Page 2 of Love and Lies

He nodded. “Have a nice day, Miss Weston. Welcome back.”

“Thanks… What’s your name, by the way?”

“Lionel, miss.”

“Okay—thanks, Lionel.” I smiled, took hold of my suitcase, and wheeled it toward one of the two elevators.

As I stepped into the elevator carriage—marble-floored, mahogany-paneled, and still smelling exactly as it had before, of perfume, polish, and the faint aroma of cigars—I was ambushed by a horde of memories. As a kid on my first day of school, riding down to the ground floor hand in hand with my father, proud as anything. At sixteen, making out with Parker Harrison until we were interrupted by the Gregorys from the fourth floor. Me and Valerie, changing in secret so we could ditch a high-society dinner for some party in Brooklyn. And Valerie, confiding to me, between these four narrow walls, that she’d met the love of her life.

A wave of grief threatened to engulf me and drag me down into its depths, but I took a deep breath in, then out, fighting it with all my strength. Happy, that was how I wanted to feel now. Happy that I was about to surprise my family at their usual brunch. No—our brunch. I was back where I belonged; I would soon be sitting at the dining table on Sundays again, enjoying delicious coffee and arguing with my brother, Lincoln, about who would get the last croissant from the French bakery on Madison. My mouth was already watering just thinking about it.

The elevator stopped at our floor and I got out, strode toward the only door on that level, and rang the bell. Our butler, Vincent, was adamant that visitors should never wait longer than ten seconds at the door, so I counted down slowly, like a clock ticking toward my new, old life.

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

A moment passed. Then another. Nothing happened.

Maybe I hadn’t pressed the button hard enough. Or maybe Dad and Lincoln were debating some political issue so voraciously that Vincent hadn’t heard the doorbell. I tried again. But no luck.

With a sinking feeling, I dug my key out of the bag on my shoulder and slid it into the lock. But as I stepped into the opulent hallway of our two-story apartment, there was nothing to be heard—no voices, no clatter of cutlery upon plates. It was totally silent.

“Hello?” I called up the sweeping curved staircase, feeling a little ridiculous. “Are you guys there?”

Finally, there was movement above on the second floor, and a few moments later, someone came down. Someone in high heels that clacked softly on the stairs.

“Helena?” My mother gazed down at me, baffled. “What on earth are you doing here? We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” The British accent sounded familiar to my ears, which was no wonder, since I’d been hearing little else for the last few years.

“Hi, Mom.” I smiled. “Surprise! I thought I’d come back early so I wouldn’t miss out on brunch.”

A brunch that clearly wasn’t happening: the dining table, which I could see through the open double doors, was completely empty. No croissants, no lattes, no piping-hot scrambled eggs. Even my mother’s outfit—dark blue shift dress, neat updo, and pumps—wasn’t in keeping with our Sunday ritual, when we all sat around the table wearing pajamas, sweatpants, and bathrobes for a change.

My spirits sank even further. Pretty soon they’d be down in the basement.

My mother gave me a stern look. “How did you get here?”

“I took a cab,” I replied honestly, and immediately realized it was a mistake.

“A cab?” My mother’s voice grew a shade shriller, making her sound almost hysterical. “Have you taken leave of your senses? What will people think, your getting out of a cab in front of this house in broad daylight?”

I took a breath. “Everyone in this city takes cabs, Mom.”

“Yes, but you are not everyone, Helena. We can’t afford for anyone to think you don’t know how to behave.”

“But nobody saw me,” I mumbled sheepishly. I almost replied: I don’t give a damn what people think of me. And Valerie wouldn’t have cared either. But picking a fight with my mother on day one wasn’t a good idea—it was only thanks to her that I was here, and I’d have to keep on her good side if I didn’t want her to regret it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal. I took cabs in Cambridge all the time.”

“New York isn’t Cambridge, darling. You should know that by now.” She exhaled, and five seconds later she was Blake Weston again, unflappable co-ruler of the empire my father’s predecessors had built. My mother wasn’t your typical society wife—hanging off a wealthy man’s arm, raising his kids, and running interference—as some people assumed when they first met her. Half an hour with her and her sharp intellect, though, and they were cured of that notion.

“So where is everybody?” I asked. “We always have brunch together on Sundays.” Even if my older brother didn’t live at home anymore, he was always there for brunch, all the same.

“I’m sorry you came home early for it.” My mom finally came over to me and gave me a hug, albeit a brief one. “But I have an appointment at the memorial society, and your father is on business in Washington until Tuesday. There’s no brunch today.”

Only today? Judging by the look on her face, there was more to it than that. But perhaps I’d just gotten too used to focusing on nonverbal cues, facial expressions, and body language over the last few months. It was part of the preparation for my plan—a plan that would begin first thing tomorrow.

“Okay—next week, then,” I said, trying to read her reaction, but she was inscrutable. Or she was when it came to brunch, anyway; the look she leveled at my long, dark ponytail was pretty unequivocal.

“You need a haircut, sharpish. I’ll make an appointment with Cara tomorrow. And what is this you’re wearing?” With a frown, she fingered the leather jacket I’d bought a few months ago at a little store in Cambridge. If I told her it was secondhand, she’d probably jump straight into a bath full of disinfectant, memorial society be damned.

“It’s vintage. It’s what they’re wearing across the pond.”