The Heiresses by Sara Shepard
DEDICATION
To Michael
EPIGRAPH
Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust,
like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.
—JOHN WEBSTER
PROLOGUE
You know the Saybrooks. Everyone does. Perhaps you’ve read a profile of them in People or Vanity Fair, seen their pictures in the society pages of Vogue and the New York Times Sunday Styles. When walking along that choice block on Fifth Avenue, you’ve been tempted to enter the ornate limestone building with their family name etched into the pediment above the door. At the very least, you’ve paused at their ads, pictures of Aster Saybrook’s stunning face framed by a galaxy of baubles, the diamonds so flawless and clear that even their glossy images make you dizzy. They make you dizzy too, for the Saybrooks are a family of beauties, entrepreneurs, debutantes, mavens, and mavericks, the type of people for whom doors open and restaurant tables open up. If you live in New York City and happen to catch a glimpse of them doing something normal, like walking into the office in the morning or rounding the Reservoir on an evening jog, you feel like you’ve just been touched by a sunbeam, a magic wand, a stroke of luck. They’re sort of like me, you think.
Only they aren’t. And be careful what you wish for, because if you were a Saybrook, you’d be haunted by secrets as deep as a mine and plagued by a streak of luck just as dark. You’d have to go to a hell of a lot of funerals too. Larger-than-life though the family might be, they also have to contend with a lot of death.
TEN HIGHLY POLISHED town cars idled in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral on the clear early September morning of Steven Barnett’s funeral, and at least five more had parked around the corner on Fiftieth Street. The church steps had been swept clean, the railings gave off a high shine, and even the pigeons had found somewhere else to roost. The activity on the sidewalk across the street continued apace. There were so many people that they seemed to move in one long, silken scarf of color. But when the town car doors opened simultaneously in a perfectly choreographed ballet, all movement stopped and the gawking began.
Edith, the venerable matriarch of the Saybrook dynasty, was already inside the church along with her children. Now it was the younger generation’s turn to step out of the cool darkness of their cars into the flash of cameras and the screaming crowds. First to emerge was twenty-nine-year-old Poppy Saybrook, perfectly styled in a black Ralph Lauren sheath and showing off a large diamond engagement ring—a Saybrook’s, naturally. Her new fiancé, James Kenwood, trailed behind her casting unassuming smiles at everyone in the crowd—especially the women.
Next were Poppy’s cousins, sisters Corinne and Aster. Though Corinne looked impeccable in a black wrap dress and taupe heels, her skin was ashen, and her balance seemed slightly off. Rumor had it her boyfriend, Dixon Shackelford, had broken her heart at the beginning of the summer. Maybe that was why she’d taken a yearlong assignment in Hong Kong as a Saybrook’s business liaison. Word was she was leaving the next day.
Aster wore a dress that could have doubled for a negligee, her blond hair mussed. The eighteen-year-old, who had spent the summer modeling in Europe, didn’t lift the Dior frames from her eyes as she hugged Poppy. Maybe she’d been up all night crying. Or, more likely, partying.
A door slammed on the corner as twenty-seven-year-old Rowan, Saybrook’s newest in-house lawyer, stepped onto the curb. Her two brothers, Michael and Palmer, were not in attendance—they hadn’t joined the family business and didn’t know Steven. Rowan looked up at her cousins, only to flinch as she caught sight of Poppy and James. Her pale blue eyes were bloodshot, and her nose was red. No one had realized that Rowan and Steven Barnett were close . . . or was she upset about something else?
And finally eighteen-year-old Natasha Saybrook-Davis hurried over from the subway stop on Fifty-Third, her wild mess of dark curls pinned off her face, her lips twisted into a surly frown. The other cousins glanced at her cagily, no one knowing quite what to say. The fact that Natasha had recently disinherited herself was the subject of much speculation. Why would one of America’s heiresses give up her fortune?
Flashbulbs popped. Poppy shaded her fine-boned oval face with her quilted Chanel clutch. Aster squeezed her eyes shut, looking positively green. After a moment, Poppy, Aster, Corinne, and Rowan clutched hands. This was the first time they had been together since Steven was found on the shoals of their family’s summer property on Meriweather, a sunny island off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard, one week earlier, after their annual end-of-summer party. This year they’d celebrated Poppy’s promotion to president of the company.