Pretty Revenge (ARC)

by Emily Liebert

  It’s exhausting. This is exactly why I don’t want children. At least not anymore. I’m not going to lie; there was a time when I did. After John and I were married, I got pregnant within a few years, without really trying. It was a boy. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand I was terrified. Having been raised by an abusive father and a mother who’d fallen victim to his sadistic behavior, I hardly had positive role models. On the other hand, I knew a child would afford me a whole new level of security as John’s wife, and maybe even an opportunity to right my parents’ egregious wrongs. John, for his part, was just happy about the prospect of having a son to carry on his family name. We both knew he wouldn’t actually care for the child in any way besides financial support. And I was okay with that. Who knows? I might have been a good mother.

  Unfortunately, twenty weeks into the pregnancy, we flew to Deer Valley to go skiing with a group of John’s friends and their wives. I barely knew how to ski—it’s a wealthy person’s sport—but I did it anyway. It was essential in order to fit in. On my third run down the bunny slope, I was minding my own business and cursing the fact that my fingers were frozen beyond feeling, when a two-hundred-pound man pummeled into me from behind. I fell straightforward onto my stomach and rolled directly into a tree. I don’t remember much after that.

  I never had the chance to mourn the loss of our baby. John wanted to put it behind us in the same way he would an unsatisfactory meal at a fine restaurant. He said it was a disappointment, but there was no discussion beyond a frown and a shake of his head. I tried for months to regain what I’d lost. I even mentioned the idea of fertility treatments. That was a mistake. John told me that people like us aren’t impotent. He blamed me, I’m sure of it.

  That was when I decided that one day I’d start my own business. I needed something I could control. Something that couldn’t be taken away from me. And, as it turns out, being a wife and a boss has become enough for me. Certainly, I could rely on my husband’s wealth. I could spend my days at The Spa at Mandarin Oriental. Or chitchatting with my girlfriends over a boozy lunch of lettuce-wrapped air at Gramercy Tavern. If I had girlfriends. But that’s not who I am. Or who I’ll ever be. My mother gave up her identity to live in my father’s shadow. She handed over her life to him and he squeezed her dry until all that was left was pulp. She didn’t have an out. There was no contingency plan until I left one for her, and even then, she was too fragile to take it. I’m smarter than that. I’m stronger than that.

  Speaking of, she called tonight. Just as I was leaving the office to come here. Eighteen years later, and she finally picked up the phone.

  When I saw that it was her, my stomach lurched and bile rose in my throat. I didn’t answer. How could I? Her message sounded urgent. She implored me to get back to her. But what’s there to say?

  She’s not going to give up, the message said to me, and I can’t risk that she’ll try to get to me through John. Surely she’s seen photographs of us online. The glowing couple. She knows where I live and where I work. I’m an open book on the internet, which is mandatory. If you act like you have something to hide, the vultures will pick you to pieces. And I can’t have that. I know the only way to stop her is to talk to her. It’s inevitable. After nearly two decades of silence, what could be so important now? I need to know, even though I don’t want to.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” I whispered to John, as the lights dimmed and a movie screen came to life. They liquor you up first, then try to syphon your cash with photos of impoverished children. While you glug your champagne, check out three-year-old Lena, who’s listless and dehydrated. Won’t you pay for a clean glass of water?

  “Don’t be long,” he admonished.

  “I just need to run to the ladies’ room.”

  I slipped out of the banquet hall and stumbled upon an empty conference room a few doors down. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed. Slowly. Reluctantly.

  “Jordan?” She picked up on the first ring. I resisted the urge to correct her. She doesn’t know Jordana.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m so glad to hear from you. I . . .I wasn’t sure if you’d be in touch.”

  “This is a courtesy call. What do you want?” Why else would she reach out if not for money?

  “Your father . . .” Her voice caught in her throat. “Your father is very sick.”

  “Okay.” I wish I could say it mattered. But I hate that fucker.

  “This might be the end, Jordan. Do you understand?”

  “I do.” My eyes stung. I closed them and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

  “I need you to come home. Right away.”

  “For what?” I sniffed indignantly.

  “To see him. To hear him. Maybe to say good-bye.”

  “I said good-bye a long time ago. When he pointed a gun at me. Remember that?”

  “Things have changed.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You’ll see.” She was crying. Softly, but loud enough so I could hear. I do miss her, but not enough. “Come home, Jordan. I need you to come home. Please.”

  “I can’t. It’s too late.” I shook my head like the child I suddenly felt like. “It’s too late,” I repeated. “I have a new life now. And I have to go.”

  “Jor—” I hung up before she could say anything else. And before I allowed myself to grieve. For her. For him. For the part of me I left behind.

  Then I straightened my posture and marched back into the banquet hall as Jordana Pierson. Where I belong.

  17KERRIE

  “You all right?” William checked in with me as we snaked our way down Fifth Avenue, dodging the other cars and pedestrians by a breath.

  “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “Well, you’re white knuckling the door handle.”

  “Oh, that. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’re nearly there, hang tight,” he reassured.

  “Where are we going?” I was already worried that having dinner with William—on non-wedding-related business—was going to piss off Jordana. I could practically hear her whispering in my ear: My cardinal rule is never, ever become invested in the relationships of our brides and grooms. We’re not marriage counselors. Our job is to execute the wedding itself.

  “You’ll see.” William pulled his wallet from his back pocket as we rolled to a stop outside a restaurant called Kesté Pizza & Vino on Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village, where I’ve never been before.

  “Wait, let me pay.” I rummaged through my purse. “I can expense it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Besides, you’re not really on the clock anymore.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Stay put, I’ll come around.” He tipped the driver liberally, opened his own door, and then walked around to my side to do the same. No one’s ever done that for me. Honestly, I kind of thought it only happened in movies.

  “You ready for a treat?” He helped me out of the cab.

  “As you said . . . ready as I’ll ever be.”

  * * *

  “Oh wow.” I spoke with my mouth full, as a thinning cord of cheese strung from my lips to the fat, gooey slice of pizza I was holding in one hand. Right off the bat, William informed me that the sign of a true New Yorker is the single-hand fold. I’m practicing. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Seriously.”

  “What did I tell you?” He smiled, pleased with himself. “They’ve been voted number one pizza by New York magazine, best pizza in the state by Food Network Magazine, and Food and Wine ranked them among the top twenty-five best pizza places in the United States.” He read from the scattered frames on the wall behind me.

  “They should hire you to be their publicist.”

  “No kidding. I come here probably once a week.”

  “I can tell. Everyone knows you by name.” As soon as
we walked in there was a flamboyant commotion, as a half-dozen Italian guys besieged William in a voracious embrace. All at once.

  “It’s kind of like my version of Cheers. I’m the Norm of Kesté, which—by the way—means ‘this is it’ in Neapolitan.”

  “I love facts like that!” I took another bite. It was addictive. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Pizza Principle’?”

  “Nope.”

  “There’s a theory that since the 1960s, the price of a slice has been about the same as a subway ride.”

  “I’m stealing that.”

  “Go right ahead.” I took another, smaller bite. “I can’t believe they have so many different kinds.”

  “Yup, fifty. Certainly more than Cartier.”

  “Right? That was completely insane. I thought we were being Punk’d, for a minute there. I can’t believe she wouldn’t even show us the other rings. I mean, I can, but . . .” I didn’t want to say too much. Even though it feels like William and I are becoming friendly, he’s still our client. More important, so is Ethel.

  “It’s discouraging.” He reached for his beer and took a long swig. “And I have to say, if this is the way things are going to be in the long term, then—” He stopped midsentence as a man in a shiny blue suit with a slanting smirk on his face approached.

  “Mr. Blum. Stepping out with another woman already?” He slapped William on the back, but kept his squinty green eyes on me. “Spencer Grafton.” He extended his hand, palm up.

  “Olivia Lewis.” Awkwardly, I placed my hand on top of his and he kissed it with his hot, wet mouth, which was crowded by swollen pink gums. Bleh.

  “Olivia works with Jordana Pierson.”

  “Ah yes, John’s wife and wedding planner extraordinaire. Binky’s already told me we have to hire her, and I haven’t even put a ring on it yet.” He laughed arrogantly, and I couldn’t help but notice, even in the forgiving lighting, that his face was flush with freckles and his hair was buttered to his forehead with perspiration. Binky is one lucky lady. “So, this is a work dinner?” He leered at me like I was a ripe piece of fruit he wanted to sink his teeth into.

  “I’m not sure what you’re insinuating, but yes, it is,” I answered quickly and confidently. “Sometimes meeting outside the office is more convenient for our clients and also more conducive to decision making.” I smiled austerely. “We believe in making things as easy as we can for our brides and grooms, since their time is so precious. I’m sure someone as successful as yourself can understand that.”

  “Absolutely.” He turned toward William. “She’s a firecracker.” Then toward me again. “Binky will be in touch when the time comes. If ever she’s fortunate enough to become Mrs. Grafton.” He winked. “Let’s hit the links soon, buddy. Maybe a home and home?”

  “Sure, sounds great.” William nodded as Spencer swaggered back to his table. “Sorry about that.”

  “No need to apologize. He seems like a real stand-up guy.”

  “If by awesome you mean douche bag, then yes.”

  “But he’s a friend of yours?”

  “In a matter of speaking.” William leaned forward. “Welcome to my world.”

  “I’m sure it’s not so bad, despite the douche bags.”

  “There are plenty of them, trust me.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I took the last sip of my beer. It was the second for both of us, and I was beginning to feel a little tipsy. “So, I should probably know this, but what’s a home and home?”

  “His country club and mine.”

  “Right, of course.”

  “You handled yourself well with Spencer. He tends to rub people the wrong way.” He smiled genuinely and signaled to the waiter, who was taking another couple’s order but acknowledged him at the same time. “Anyway, what I was saying before Spencer interrupted is that Ethel’s involvement in this whole thing is becoming too much. She has to realize that this isn’t about her. It’s one thing if she wants to offer her opinion on the flowers or Tatiana’s gown, but a man should be able to pick his own wedding band.”

  “I’m sure Ethel just wants you to have something perfect.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that she will never, ever realize that this isn’t about her.

  “Perfect for who?”

  “For whom,” I corrected. I couldn’t help myself.

  “What?”

  “It’s whom. Perfect for whom.” My cheeks burned. “Sorry, apparently when I drink I become a staunch grammarian.”

  “Well, in that case, we’re just getting started. The lady and I will each have another,” he said as the waiter approached.

  “Oh no, no,” I protested, but it was too late.

  “What’s the worst that can happen?” William shrugged.

  “Um, let’s see. I could get drunk. Say something stupid. And lose my job.” I chugged the rest of my glass of water and inhaled half a garlic knot to absorb the liquor sloshing in my stomach.

  “You’re funny, Olivia.” Two more sweating bottles of Peroni were set in front of us. “Do you really think I’d let you lose your job?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey! Have some faith, huh?”

  “Okay.” I ate the remainder of the garlic knot and washed it down with another slug of beer. My extremities were beginning to tingle.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me more about yourself. I know you grew up in Palm Beach and that you just moved here. I know that your parents passed away a long time ago. That you work for Jordana. That we have the same taste in wedding bands or at least the same distaste. And I know that you love Kesté’s pizza, perhaps as much as I do. But that’s about it. Beyond that, who is Olivia Lewis?” He propped his elbows on the table and angled his face toward me, giving me his undivided attention. “Let’s have it.”

  “There’s not really much to tell.” My brain went numb as I riffled through it. It’s hard enough to maintain a double life when I’m completely sober. “I promise I’m not very interesting.”

  “Come on, I doubt that. Everybody’s got a story, and if we’re going to work together, you might as well spill all the gory details now.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” I summoned what little liquid courage I had. “As you said, I grew up in Palm Beach. My parents died when I was two, and my grandmother took me in.”

  “Are you close with her?”

  “She passed away a long time ago now.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you? Close with her.”

  “Yes, very.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “All the time. More and more lately.”

  “I can understand that.” He waited before continuing. “I feel like when we make big life changes, we miss the people who helped define who we were to begin with. Does that make sense or is it the beer talking?”

  “That totally makes sense.”

  “For example, with everything going on with the wedding, I’ve been missing my mother a lot lately.”

  “How did she die?” I blurted, and then shook my head immediately. “No, no sorry, that was rude. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “It’s cool, really. I don’t mind talking about her. Basically, she went to the doctor thinking she had bronchitis, which turned out to be Stage 4 lung cancer, and two weeks later she was gone.”

  “Wow, that’s rough.” Our eyes met for a second before I looked away.

  “Yeah, she wasn’t even a smoker.”

  “I’m sure that made it even harder.”

  “Maybe a little. What about your parents?”

  “Car crash.” No reason to lie about that.

  “So you never really knew them at all.”

  “Not really. My only memories of my mom and dad, if you can call them memories, are what people have told me. And what I’ve seen in photos.”

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry. That has to be tough, too.”

  “It is. But sometimes I wonder if it’s also easier.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, since I never got to know them, there’s nothing for me to miss.” I hiccupped. “Oh my God, that’s so embarrassing.”

  “Oh, please. You think I’ve never hiccupped before? It’s endearing.” Endearing. There’s an adjective that’s never been used to describe me. Ever. More specifically, never by someone like William Blum, who must have a group of fancy friends to do this kind of thing with. People like Spencer Grafton. “And I totally get what you mean. While I cherished the thirteen years I had with my mother, it definitely wasn’t the ideal time to lose someone I depended on so much. Occasionally, I think about what she’d look like now. And what she’d think about the man I’ve become.”

  “I think about that too. You know, whether my parents would be proud of me.”

  “I bet they would.” He nodded sincerely. “Even though you don’t like to talk about yourself.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.” William tilted his head to the side. “Okay, so tell me, what were you doing before you came to New York? I want to know everything.”

  “Everything? That’s a tall order.” And, unfortunately, not possible.

  “I’ve got time.” He grinned.

  “Okay, then. I was working for a company that created products for kids and babies—like practical snack bottles and changing pads. Things that make parents’ lives more streamlined.”

  “That sounds interesting. Did you like it?”

  “I did, but the owner sold the venture.”

  “Is that why you moved?”

  “I needed to do something different.” I needed revenge.

  “That’s really brave,” he said, as his eyes met mine. “How’s it been working for Jordana?”

  “Fun. And challenging at the same time. I didn’t know that much about wedding planning before this, but I’m learning as I go. Strangely, I think I might have a knack for it. I’m someone who likes when there are a lot of moving parts that you have to weave together to create something major.”