Elizabeth tapped a French-manicured nail against the screen, the lines around her mouth growing deeper. “I don’t see the past purchases anywhere on here.”
Aster stared at her blankly. “You didn’t ask me for past purchases.”
“Well, you’ll have to add it, then,” Elizabeth said. “You can do that tomorrow.”
“I’m not here tomorrow.”
Elizabeth glared at Aster for a long beat, so long that Aster wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. “You just think you can just come and go as you please, don’t you?” she finally said.
“I’m sorry.” Aster tried not to raise her voice. “I’m trying, I really am. I promise to tackle this first thing Monday. But I already told you I needed to use a vacation day tomorrow, so—”
Elizabeth raised a hand, cutting her off. “You think you’re trying? That’s a fucking joke, my dear.” Her eyes blazed. “Your whole family is like this, but you’re the worst of them all. You think there are no rules. You do whatever you want, no matter what happens to anyone else along the way.”
“Then why do you work for us?” Aster shot back.
Elizabeth tilted her chin into the air. “That’s none of your business.”
Veins bulged in the older woman’s neck. And then, suddenly, Aster got it. Elizabeth wasn’t talking about work. She knew.
A few days before Aster left to model in Europe, she’d come back to Meriweather to see Danielle. She couldn’t leave for the summer without saying good-bye to her best friend. Danielle didn’t know she was coming; it would be a surprise.
The car tires crunched over the gravel on the long drive and came to a stop between her family’s estate and the guesthouse. Aster closed the car door quietly behind her, clutching a Magnolia crumb cake in one hand—Danielle’s favorite—and a bottle of prosecco in the other. She crept up the path, past Danielle’s discarded bicycle and a bunch of empty terra-cotta planters, and was about to burst through the front door when two shapes shifted in front of the window. Aster had paused as she realized: Danielle had a guy over.
Aster had started to step forward and knock anyway—Danielle had interrupted her fair share of Aster’s hookups, after all—when she did a double take. Danielle was in there with Mason; Aster’s father’s arms were wrapped tight around the redhead.
Aster stood there, frozen, for a long beat. She thought of how her father had stared at Danielle only a couple of weeks ago. What a fool she’d been.
She ran blindly toward the house, loud sobs erupting from her chest. Her father and her best friend. It was like something off a trashy talk show. How could she ever face either of them again? The answer, Aster decided after drinking the bottle of prosecco by herself and staring blankly at the kitchen wall, was that she wouldn’t.
Aster only lasted a couple of months in Paris. All her pictures were outstanding, but most of the photographers had refused to ever work with her again. She couldn’t really blame them, considering that she’d drunkenly insulted all of them, showed up high to almost every shoot, and almost set fire to one of the studios. When she landed back in the States at the end of the summer, she hadn’t even wanted to attend the family’s annual Labor Day party. She told her parents that she would be going to the Hamptons instead. To her surprise, Edith was the one who called and insisted that she be there.
“Aster,” her grandmother had commanded, “I don’t care what your reasons are for not wanting to come—you will be at Meriweather for the end-of-summer party. No excuses. We’re celebrating Poppy this year. Come for her sake, if nothing else.” Poppy had just been promoted to president of Saybrook’s, and the party would be in her honor.
“Okay,” Aster had said, cowed. No one could ever say no to Edith.
And so Aster had showed up at Meriweather, her stomach a nervous knot of dread.
What if she caught Mason and Danielle together again? Were they still seeing each other? Did anyone know?
Aster managed to avoid her parents for most of the party. But eventually Mason and Penelope had found their way to her. They were accompanied by Steven Barnett, the creative director of Saybrook’s and Papa Alfred’s long-standing right-hand man. Aster wondered if he was upset about Poppy’s promotion; before her grandfather’s death, a lot of people had thought he might be the next president. But he seemed happy enough, grinning widely and holding a glass full of bourbon.
“Well, well. Hello, Aster,” Penelope said coolly, her eyes taking in Aster’s very short white dress. She knew how badly Aster had screwed up in Europe. It was written all over her face.
Mason regarded Aster with a mix of confusion, hurt, and anger. “The bill at the George V was astronomical.”
“I had a few get-togethers,” Aster said stiffly, crossing her arms.
“Oh, you can afford it, Mason,” Steven Barnett said, smiling at Aster. His words were slurred; Aster wondered just how drunk he was. “And you’re only young once.”
Mason just stared at Aster. She stared back.
“I need another drink,” she announced, and turned to walk away from her parents without a second glance.
“Me too,” Steven said, and to her surprise, he walked with her toward the bar. “So,” he said in a low voice. “You can tell me the truth. Did you go wild in Paris because you were trying to get over a broken heart?”
Aster sniffed. “Sort of.” It was achingly close to the truth.
“Poor, poor Aster,” Steven murmured, his tone light and teasing. He stared at her for a long time. Aster knew that he was mentally undressing her—and to her surprise, she kind of liked it.
Wordlessly, they turned and started away from the rest of the party. “And what’s this I hear about you quitting modeling?” Steven asked.
Aster played with the long necklace that had been dangling in her cleavage. “I wouldn’t call it quitting,” she said. “I would call it being asked never to model again.”
“Tsk.” Steven’s breath was hot on her cheeks, and smelled of whiskey and Spearmint gum. “We didn’t even get to work together.”
The bass notes from the stage thumped loudly in her ears. Aster gave him a playful swat, but he caught her hand and held it hard. Her stomach swooped. When he reached out and touched the back of Aster’s neck, she shuddered.
Steven gestured with his head toward the reeds. “Want to come see my yacht?”
“Do you say that to all the girls?” Aster giggled. She suddenly felt reckless and stupid, and she didn’t give a shit, the way she’d felt in Paris after doing a line of coke. She reached for Steven’s hand and took it, following him toward the beach as if she was doing nothing wrong. She heard someone gasp, and faltered for a moment. Poppy was looking at her with a guarded expression. But then Aster thought of everything her father had done, and found that she didn’t care anymore, not even if Poppy judged her.
Her heart pounded as she followed Steven to the beach. Yes, she decided, she would hook up with hot, older Steven Barnett, even though it was hideously inappropriate—maybe because it was hideously inappropriate. Her father and Danielle weren’t the only ones who could do whatever they wanted and get away with it.
Now, in Elizabeth’s office, Aster shut her eyes, trying to find her center. “We can cut the crap,” she said. “We both know what this is about.”
“By all means,” Elizabeth said. “Enlighten me.”
“The night with Steven.” Aster stared at her. “You know that he and I—”
Elizabeth leaned back, suddenly cold and assessing. She didn’t look surprised.
“I’m sorry, okay? It wasn’t about Steven, if that helps. It was more about pissing off my dad, and—”
“Jesus Christ. Stop.”
Aster looked up. There was a strange smile on Elizabeth’s face. “You think I’m pissed at you for that? You were one of many, my dear. A
nd those were just the ones I knew about, the people around town.”
Aster stared at the floor, not knowing what to say. “Oh, um . . .”
“To be honest, I’m glad my husband is dead. Your cousin did us all a favor.”
Aster looked up. “Wait. What?”
Elizabeth cocked her head. “Your cousin Poppy did us a favor by killing Steven.”
Aster blinked hard. “Excuse me?” Did she just say Poppy killed Steven? Aster burst out laughing. “That’s crazy.”
Elizabeth looked amused. “You didn’t know?”
Aster ran her tongue over her teeth. “Steven Barnett drank too much and drowned.”
“Oh, that’s what everyone thinks. But I saw that crazy bitch standing over my husband on your family’s marina the night of that party. He was most definitely dead . . . and she was the only one there.”
“What?” Aster said slowly. Elizabeth just stared back at her, her expression grave. She meant what she was saying, Aster could tell.
But it couldn’t be true. Aster grappled to remember that night. Steven had taken her down to the beach, where they’d undressed. She’d remained on the sand for a long time after he left, staring at the stars. Where had Poppy been during that time? Following Steven to his yacht? Killing him?
Aster blinked at her boss. “Did you tell anyone else about this?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I’m the only one who knows, darling. I don’t think your cousin went around telling people. And I’m sure if anyone in your family knew, they kept it a tight secret—the way you Saybrooks do.” She chuckled nastily.
“Did you ask Poppy about it?”
Elizabeth snorted. “Poppy and I weren’t exactly friends. But like I said, Poppy did me a favor. I’m glad he’s gone.”
Aster swept her arm around the room. “Then why do you still have your wedding picture up?” Something didn’t add up here. A horrible thought struck her, and she scooted back from Elizabeth, suddenly terrified. “Did you kill Poppy?” she whispered. “Out of revenge?”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “No, Magnum, P.I. I was in Los Angeles that morning. And I’m not a murderer.” She pointed to the wedding photograph. “I keep it as an homage, I suppose. Steven was an asshole, but I loved him once. And I love that I inherited everything.”
Aster felt out of breath. “Okay. Okay. If what you said is true, why haven’t you said anything to the police?”
“Jesus, you are slow.” Elizabeth grabbed a pack of Parliaments from inside a desk drawer and shook out a cigarette. “I already told you I’m glad he’s gone. I just wanted it over.”
Her words sent a shiver down Aster’s spine. “It sounds more like you might have killed Steven, not Poppy.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “I wish. What your cousin did was brilliant, really—I would never have thought to just push him in the water and make it look like a drowning.” Her eyes sparkled. “My schemes were always a bit more . . . graphic.”
Aster stared out the window at the white caps of the Hudson far below. “B-but why would Poppy kill Steven?” Poppy had just been promoted, after all. She’d met James that summer; not long after the party, they’d become engaged. She had so much to live for . . . and so much to lose.
Elizabeth took a long drag and blew a smoke ring. “Perhaps you aren’t the only one in the family with secrets, my dear Aster.”
“So you’re saying Poppy was covering something up?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Maybe. I guess now we’ll never know.”
Aster stood, her legs shaky. “I’m going now,” she announced.
“Have a fun weekend with the family,” Elizabeth said, somehow managing to make it sound like a dirty word. “You can fix this mess of a spreadsheet on Monday. Oh, and Aster?” she added. “I’d keep our little chat a secret if I were you.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollinsPublishers
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13
To Corinne, it always seemed as though the compound in Meriweather emerged through a thick wall of mist like a castle in a fairy tale, and it was no different when she and her cousins rolled up the driveway that evening for the bachelorette weekend. The mansion gleamed in setting sun. The air smelled of salt and flowers. Brightly colored daffodils exploded from oversize planters. Someone had hung a banner over the front doorway that read “Happy Bachelorette, Corinne.”
Corinne felt pained. “Guys, you shouldn’t have.”
“Actually, we didn’t.” Aster shrugged.
“Oh.”
Aster looked at Corinne for a beat too long, then hefted her monogrammed duffel over her shoulder. Something about Aster seemed off today—there were circles under her eyes and a drawn look to her face, and she’d barely said anything on the flight up.
Maybe she was distraught that they were going to Meriweather without Poppy. Or maybe her abrupt change of lifestyle was taking its toll. Corinne wanted to reach out to Aster, but who was she to dole out advice? She’d just slept with an ex-boyfriend, weeks before her wedding. On the floor of the St. Regis wine cellar, she added to herself, as though that was what made it so shocking.
She’d walked home that night, stumbling up Fifth Avenue in her heels. The sidewalk was finally starting to cool, but the summer air was still sticky and warm. What had she looked like to the doorman when she’d staggered through the lobby? Upstairs, she’d found Dixon asleep in his khakis and polo, a beer on the nightstand, lights still on. Had he been waiting up for her?
But still, as she undressed and showered, she couldn’t stop thinking about Will, about his hands on every part of her. She shuddered. No matter how hard she scrubbed her skin, she could still feel where he’d touched her. But the worst part was, she wanted it to happen again.
No, you don’t, she willed silently. Or at least she thought she’d said it to herself—when she looked up, Aster, Rowan, and Natasha stood at the front door, staring at her in anticipation, as if waiting for her to finish her sentence. She smiled at them. If she kept pretending nothing was wrong, maybe she could convince herself it was true.
Fake it till you make it, she could hear Poppy telling her on her first day of work back in the city. If you’re confident, they’ll forget about your name and trust you know what you’re doing. Hell, maybe you even do. She’d winked at Corinne—they both knew she was more than qualified for her job. She was well traveled and spoke several languages, but the last year had rattled her. While everyone thought she was in Hong Kong, she’d been holed up in Virginia, keeping the biggest secret of her life.
Corinne grabbed her bags, punched in the key code at the front door, and walked into the house. The foyer smelled like Lemon Pledge and lavender; even though the estate was mostly unoccupied during the off season, the family still kept a staff of four year-round. There was a bottle of wine waiting in the ice bucket, and a marble tray bearing cheese and crackers sat on the coffee table. There was a loud meow, and Winston, the estate’s cat, slunk out from a back room and rubbed up against Corinne’s ankles.
Corinne petted his orange-and-white fur, feeling a pang. Poppy had found Winston years ago on the side of the road near the family’s farm and flown him here in her dad’s private plane; they’d taken turns feeding him milk and bringing him to their beds. In fact, everything in this place—the velvet chair Poppy had curled up in with a book, the long curtains Poppy had hidden behind in games of hide-and-seek, the sweeping staircase Poppy had walked down on the day of her wedding—reminded her of her cousin. She glanced around, noticing Rowan and Aster’s drawn expressions. They were probably thinking about Poppy too.
“Okay, ladies,” she said to her cousins and sister, shakily guiding everyone to the sitting room. “First things first. These are for you.” She gestured to a bag she’d brought, full of wrapped gifts.
“That’s so nice of you,” Rowan said, her voice oddly melancholy, as though she were going to burst into tears. She’d been oddly silent on the trip up too.
Natasha sank down into a lounge chair. Having her here was jarring. When had they last been together—aside from funerals? A pang struck Corinne, as she remembered how cute Natasha used to be. One year, when Natasha was about seven, she’d decided she wanted to be an Olympic figure skater when she grew up. All of them, even Poppy, who was much older by then, put on fluffy skirts, took off their socks, and skated on the wood floor as her competitors, though it was unwritten that Natasha would win. “A perfect ten!” the cousins had crowed to the little girl, smothering her with kisses.
Now Natasha ripped into the package. “Pretty!” she whooped as she unveiled the pashmina wrap underneath. “Just like we wore for Poppy’s wedding.”
“That’s what gave me the idea,” Corinne said shyly. Poppy had gotten married at Meriweather four years ago. They’d sat in this very room before her wedding, and she had given each of them similar gifts. It was a December wedding, so those wraps were fur-lined. She’d also given the girls fur muffs and hats; they’d all boarded a horse-drawn carriage to go to the Old Whaling Church on the main island. The ground had been covered with crisp, untouched snow, the stars twinkled in the sky, and the church was already decorated for Christmas, silver and gold balls everywhere, the whole altar filled with amaryllises. After Poppy and James married, they’d gone on a second sleigh ride back to the house, singing Christmas carols. Corinne and Dixon, solidly back together by then, had huddled close to keep warm.
The others seemed to be thinking of their cousin too. Aster’s eyes filled with tears. Rowan dropped the wrap in the box, her face twisted with pain. Corinne tried to breathe in, but it felt as if there were a load of bricks on her chest. She looked to the doorway, picturing Poppy stepping through, crowing, Ha, ha! It was all a joke!
Aster grabbed the wine bottle and poured four glasses. She picked up one and held it in the air. “A toast to Poppy. I don’t know what we’re going to do without her.”
The Heiresses Page 13