She’d gone out with Poppy in town one evening, drinking too much rosé at a bar overlooking the water. When they finished a bottle, another appeared, then another, all gratis; Poppy had that effect on people. The hours went on in a blur of silly conversations with guys who stopped by to meet her cousin, a blend of laughter and inside jokes that would never be as funny again. But whenever she looked up, there was someone watching her. Will Coolidge, he finally introduced himself. But it wasn’t until he was leading her under the dock, the Atlantic lapping at the sand, that she realized he had been waiting for her the whole night.
She kicked off her loafers; the sand was cool and grainy under her feet. Dizzy with wine, they leaned toward each other and kissed. It felt strange for Corinne to kiss someone new after only being with Dixon for so long. And the kiss was so different from Dixon’s. She wanted more, but she restrained herself, breathing hard and staring at him. “I don’t do things like this,” she’d announced.
“Neither do I,” Will said.
Corinne laughed. “You seem like exactly the type who does.”
Will shook his head. “You don’t know who I am.”
“You don’t know who I am,” she challenged.
Will had stared at her. “Yes, I do. Everyone does.” And then he’d kissed her again.
“Hello, Miss Saybrook.”
Corinne blinked, suddenly back in the dim light of the restaurant. She unthinkingly spun her wedding ring around so that the yellow diamond faced the inside of her hand. “H-hi.”
After so many years together, Corinne sometimes thought Dixon could read her mind. But when she looked across the table, he was only smiling bemusedly, oblivious to her discomfort. “You know each other?”
Will glanced at Corinne, then looked away sharply, angling his body more toward Dixon. “Yes. We do.”
“Well, that’s even better.” Dixon extended his hand to Will. “Thanks so much for helping us out, man. You’re all for this, right, Corinne?”
Corinne swallowed. The scar on her torso started to itch. But she couldn’t just sit there, saying nothing, so finally she looked at Dixon and smiled. “I can’t believe you kept this a secret.”
Will gazed steadily at Corinne. “It’s amazing what secrets people can keep if they want to,” he said.
And then he nodded and returned to the kitchen.
6
Later that evening, Rowan fumbled with the lock to the penthouse apartment on Horatio and Greenwich Avenue she’d owned since graduating from law school. She collapsed on the cognac-colored leather couch in the living room, her head buzzing from the two Maker’s on the rocks she’d had with a guy from her running team. Greg was in great shape and could run a sub-3:30 marathon, but his conversational speed was slower than her grandmother’s. She’d ordered the second drink just to get through it, James’s words looping through her mind all the while: You have to give people a chance. But she simply couldn’t help comparing Greg with James and coming up short. Poppy always said that more dates increased the odds of finding someone great, but Rowan feared that more failed dates just proved that she would never find someone who measured up.
A large shape darted into the living room, claws clacking against the wood floor. “Jacks,” Rowan groaned as her one-hundred-pound Bernese mountain dog, Jackson, jumped into her lap. Bert, the Chihuahua, appeared next and yapped at her feet. Rowan gently kneed Jackson back down and patted Bert’s head. Both animals took off down the hall and started barking in the bedroom.
Rowan shut her eyes, knowing they were dying for a walk. She could have paid someone to do it in the evenings, but she liked going herself. Hudson River Park was so peaceful at night, and she could let them off leash. But it was almost ten, and she was too tired.
A light shone from Rowan’s office, which was off the living room. The computer monitor was still on, probably from her housekeeper Bea’s dusting earlier in the day. Even from her couch, Rowan could tell that the Blessed and the Cursed was on the screen. Bea swore she didn’t read it, but Rowan knew better. The lure of the site was like passing a traffic accident—you couldn’t not pause and look.
Rowan rose, walked to her office, and peered at the screen. Pictures and gossip items about her family members took up the entire page. “Aster Saybrook Is Out of Control,” read the bold-print headline at the top. “This girl’s life is most definitely cursed,” a comment said beneath the article. “I’d bang her,” stated another; two hundred and six comments followed. Below that, there was an article about Corinne’s upcoming wedding: “Sink or Swim: New Coxswain Chef to Navigate Waters of Meriweather Wedding.” After that was a photo of Rowan’s twin brother, Michael, on his way to his dermatological practice in Seattle, and a shot of her other brother, Palmer, with his family at their estate in Italy, where Palmer headed up marketing for the Ferrari Formula 1 team. The website speculated that Rowan’s brothers didn’t work for Saybrook’s because Papa Alfred didn’t think they were smart enough, but that wasn’t true—they just weren’t interested in jewelry.