To say I was nervous about the results was like saying the Titanic was just a boat. While I wasn’t officially a co-host of the gala—only celebrities got to share that particular honor with Cora—I had already been featured in Page Six twice, and the Times Style section was running another profile on Eric and me. Logically, I understood the appeal. It was good publicity. We were still on the tips of New York society’s tongues. Our wedding had only been a few months ago, Eric was only just really getting into the swing of things as the CEO of one of New York’s oldest companies, and I still caught the curious looks and whispered gossip when I walked around the east side of Central Park.
I stayed as still as I could while Lake reluctantly pinned the stiff plaid taffeta as I requested. As soon as she saw the effect, though, her face brightened. “Well, what do you know? That certainly did the trick.”
I looked at myself in the mirror and nodded. Using a brash black and red tartan plaid, we’d designed the dress as a nod to the high-lo culture of mid-eighties punk, when the anti-establishment aesthetic had snuck into movies like Pretty in Pink. The bodice was drop-waisted and strapless, now hugging my torso like a glove until just past my hips where the skirts billowed out. I’d redesigned the suit Eric admired, but with a slightly more mod feel, with tapered pants hemmed just above his shoes and a skinny tie that matched my dress.
“I think that’s it,” Lake said as she straightened the taffeta. “A few darts will take care of that bodice. Are you happy with the torn ribbon detail, or shall we take it off?”
“No, I think it works, especially with the studs. I don’t want this dress to be too polished, you know?”
Lake nodded in agreement. “Was hoping you’d say that.” She made a few other adjustments, looking me over critically. “Put on the shoes, will you? I want to see it all together again.”
I did as I was told, slipping into the custom Jimmy Choo pumps that had steel spikes attached to each heels like spurs. They gave me about four inches.
“And the hair?” Lake asked as she circled me, assessing the full effect. “Did you decide? You going with a full updo or just the fauxhawk?”
We’d already practiced multiple hairstyles over the last few weeks. It was incredible how much of an event this really was—every designer seemed to plan each client’s look right down to their manicures (mine would be black), and Lake was no different.
“Actually, I’m going to go with the bouffant,” I said, already imagining the way in which my hair would be gathered over the top of my head and left to flow down my back in a tail of soft waves. “I’m having a bunch of new red stripes put in too. Freddy’s coming tomorrow to do the color.”
Lake nodded approvingly. “That will look fantastic.”
She then helped me out of the heels and dress (I really couldn’t remove the thing, which had about a thousand buttons running up my side, without help), and I left her to package it up for transport while I got dressed.
“All right,” Lake said as we met in the kitchen, me back in a comfortable black jumpsuit, her carrying the garment bag. “I’ll make these changes and bring it back tomorrow for a final fitting. I have to get downtown now if I’m to be on time for Mr. de Vries’s fitting.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. He’s always late. If he gives you shit, just tell him I kept you.”
Lake chuckled and delivered a kiss to my cheek. “Laters, Jane.”
As she left, a big crash sounded—the demo team tearing down nearly every non-weight-bearing wall in the bottom floor. Eric hadn’t been kidding about wanting to build us a home. Literally the day after we had decided to stay here for good, he’d hired an architect and a general contractor. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to sleep past seven for about a year, but Eric assured me that the final product would be worth it. I trusted him. Finally.
Like he knew I was thinking of him, his face appeared on my phone with a buzz.
“What are you, telepathic?” I answered.
“Daydreaming about me, gorgeous?”
I grinned, though he couldn’t see me. “You don’t know. Maybe I was planning my escape.”
“Do I need to tie you up again? I thought I taught you that lesson the other night with those cables.”
I bit my lip at the memory. “I don’t know if it totally got through. You might be losing your touch, Mr. de Vries.”
He growled. The man actually growled, like a wild animal trapped in a suit, caged in one of the most populous cities in America.
“Bridget,” he called. “I think you need to cancel my next appointment.”
“No!” I yelped. “No, you can’t! Lesson totally got through, one hundred percent.”
“Seriously? You really don’t want me to come up there?”
His confusion was understandable. I had goaded him into giving me a mid-day lesson in “obedience” more than once—he’d pulled me out of at least two meetings at the Met, had even taken me twice in Central Park because we couldn’t make it back to the apartment in time. I was just as bad, having scheduled multiple “appointments” at his office to do unmentionable things under his desk.
“Lake is on her way to Maceo’s for your final fitting,” I told him. “You cannot blow her off. Not with the gala in three freaking days.”
There was a low chuckle. “I should have known. The only thing you love more than sex is fashion.”
“That’s not true. I also love you. More than both.”
Wow. I really had gotten pretty damn mushy as an old married lady. But it was worth it. Eric hummed in recognition, and I could practically feel the warmth exuding clear across Manhattan. Somehow, we had found it again. The world wasn’t perfect. We both still ached at night for the people we had lost. Still woke up at night in fear of the man stalking us. But we had found each other, that beautiful place where the world seemed light and full of promise simply because we were together.
“Five o’clock, then,” he said with a low note of promise weaving through his voice. The kind that gave me goose bumps with anticipation. “And, Jane?”
“W-what?” I said, just the idea of what he had planned making me stutter.
“I love you too. Like the fucking air I breathe.”
“The water I drink,” I whispered back.
There was an audible sigh—of relief? Humor? Regret? I couldn’t tell.
“Always,” he said. “Tonight, gorgeous.”
I went back to paging through the binder for twenty minutes or so before I called Cora’s assistant and was informed there was nothing to do but wait until this evening to do the final walk-through with Cora and the rest of the committee. And think. About what happened next. After Monday.
The truth was, I still had no idea.
When I’d finally had the wherewithal to do things like go through mail and catch up on bills, I’d discovered that I had in fact been granted a waiver to retake the bar exam. And since I’d passed the NYLE in December, that meant I could now practice law in New York State. If I wanted.
But was that what I wanted? I enjoyed putting bad guys behind bars, but also wasn’t sure life as a prosecutor suited me, partly because there were plenty of laws I didn’t agree with. I hated being a part of a system, for instance, that practiced mandatory minimums on drug crimes—and New York had some of the worst effects with that. Depending on who I worked for, I could easily be part of a system that continued to enforce unfair incarceration of people of color.
But what was the alternative? Criminal defense? The ACLU? Starting my own shop?
Or, I wondered as I gazed toward my studio, a room packed with fabrics and mannequins and drawings, things I spent progressively more and more of my time these days immersed in, was law even in my future anymore?
I had a bank account that contained fifty million dollars that belonged solely to me—my bequest from Celeste’s will, which had been approved in probate. Fifty million dollars I hadn’t even touched yet because I had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
> Didn’t I?
The buzzer rang through the apartment, interrupting my thoughts. I got up to answer it.
“Hey, Tony.”
“Mrs. Keeler is here to see you, Mrs. de Vries.”
“For the thousandth time, Tony, it’s Jane.” I rolled my eyes. Our security head never got over his need for incessant formality. Eric seemed to like it, but being called “Mrs. de Vries” made me feel like Celeste’s twin. “Send her up.”
I returned to the kitchen and went about locating a bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. I didn’t spend a lot of time with Eric’s mother, but if she was here of her own accord to see me, I had no doubt she’d appreciate a glass of something to take the edge off.
The door opened, and Tony stepped aside for Heather.
“Thanks, Tony,” I said.
He tipped his head. “Mrs. de Vries.”
“Jane!” I called out just as the door shut. I shook my head at Heather, who was watching me curiously. I shrugged. “It’s an ongoing battle, the name thing.” I held out a glass of wine. “Would you like one?”
Her shoulders relaxed visibly as she nodded. “Please.”
I carried the bottle of pinot grigio into the living room where we both sat.
“Quite a bit of construction downstairs,” she remarked as she folded herself into one of the Danish chairs. “I can’t imagine it’s pleasant.”
“Not particularly, no,” I replied. “But Eric decided he wants the house ready by the end of the year.”
“House?” Heather asked. “I didn’t realize you had purchased the building.”
I nodded. “Yeah, he did. A while ago, apparently. It was a surprise to me too.”
“Hmmm. You know, Jacob did the same thing just after we got married. I was pregnant with Eric at the time, and all Jake could think about was making a house fit for a big family.” She smiled to herself. “Everyone says it’s women who nest, but in truth, I think the men are just as bad.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I wasn’t pregnant, of course—just the idea caused a pang of longing. But it was obvious that Eric was, of course, planning a house for more than two. And I hadn’t fought it one bit.
“So,” I said finally. “It’s a surprise to have you here. Everything all right?”
“I suppose it is a bit remiss of me to be such a stranger to my own daughter-in-law,” she admitted, visibly ashamed. “I think it’s still a surprise to me that I even have one.”
“Because I’m such an odd choice?” My voice was tight. Eric had assured me he wanted me and only me, but I doubted I would ever be totally secure with this family’s impressions.
“Oh, no,” Heather said. She swallowed another sip. “Only because I honestly never thought Eric would move past Penny. It never surprised me that he chose girls outside his upbringing. It’s just another thing he has in common with his father.” When I didn’t reply, she tipped her head. “Jane, you do know that I wasn’t exactly Celeste’s first choice for Jacob either, don’t you?”
My brows rose. “I did not. Does Eric know?”
Heather shrugged. “He must. He’s never met any of my family, after all, and this city loves to talk.”
I said nothing. The few other times I’d socialized with Heather, I’d discover she was a careful speaker. Someone who usually took a while to measure exactly what she wanted to say. And then she told her story, and I realized why:
“Well, you know a bit about where I grew up in New Jersey. My father worked for the plant there. My mother, well…” She waved a manicured hand. “I haven’t seen her since I was very young. And my father, well, he passed when I was still in college. Cancer, of course, like half the town. At any rate, my childhood is less important than the fact that I didn’t exactly have the pedigree expected for someone like Jacob de Vries.”
I swallowed. Yeah, I knew something about that question of worth with this family.
“I hope you understand,” she said softly, “that was not at all why I married Jacob. In fact, I put him off several times. He just…wore me down.”
I meditated on that for a bit. Heather had no doubt been subject to many of the gold-digger comments that had been lobbed at me over the past year. She offered a lopsided smile, one that I had come to recognize whenever she mentioned Eric’s father. Eric was still skeptical of his mother’s motives when it came to helping us, but it was moments like these that had me convinced. This was a woman who would forever be in love with a dead man. It was probably how I would act if something ever happened to Eric.
Like it always did, the thought turned my blood cold.
“I came to tell you,” Heather said, “that I received a message from John a few days ago.” She pulled a letter out of her purse and handed it to me. “I thought it would be safer to bring it myself instead of calling, given Eric’s suspicions about bugs.”
“A telegram?” I asked as I opened the envelope. “Seriously? Does he think it’s 1945? Why doesn’t he just text you?”
Heather shrugged. “Johnny always had a flair for the dramatic.”
I rolled my eyes and read the message. It was short and stiff:
Heather,
Received your invite. Pleased to go. Will escort you to the gala myself if the boy is willing.
Glad you are finding your senses. Perhaps peace is possible at last.
My love,
JC
I read it at least three times before my body began to thaw. Carson was coming to the Met Gala. We really hadn’t been sure he would. After all, we’d only arranged for Heather to receive her invite a few months ago, and though she had sent Carson her invitation, there had been no reply. Eric had been convinced he was still untouchable. But now we knew: he had taken the bait. He was coming.
But Carson wasn’t an idiot. There was no way he didn’t know it was a trap—just like he probably knew that I was on the planning committee, that Eric and I were already publicized attendees. So, he was coming into the trap and likely going to turn it into one of his own. The utterly nerve-wracking question was: how?
I frowned at the last line of the message as I read it aloud again: “‘Perhaps peace is possible.’ What does he mean by that?”
Heather sighed. “Eric may have other thoughts, but I read it as a subtle warning or prediction of sorts. Perhaps it means he thinks his debts have been exacted. Or will be.”
“By debts, he means you? As what Jacob stole?” I made a face. “Not like you’re a person or anything.”
Heather didn’t respond. It was sad, really, how acclimated she was to being referred to as an object. The way all the women in this family seemed to be. Eric and I had had way too many conversations about that disturbing pattern, particularly when we were brave enough to talk about the prospect of children again.
We made small talk for a few minutes more, mostly about clothes and what we were both planning to wear to the event. Heather had something fairly basic planned—a dress from a British designer, but nothing out of the ordinary. It soon became clear that she and I didn’t have much in common beyond Eric. And after she was finished with her wine, she was just as quick to make her excuses as I was to accept them.
“Jane,” she said just before she left. She reached out tentatively and took my wrist, begging me wordlessly to pay attention. Her hand was surprisingly strong.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Please be careful,” she said. “I don’t like this. I know it’s necessary, but I truly don’t like it.”
“I don’t think anyone likes it,” I said. “But we can’t just ignore him. The NYPD will be waiting. And we’ll have security around us the entire time.”
She gave me a look that wasn’t hard to read—hadn’t I had a security detail with me when I was taken before?
I pushed the idea away. This time Eric would be with me. For some reason, that thought was the only thing that calmed my beating heart.
“Still,” Heather said. “Take extra care. If something…” She drifted off,
looking pained. “Jane, if something happened to you, I don’t know that my son would recover.”
32
It takes literally an entire day to prepare for an event like the Met Gala. I’m not talking about the planning. The entire committee did a full walk-through of the exhibit and party space the night before at about midnight, though the head curator and his installation team were still rearranging the exhibit according to Cora’s critiques. Approximately ninety-nine percent of the exhibit, however, was ready to go, including eight different exhibits featuring London-based designers from the seventies and eighties, the AV exhibit doing a room-sized broadcast of Clash concerts all night long (that had been my idea), and the massive reconstruction of the London Bridge in the Met’s entrance: made entirely out of flowers.
Lake and I also had a plan for me as a walking fashion exhibit, which required several people to execute. Today, I’d been confined to the apartment while a team of stylists primped every square inch of my body, starting with an exfoliation, scrub, waxing, and mani-pedi, and would eventually end with the smallest details of hair, eyes, even blush color done to perfection. It was like my wedding day, but times ten. We had approximately two hours before Freddy was due to work on my hair, followed by the makeup artist. And then, just before we left, Lake would fully sew me into my dress.
I sat at the kitchen island in leggings and a ripped Brooklyn t-shirt, flipping through the binder, mentally calculating whether all of the details I’d been given had been taken care of. I couldn’t find a single thing that needed follow up—and at any rate, I would be unavailable once Freddy began his work.
The Love Trap (Quicksilver Book 3) Page 31