessness, had such a foregone surety of defeat, Drew was dragging her into the stairwell.
“What if I am?”
Whatever was going on must have to do with her escort days. What else? Just as she’d always feared, her past was coming back to bite her. The timing of her retribution couldn’t be more ironic—or tragic. Just as she set her feet on the proverbial straight-and-narrow, just as she was finally getting her life together, hell was raining down. It was almost biblical. It was biblical. It seemed her mother had been right all along.
She was destined to come to a bad end.
Only it wasn’t only her anymore. There was Marc now. She was poison fruit. She could only hope the tastes he’d so far taken wouldn’t end up ruining him along with her.
Agent Carlson’s monotone brought her back to the moment. “We need to talk.”
Fresh panic flared. If she could buy some time, a day, she could maybe manage to get away, on the next bus out of New York. They’d catch up with her eventually, of course, but hopefully not before she’d managed to put some significant mileage between herself and Manhattan—and most importantly, Marc.
“I’m afraid I’m just on my way—”
“I need an hour of your time—in private.”
Despite her pounding pulse and almost out-of-body sense of disorientation, a smattering of reason wended its way into her buzzing brain. Admittedly prostitution was illegal, but it also had to be proven. Even if they had her dead to rights, she was a small fish in an altogether enormous pond of nefarious activity. Other than spreading her legs in exchange for money, most of which had gone to the agency, not her, she hadn’t been party to any crimes. She didn’t do drugs; certainly she never sold them. Surely the FBI had weightier matters to address than rousting a retired escort, especially one who’d taken herself out of the game six years ago.
“My past is in the past, and I prefer to leave it there. Unless you have a warrant, I can’t imagine why I should speak to you.”
Honey wasn’t certain law enforcement actually needed a warrant to interview someone but the words had popped into her head, likely the legacy of watching so many Cagney & Lacey reruns when she was little and, well, on the fly, it had sounded good.
His stone face assured her that her scripted response carried absolutely no weight. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Miss Gustafson. It’s in your best interest to cooperate. I’m going to need you to come downtown with me.”
As if on cue, a black SUV rolled up to the curb, stopping in front of them. Carlson took possession of her elbow, steering her toward the rear door. “Get in the car, ma’am.”
Panic climbed her throat. She whipped her head about to face him, the sharp motion knocking her hat askew. “And if I choose not to?”
Unsmiling, he stared back at her, or at least she imagined he did. His lenses were so tinted she couldn’t really tell. “Then I’d say you can count on wearing orange in your near future.”
He released her, reached for the door handle, and opened the door. Heart in her throat, Honey climbed in.
*
Honey was late. Not fashionably late, or Manhattan late, but late-late—by more than a half hour. Seated at one of the coveted tables by the open ceiling-to-floor windows of Il Cantinori, Marc checked his cell phone yet again. Still no message in response to his, no text, voicemail, or email, but then she was bad about letting her phone battery run low. It was the perfect spring day, per
fect romantic restaurant, perfect wine list and menu—all perfect except for the one absolutely essential missing ingredient: Honey.
The bottle of champagne he’d ordered bobbed in its metal bucket of melting ice. He was on his second glass of tap water and his third slice of bread, and the server who’d started out so obsequious stood giving him the hairy eyeball from the vicinity of the bar. On his last tableside visit, he’d made a point of mentioning that lunch service stopped at 2:30. Marc didn’t blame him. He was a last-minute reservation taking up coveted table space without ordering, and he wasn’t anything close to a regular. In fact, it was his first time here. In the Manhattan top-tier restaurant trade, second to stiffing a server, table squatting was the closest thing to a sin. Be that as it may, he sure as hell wasn’t about to order lunch without Honey, not at these prices.
Where was she?
Could she have gone to the wrong restaurant? El Cantinero, a Mexican restaurant, was nearby. The names were similar enough for someone like him to get them confused, less likely for Honey. She was a walking Zagat’s for Manhattan fine dining establishments. He seriously doubted she would make such a mistake. Still, everyone had an off day once in a while, and seeing her belongings destroyed and her former apartment trashed had to be traumatic. Even for a sicko such as Winterthur, beheading her childhood stuffed animal was a seriously low blow. Though she seemed fine when he left her, it was possible she was having a delayed reaction, maybe even a mini meltdown.
Or maybe she really was waiting at El Cantinero, staring into her plastic basket of tortilla chips wondering why he was such an asshole? To be safe, he tapped out one last text message, this one containing his coordinates.
I’m still at Il Cantinori, 10th between Broadway & University. Champagne’s chilling. Where ARE you?
*
The conference room was windowless, featureless and neon-lit; the tea tepid, from a bag, and served in the sort of white Styrofoam cup that Honey hadn’t known they even manufactured anymore. Sandwiched between two federal agents in an interior conference room on the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza, Honey tamped down the temptation to go back to gnawing at her nails.
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