“Yes?” Claude asked. She didn’t want to be rude, but her break was almost over.
“I hope this doesn’t sound horribly crude,” she said, and Claude knew it would. “I purchased a rug from the Sotheby’s auction.”
The auction in which the contents of the Marchand house had been sold. She paused nervously, as if expecting Claude to explode.
“It’s a seventeenth-century Aubusson. My understanding is you’re the one who originally purchased it?”
“That is correct.”
“Would you be interested in helping me locate a few more in the same style?”
“I’m not an interior decorator,” Claude said.
“No, no, of course not!” the woman rushed to say. “But your consulting skills could do me a world of good.”
Claude said nothing. She was pondering the possibility.
“The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing,” the woman confessed, her voice cracking. “I grew up in a split-level ranch in Cleveland. My favorite food is tuna casserole. I don’t know an Aubusson from a West Elm. I desperately need guidance. These people are so awful to me. I just don’t know how to be rich.”
“I’ll help you.” If her time in Philadelphia had taught Claude anything, it was that being rich was the one thing at which she excelled.
“Really?” the woman squealed. “Fantastic! Name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”
“We can discuss compensation later,” Claude said. “I have a condition you must agree to first. You and your husband must never allow anyone with the last name Van Bergen into your home.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” the woman said. “I have no idea who the Van Bergens are.”
“You will,” Claude told her. “I was engaged to Owen Van Bergen. I can confirm that everything they say about his father is true.”
“Oh my God. What do they say?” Jennifer took the bait.
“I can’t bear to repeat it. Just ask around.”
“I certainly will!” the woman replied, as though Claude had just done her a favor.
It was a conversation she’d have with all her clients from that moment on. For a few years, her efforts appeared to have little effect. Then a cocky finance guy from Brooklyn hired her for a charity event.
“Owen fucked you over, did he?” the client asked bluntly. Fifteen years her senior, he reminded Claude a great deal of her father. He was an outsider, too.
“He did,” she admitted. She felt safe with him.
“In that case, I’ll enjoy making him suffer,” Leonard told her.
She thought he was showing off. But that day marked the end of the Van Bergen family’s three centuries of excellent luck. Much to Claude’s glee, the elder Van Bergen soon found himself juggling multiple scandals—financial mismanagement, tax evasion, and the sexual assault of his former receptionist. The younger Van Bergen, unwelcome in all his former Manhattan haunts, was rumored to be living in Nova Scotia. Claude, meanwhile, flourished. With Leonard as her partner, she wielded real power. But she swore she’d never again take her position for granted. A woman had to be ready to look out for herself.
The Spark
Back at Harriett’s house, Nessa had spent the entire day on the sofa. As soon as Harriett and Jo drove off toward the Pointe, the voices had begun growing louder. They’d reached a crescendo around two and remained almost deafening for most of the afternoon. When her headache became bearable once more, Nessa knew her friends were on their way back. Soon the dead were just a dull din in the background.
The front door swung open and Harriett appeared. “Honey, I’m home!” she called. “Oh, there you are, darling. Tell me you didn’t spend the whole day on your back.”
“Where’s Jo?” Nessa asked.
“Chase drove her home so she could see Lucy before bedtime. She’ll come by in the morning.” Harriett’s eyes landed on something in the room and her lip curled with disgust. “What are those?”
Nessa followed Harriett’s gaze to a glass vase overflowing with perfect white lilies.
“Oh, those came about thirty minutes ago. From one of your admirers?” Nessa had been dying to peek at the card, but good manners had prevailed.
“No one who admires me sends me dead things.” Harriett approached the bouquet as though she were sidling up to a corpse and plucked a card out from between the stems. Her eyes remained on the card much longer than necessary.
“Well?” Nessa asked.
The card skimmed through the air and landed faceup in Nessa’s lap. So lovely to meet you, it read in tight, slanted script.
“The flowers are from Spencer Harding,” Harriett said.
“The art dealer? The jerk who’s married to Jo’s client?” Nessa didn’t get it. “Why would he send you flowers?”
“We met him at the party.”
“You must have made a real impression,” Nessa teased.
“Indeed.” Harriett smiled at a thought she didn’t choose to share. “The flowers are Mr. Harding’s clever way of telling me he knows where I live. I hope he pays me a visit soon. I’d love to give him a tour of my garden.” Harriett pinned the card to the wall behind her workbench and grabbed the vase. “Be right back. These need to go to the compost heap.” A few minutes later, she returned in a cloud of pot smoke, a blunt wedged between two fingers. Her left hand clutched a bottle of champagne.
“Are we celebrating?” Nessa asked.
“Every day is a celebration,” Harriett responded. “Grab a glass and get comfortable. I’ve got a story to tell you.”
Harriett kicked off her sandals and spread herself out on the couch with a forearm tucked under her head. She left enough room for Nessa at the far end, where the cloud of pot smoke was thinner. Nessa never partook, but she’d come to appreciate the pleasant buzz of a light contact high. By the time Harriett had finished the story of the day’s events, Nessa had set down her champagne and moved out of the smoke to a nearby chair. She needed a clear mind to process the tale.
“You said our whale watcher’s name is Leonard Shaw?” Nessa typed his name into Google and scrolled through the results. “Well, how about that? He’s all over the internet.” Nessa held her phone up for Harriett to see.
Harriett took a long drag on her blunt while she squinted at the screen. “Yep. That’s Lenny. Who’s the funny-looking guy he’s with?”
“The president of MIT.” Nessa scrolled down. “And here’s a picture of Leonard with the president of Harvard.”
Harriett exhaled smoke in Nessa’s direction. “Lenny sure has a lot of smart friends.”