The Heiresses

by Shepard, Sara

  “I’m going to check if Natasha’s parents are here yet.” Aster smoothed down her scrub shirt and checked her watch.

  “I’ll stay here in case she wakes up,” Rowan said.

  The door shut again. Rowan leaned back on the chair and listened to the wheezing sounds of the IV machines. Liquid slowly dripped from a bag into Natasha’s veins. Her eyes remained closed, her eyelashes not even fluttering. Somewhere behind those closed eyes, a secret was locked away. Something so awful, someone might have run them off a bridge for it.

  Then Rowan’s phone pinged, and she looked at the screen. NEW POST ON THE BLESSED AND THE CURSED, read an e-­mail. YOU’LL WANT TO SEE THIS! Rowan’s skin prickled. She had never signed up to receive alerts from the website. She clicked on the link, suddenly filled with fear. What if it was a post about the crash?

  The page popped up on the screen. But the top story was about something else. “Hard(Core) at Work,” read the caption.

  A QuickTime video loaded. With shaking fingers, Rowan pressed play, then yelped. There she was on her desk at work, arching her back and moaning “Yes” and gripping a man’s taut back. On her desk her nameplate, “Rowan Saybrook, Esq.,” was clearly in view, along with the Saybrook’s logo. James collapsed against her as they finished together, the camera never catching his face.

  She stopped the video immediately. Goose bumps broke out on her skin. She’d deleted that video. Even deleted it from her trash. Hadn’t she?

  Something akin to a snicker sounded from across the room. Rowan did a double take at Natasha’s sleeping form. Her hands were at her sides, hair fanned out, and her feet pointed up. But one thing had changed. Now there was just the teensiest hint of a smile on her face now. It seemed teasing. Taunting.

  Oh, you naive fools, she seemed to be saying. As if she was duping them all.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  ....................................

  16

  The following Monday, Corinne sat in her father’s office, a huge corner room with two walls of windows, a vaulted ceiling, a separate entertaining area, and a small, elegantly appointed private bathroom off to one side. Rowan sat next to her, nervously jiggling her long, muscled left calf. Aster was on the couch next to Rowan, staring into a cup of coffee, and Deanna was perched on the edge of a leather chair against the window.

  Mason sat behind his desk, his brow furrowed and his lips drawn. There were three empty Diet Coke cans next to him. Ever since Mason quit smoking—­aside from an occasional cigar—­he drank Diet Coke whenever he was stressed.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, pinching the skin between his eyes. “This accident isn’t exactly what we need right now.” He looked hard at all three of them.

  “One of you will have to do CNN,” Deanna piped up, staring at an iPad, a BlackBerry, and an iPhone on her lap. “But try not to talk too much about another car hitting you, okay? We don’t need to fuel rumors of the curse. And don’t give too many details about Natasha’s condition.”

  “I’ll do the interview,” Rowan volunteered.

  Mason’s gaze shot to her. “No, you won’t.” His eyes blazed. “I don’t even know what to say about you and that video. In the Saybrook’s offices, Rowan.”

  “I know,” Rowan mumbled, staring at her lap. She looked mortified. Corinne was embarrassed for her. She hadn’t watched the video, of course, but she could only imagine.

  Deanna flipped a page of her yellow legal pad. “Actually, Mason, maybe it would be good for Rowan to be our spokeswoman. She could apologize for the sex tape. It would humanize her. Maybe shed a little light on the mystery man—­everyone is dying to know.”

  “Excuse me?” Rowan shrieked, looking as if she wanted to punch Deanna. Corinne stiffened too. Sometimes their publicist went too far.

  “No, thank you,” Mason said, his nostrils flaring. “Aster will do it.”

  “I will?” Aster looked surprised.

  “Yes, you will.” Then Mason glared at Rowan. “And if I catch you bringing another man into your office again, you’re done. Got it?”

  “Of course,” Rowan said, blushing bright red.

  “All right, everyone, get out of my sight,” Mason said, making a shooing gesture with his hands. Everyone stood and headed for the door. “Corinne, you stay,” Mason called out when she was almost out of the room.

  Corinne turned back and regarded her father. He had just opened a fourth Diet Coke, and he’d swiveled his chair halfway around to face the window that looked out on the Hudson. A few ocean kayaks were braving the water. The Colgate clock on the New Jersey side declared it was just past 6:00 p.m. Corinne slid her engagement ring up and down her finger, wondering what this was about. For a split second she worried that Aster had told him about Will, but she wouldn’t do that—­would she?

  Mason turned around and looked at Corinne. “I just wanted to see how you were holding up.”

  “Me?” Corinne touched her chest. “Why?”

  “Your wedding is soon. I know you don’t need this stress.” He gave her a sad smile. “It’s why I asked your sister to do the interview instead.”

  “Oh.” Corinne touched the collar of her silk blouse. She heard her cell phone chime in her purse. The white screen lit up the dark satin lining. “Well, thanks.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know.” Mason’s voice was a little choked. “Juggling the difficulties of your job, planning for this wedding—­you’re everyone’s rock. Especially now that Poppy is gone.”

  Corinne’s throat felt tight. All her life, her father’s affection had been rare. But Corinne had still needed him—­and she’d needed more of this, him simply saying that he recognized how hard it was to keep everything together.

  “Th-­thank you,” she said, trying to smile. Her phone chimed again. This time, she glanced at it. Two text messages had come in. I need to see you, the first one said. Can you meet me?

  Will. Corinne’s thoughts screeched to a halt. She couldn’t go. Or maybe she had to go.

  “Something important?” Mason asked, glancing at Corinne’s phone.

  “I think so,” she told her father, standing quickly and hurrying out of the room before he could compliment her anymore. Because, she realized, she wasn’t holding anything together.

  She was tearing things apart . . . and she couldn’t even help herself.

  Half an hour later Corinne stood outside a nondescript apartment building on Bank Street. She stared at the gold numbers on the wall, and then at Will’s name in the directory. Just seeing it horrified her, and she shot around the corner, trying to catch her breath. A coffee shop beckoned her across the street. She would go there instead. And think. And then go back uptown, where she belonged.

  But her legs wouldn’t move—­or rather, they moved in the wrong direction, back to the apartment building. A woman in her twenties came out, and Corinne ducked out of the way, afraid she’d be seen. Her phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. Dixon.

  She hit SILENT. Corinne had sent him a text saying she couldn’t make dinner tonight, but she hadn’t explained why. She couldn’t speak to him right now. Her guilt would be obvious in her voice. She ran her hands down the length of her face. Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the buzzer panel and pressed the button for Will’s apartment. The door unlocked, and she pushed into a vestibule with tiled floors, a blinking fluorescent bulb on the ceiling, and a line of small metal mailboxes along the wall. More mail sat on top of a radiator. A bike with a flat tire was propped against the wall.

  After pushing through another door, she was confronted with a set of worn stairs. She started up them, the risers creaking. A line of doors greeted her on the landing, a motley mix of smells emanating from under them. She climbed another flight. Someone had drawn an anatomically correct woman on the hallway wall.
<
br />   She imagined Dixon’s face if he knew she was in a place like this. Her mother’s judgmental gasp. She thought of what she’d told her cousins: It’s just cold feet.

  Still, she kept climbing.

  Finally she reached the fourth floor. Will stood at his door. “Are you all right?” he cried, pulling her toward him.

  Corinne stepped away, leaving an arm’s-­length space between them. “What do you mean?”

  Will stared. “I read that you were in a car crash. I was so worried.”

  Corinne looked down. Of course. Every paper was talking about the crash. “I’m fine,” she said woodenly. “It was just an accident.”

  “What about your cousin? Is she going to be okay?”

  Corinne nodded weakly. There was no swelling in her brain, which meant she should wake up soon. Then again, some patients in this condition never regained consciousness.

  There was a long pause. Corinne glanced down the carpeted hall, staring at a red door at the other end. “Well, come in,” Will said awkwardly, stepping aside and gesturing Corinne into the apartment. Corinne ducked her head and followed.

  They entered a small room with an exposed-­brick wall. A modern-­looking gray couch sat in the corner, flanked by two midcentury tables. Vintage cookbooks and hardcovers lined the built-­ins along an exposed brick wall. A pass-­through window revealed a galley kitchen; knives were ranged along a magnetic strip on the wall, and pots and pans hung from a rack over the burners. It occurred to Corinne that most ­people in Manhattan would think Will was doing well for himself. Just not the ­people she hung around with.

  On the back wall was a huge tin sign bearing the name of the local restaurant Will had worked for in the Vineyard, the Sextant. “Oh my God,” Corinne blurted, letting down her guard for a moment. “Is that the road sign?”

  “Oh.” Will smiled bashfully. “Yeah.”

  “They let you have it?”

  “Not exactly. I sort of . . . stole it.”

  Though the Sextant had been a staple of the island since nineteen-­twenty-­something, the first time—­and only—­time Corinne had been there with Will. It was the fourth time they went out together, the first time they dared to go somewhere in public—­though it certainly wasn’t anywhere Corinne would be spotted. Corinne remembered asking why the bartenders hadn’t swept up the sawdust or the mussels on the floor, and Will had laughed and said, “It’s supposed to be like that.”

  Now Will stared at the sign with a faraway look on his face. Corinne wondered if it reminded him of her. She liked the idea of him thinking of her while he was cooking. And then, instantly, she hated that she’d just thought that. Her emotions were so scrambled that she felt tears prick her eyes.

  Will stepped forward. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Corinne said, tilting toward the wall. “I’m confused. And I lied to you.”

  Will looked up and blinked. “I know.”

  “About this weekend. The crash. I’m not fine.” Then Corinne cocked her head. “Wait. How did you know I lied?”

  Will raised one shoulder. “I sensed it,” he said, his voice not quite steady. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Corinne shook her head, wondering if she shouldn’t have brought up the crash at all. Everything coming out of her mouth was wrong.

  Will sat her down on the couch. “I heard the car started to sink.”

  Corinne’s eyes filled with tears. “It all happened so fast. Thank God for my sister. She took charge.” And then she told him about swimming to shore, running to find a phone, the ambulances coming and taking them away. Will listened patiently, his gaze never leaving her face.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s all kinds of crazy talk, you know. After what happened to Poppy . . . and that website. Some ­people are worried that someone’s after all of you.”

  Corinne flinched. Of course Will knew about this—­the whole world did. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she decided.

  “You’re safe now.” Will reached out. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  He said it so tenderly, and Corinne suddenly thought back to that summer, how she’d looked up at him—­he was tall, much taller than Dixon—­and felt safe in his arms. And she saw now how that tenderness would make him a good father. Could have made him, she told herself. It was like waking from a dream. My God, you haven’t told him, she thought.

  She had to get out of here. It was bad enough that it was a betrayal to Dixon, but there was so much more than that. She had betrayed Will too. She wanted more than ever to talk to Poppy, to ask her what to do. Poppy was the only person in the world who knew all of her—­the part that loved Dixon, who knew she could be happy with him, their future predictable and pleasant. The part that had fallen for Will, that for a brief moment imagined a life that was completely unknowable. And the part of her that she had left behind in Virginia, the baby she had never gotten the chance to know.

  She wanted to tell Will all of that; she wanted him to understand the complicated macramé that composed her life. But she also wanted to leave, to click her heels together and find herself back uptown in their lovely three-­bedroom apartment, where each room was climate-­controlled and everything existed in shades of gray and grège. But when she looked up again, Will’s head was moving toward hers.

  Just one kiss, Corinne told herself. Just one kiss good-­bye.

  “We shouldn’t do this,” she murmured—­but she let him pull her dress over her head.

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Will agreed, guiding her toward his bedroom.

  Will’s bed smelled like soap and sugar. He climbed on top of Corinne and began kissing every inch of her body. She shut her eyes and tried to numb herself, but she shuddered as Will’s rough hands moved along her bare skin. He was fast with her, lustful and crazy, hard and desperate and needy. He didn’t touch her C-­section scar. More important, he didn’t ask about it, either. She tried not to think of Dixon and that dark locked room of a secret inside of her. But before long, she didn’t have to try not to think. All reason departed; only the physical was left.

  Corinne kneaded her feet against the sheets, her legs shaking. It was as if Will understood inherently, without her having to say a word, what made her feel the best. It had set him apart from the other boyfriends she’d had when she was young—­all of them had fumbled, asked too many questions, laughed when they shouldn’t have. And Will—­well, he just knew.

  Corinne opened her eyes to find it was dark outside. She must have dozed off. Will’s bed was empty, and she heard pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. She lay there for a moment, thinking about what she had done. What she’d done again, she reminded herself. But instead of feeling shame, the guilt that she’d tried to scrub off her last time, she felt relaxed. She felt as if she was glowing. Rising, she pulled on her clothes and padded in the direction of the sound.

  Will stood in his boxers and bare feet over a pan on the stove. His hair was mussed, his skin flushed, and there was a look of concentration on his face as he flipped something over in the pan. When he noticed her in the doorway, he smiled. “I made us a snack.” He slid a sandwich onto the plate. “Truffle grilled cheese.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Corinne said softly, accepting the plate. And though she knew truffle oil, brie, and bread were probably the worst thing she could do for her figure, she bit into the sandwich anyway and swooned. “Oh my God. This is way too good.”

  “Stick with me, and I’ll make you one of these every day,” Will said as he slid onto a bar stool next to her.

  “I’d weigh two hundred pounds.”

  “Then I’ll make you one every other day.” Will touched her chin, rotating her head so she was looking at him.

  “You know it’s not that easy.”

  “Tell me about it.” He sighed. Will rose from the stool, walked to a me
ssy desk built into the corner of the kitchen, and plucked a piece of paper from the top of the pile. “This is for you.”

  Corinne wiped her messy fingers on a napkin and studied the paper. “Invoice,” it read at the top, next to Coxswain’s logo. “Clients: Dixon Shackelford and Corinne Saybrook. Event description: Rehearsal dinner (175 guests) and wedding (260 guests) at the Saybrook family home in Meriweather, Massachusetts.”

  A hard knot formed in her chest. It was almost perverse to see her, Dixon’s, and Will’s name on the same piece of paper. She wanted to shift them around, make Will the groom, Dixon the hired help.

  Will bit into his half of the sandwich. “Are you actually going through with this?”

  Corinne’s eyes burned with impending tears. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you love him?”

  A lump formed in her throat. “It’s not just about that.”

  “Marriage isn’t about love? That’s new to me.”

  His voice was uncommonly stern. Corinne concentrated on the white plate on which the sandwich sat. She did love Dixon, but was that enough? Was it the kind of love you could build a life around? Was it a forever kind of love? “It’s complicated.” She laughed, a little bitterly. “I mean, obviously,” she said, looking around.

  Will paced back toward the stove. “I just don’t get it. If you love him, why are you here?”

  “I know. It’s just . . .” She sighed and gazed out the window. “This would wreck my family.” She thought about her father’s choked voice earlier. I’m proud of you. “And it’s who I am too,” she added. “This is what I’m supposed to do. This is the person I’m supposed to marry.”

  Will’s eyebrows arched. “It’s not the Dark Ages, Corinne. Marriages aren’t arranged anymore.” Will crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Silence passed between them. Corinne looked away first. “No,” she lied, the secret swimming inside her. She wanted to tell him, but how would she start? I was pregnant that summer. We have a baby out there somewhere. You’re a father.