“When I asked if she was all right, she turned and fixed me with those moonstone eyes. ‘You’re so lucky to be a writer, Colleen,’ she said. ‘You get to decide where your stories will go.’
“I told her that wasn’t entirely true. Sure, I got to imagine and test possibilities. But stories have to make sense. There has to be consistency, believability, and internal logic. A writer can’t simply wander as she pleases, not if she wants to produce something publishable that readers will accept. And sometimes, I get stumped. I have no idea what comes next, can’t even envision how to tie things up. Until I do.”
Jeffers chuckled. “Nothing like a fat check at the end of the rainbow to get those juices flowing, right, Colleen?”
L. C. silenced him with a poison eye dart.
“Soon after that, we were invited in for dinner. Bitsy hugged me, which had never been her way. And she whispered in my ear. ‘Bless you, my friend. Bless you and your darling little Sam.’ Then she went off to find Harold. James and I made our way inside together.
“As we took our seats, we had a frantic call from Rachel, Sam’s babysitter. She’d turned her back for an instant, and the baby had taken a spill. I could hear his pained screams in the background. James and I raced home and rushed him to the ER at Lenox Hill. They checked him thoroughly, closed the cut on his forehead with Krazy Glue, and sent us home. Everything was fine. Or so we thought.
“Late the next day, Harold called, frantic. Had I heard from Bitsy? Did I have any idea where she might be? He hadn’t seen her since the party. After dinner, the men had gone to the library for cognac and cigars. After a while, Bitsy had poked her head in to say goodbye. She was tired. She was going to bed.
“When Harold got home about an hour later, their bedroom door was closed. He didn’t want to disturb Bitsy, so he slept in the guest room. By the time he awoke the next morning she was gone. Their room looked exactly as they’d left it after dressing for the party. Wrappings and tags from her red chiffon Halston gown lay crumpled on the velvet settee. Pots of makeup, brushes, and crystal perfume atomizers with tasseled caps were strewn on the vanity. No one had slept in the bed.
“I tried to reassure him. Maybe she’d gone for a walk and lost track of the time. Bitsy loved to wander. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
“Three days later, the story broke in front page headlines: “Millionaire’s Bride Missing.” The picture plastered underneath was from their wedding: Bitsy’s radiant face, moonstone eyes fixed on the boundless future. A massive investigation followed. Flyers were posted everywhere: Have You Seen This Woman? Harold offered a $100,000 reward for information leading to her safe return.
“Her disappearance sparked endless speculation. Maybe she’d been murdered, her body tossed in the East River and dragged by the vicious currents out to sea.
“Maybe she’d been diagnosed with a lethal illness and gone off to die alone. Maybe she’d run off with another man, or gotten embroiled in a criminal enterprise. Some embraced the theory that an obsessed admirer had kidnapped her. Why wouldn’t her looks, talent, and fortuitous marriage be punishable by violent demise? Tongues wagged about a secret addiction, mental breakdown, or suicide. But weeks turned to years, and still no ransom demand, no body, no suicide note, not a single credible lead.
“As time passed, the case was shunted to the back pages and, eventually, ceased to be news. A few years later, a book, Little Girl Lost, came out about the disappearance. The author claimed that Bitsy had taken up with a charismatic cult leader and was living off the grid in the Adirondacks. Investigators found no evidence that such a cult existed and nothing to bolster the convoluted theory. Obviously, the writer had hoped to capitalize on a lurid story. Nevertheless, press around the publication stirred everything up again. For a while, Sutton Place was unwilling host to yet another media circus. But thankfully, after the book was discredited, the furor died a natural death.
“I understood Harold’s decision to stay away. For a long time, I avoided the neighborhood, too. Then one morning, while Sam was at nursery school, I forced myself to walk to Sutton Place and take a look at their townhouse.
“Someone was keeping up the place. Salvia and snapdragons bloomed in the window boxes. The lawn had been mowed; the bushes trimmed. The leaded glass windows sparkled. When I peered inside, I was shocked to find everything unchanged. Through the archway that led to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of Bitsy’s precious coffeemaker. A china cup perched beneath the spout, as if she were about to brew a cup of her beloved cappuccino. Still, the emptiness was palpable. No one lived there. Not anymore.