Page 3 of Love and Lies

“Not over here, though,” she stressed. “I don’t want anyone in this city to see you in that getup. Get rid of it as soon as possible, please.”

Over my dead body, I thought.

“Sure,” I said, with a smile for good measure. “Where’s Vincent, by the way? I’d like to say hi.”

“He’s in Chicago for a while—his sister is ill. We don’t know when he’s coming back yet. Or even if he will.”

I’d had no idea. Why hadn’t they mentioned it? The butler was part of our family, after all.

“And the rest of the staff?”

“We didn’t think anybody would be home, so they have the day off.” My mother reached for her coat and handbag. “I have to go. Why don’t you get yourself unpacked first, okay? It’s good to have you back.” She stroked my cheek, her words sounding more like Please don’t make me regret going against your father on this. He would much rather I’d stayed in England for the rest of college. Or even the rest of my life.

I nodded, still smiling. But no sooner had the door closed shut behind her, leaving me completely alone in the entrance hall, than I felt the full weight of disappointment in my empty stomach. I’d imagined my homecoming very differently. Ever since I’d been sent to boarding school in England against my will, I’d looked forward to this day with all my heart. The day I’d be allowed back, no longer the good little girl who’d been forced to sit idly by after she lost her sister, but a determined young woman who would restore Valerie’s reputation. That time had come… so why did it feel so awful?

I crossed to the staircase and started to climb, but I didn’t even manage the first step. My and Valerie’s rooms were at the top, and I was so scared of what it would do to me to go in there and be hit by the full force of all the memories. A part of me wanted to be surrounded by my sister’s things, to feel her presence again—everything that had made her special, everything she’d been to me. But fear won out. I swerved the stairs and went into the living room instead.

Not much had changed since I’d been here last. There were the same antiques, the brocade wallpaper, the leather Chesterfields and heavy rugs—and, of course, fresh-cut flowers everywhere. The huge painting in the dining room was new, a gloomy battle scene by some old master. I hadn’t missed my parents’ preference for Baroque artwork. I had totally different taste—there was a reason a trip to MoMA was top of my list of things to do in the city. I’d written that list two years ago, when I realized I wouldn’t be coming back to the States as soon as I’d thought.

My parents hadn’t even let me come home for Christmas; instead the whole family had flown to England. They’d been so afraid I’d end up like Valerie, they’d done everything in their power to keep me away from New York City.

Whatever that even meant, end up like her. Happy? Fulfilled? In love? She’d been all of those things when she died, after all.

The lump in my throat was back, and I swallowed it down again. There was no one home anyway, so I decided to get out of there.

Home is where the heart is? It didn’t feel like that right now. Maybe my heart just needed a jump start and getting out of the house would help. After all, home wasn’t just in here—it was out there. More than anything, my home was New York City.

I steeled myself and went back into the hallway, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.

Time to get some fresh air.

2 Jessiah

Rockaway Beach was gray and empty that morning as I got out of the water and set down my board. I fell onto the hard sand, rolled onto my back, and tried to get my breath.

The waves had been perfect early this morning—fierce and unpredictable, just how I liked them—but challenging too. The ocean was ice-cold this time of year, and every wipeout was like being hit by a freezer box. Regardless, I came here as often as possible—surfing in forty-degree water might be shitty, but it was better than nothing. I needed exercise like I needed oxygen, and I’d rather saw off my own leg than hit the gym and run on a treadmill. And though my powers of imagination didn’t quite stretch to convincing me I was somewhere off the coast of Australia, at least my board gave me the illusion of freedom. It helped keep me sane.

I lay on the ground another couple of minutes, until the feeling started to come back into my body, and my lungs burned a little less. I got up, grabbed my board, and carried it over to the black pickup truck parked in the lot behind a patch of snow. My friend Balthazar’s words rang in my ear: Why do you need such an enormous car? This is New York, Jess, remember. Yeah—exactly, I thought. I owned a pickup because it at least gave me the feeling that I could get out of this damned city whenever I wanted. It was wishful thinking, but it got me through the day often enough.

Two other surfers had parked their camper nearby, and I greeted them briefly before securing my board safely in the back of the truck and reaching behind me to unzip my wetsuit. I peeled it hastily over my arms and down to my hips, gritting my teeth against the icy wind on my damp skin. God, I hated the cold. I always had, even though I’d been born in New York. There was something in my DNA that seemed to think I belonged in a warmer climate, and it wasn’t adapting well to my current surroundings.

I fished my zip-up hoodie from the passenger seat and put it on, pulling the hood up over my wet hair, before reaching for my sweatpants. A few fluid movements later and I was in dry clothes. Tossing the wetsuit into the back of the pickup next to the surfboard, I got in the truck and blasted the heat. If I was lucky, I’d be able to feel my whole body again before I was back in the city.

Traffic on Sundays wasn’t as hellish as usual, but it still took the best part of an hour to get back into Manhattan—and there was a construction holdup on the Williamsburg Bridge. Just as I was wondering whether to take the direct route or go via the FDR, my cell phone rang. I hesitated for a second when I saw the name on the display. Then I took the call.

“Hi, Trish,” I greeted my mother over the Bluetooth. We weren’t really on “good morning” terms, and anyway, it was after nine a.m. on a Sunday—the woman had probably done a five-mile run already, started plans for three new projects, and fired her assistant again.

“Jess? Where are you right now?” she asked. No hellos today, then, either. That meant she was in a crappy mood, and I probably had something to do with it. I’d learned to speak fluent Trish Coldwell over the years.

“On my way home from the beach.” There was yet another honk somewhere behind me, and I rolled my eyes. Making a racket and busting everyone’s balls isn’t going to make this go any faster. What was the problem with people in this city? “Why do you ask—is everything okay with Eli?”

“Yes, yes, your brother is fine,” she said impatiently. “But I sent Indigo to your apartment yesterday evening with a selection of outfits, and you weren’t there.” She sounded thoroughly put out, as though I’d missed an actual appointment with her assistant. Typical Trish. She wanted the entire world at her beck and call.

“Maybe you should give me a heads-up before you send someone over,” I replied, not bothering to hide my irritation. “And besides, I already have something to wear tonight.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t show up in a tux you’ve worn before—this is a very important event. Everyone will be there.”

Right—because the great and the good of high society were obviously able to tell one black tuxedo from the next. God knows how, maybe they took photos on the sly or wrote down the details in a little notebook, like secret agents on the hunt for poor people. The things people did when they had nothing better to do than worry about who was breaching etiquette that week. At that thought, strangely enough, a name popped into my head. Then again, no, it wasn’t really that strange.