“Was Margaret here this morning?” Their cleaning lady was meticulous about putting everything where it belonged.
Dixon shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
How strange—she never misplaced things. But perhaps she’d just left it at work.
“I must be losing my mind,” she mumbled.
Dixon shrugged. “I mean . . . ,” he said, with a playful smile.
She gave Dixon a weary wave. “I’ll see you in a little while,” she said, and then scuttled into the hallway.
LATER THAT EVENING, as the unusual-for-May humidity began to break, Corinne rushed past the shops in Rockefeller Center toward the St. Regis hotel. The sidewalk was full of tourists, an outdoor concert was taking place a few streets over, and the air smelled of fresh seafood from the restaurant in the Rockefeller skating rink. She glanced at her reflection in the windows of 30 Rock and frowned. Maybe she shouldn’t have worn such a short skirt. At least she’d thrown on a sweater. Then she wondered if she was thinking too much about all of this. She shouldn’t have changed at all. She was tasting wine for her wedding, not going on a date.
“Corinne!”
Natasha stood on the other side of J.Crew. She was dressed in yoga pants, a canvas tiger-printed bag slung over her shoulder. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her pointed, pretty face was free of makeup.
Corinne blinked, looking for an escape, but Natasha had made it over too quickly for that. “How are you?” she asked, kissing the air beside Natasha’s cheek insincerely.
“Oh, just fantastic. You?” Natasha asked, though she didn’t wait for the answer. “You’re going to a wine tasting, right?”
“Excuse me?” Corinne said. All sound fell away, even the loud, buzzing bass from the concert. “How did you know that?” Corinne asked shakily.
The smile was still on Natasha’s face as she pulled out her phone and called up the Blessed and the Cursed. “How an Heiress Plans a Wedding,” read the title. The first picture was of the cover of a leather-bound journal.
Corinne scrolled down, her eyes growing wider and wider. Every image was a page from her planner. There were lists of meetings with the florist and baker; deal points for a new office in Bangkok; her facialist’s cell number. There were personal things too. Like the word Lexapro with a question mark next to it—her therapist had suggested she try it for anxiety. There were even lists of what she ate in a given day, and a message that said “Pilates Trainer Three Times This Week!” in commanding red pen. And on the last day, today, were blue-inked words: “Wine Tasting, 8:00.”
Corinne nearly dropped the phone. It was in her handwriting, but she hadn’t written the words yet. How had they so perfectly mimicked her handwriting? Or was Dixon right: Was she really losing her mind?
“Is everything okay?” Natasha watched her carefully. Realization settled over her features. “Oh my God. Deanna didn’t arrange for those pages to be on the site, did she?”
Corinne shut her eyes, hating that Natasha, of all people, was witnessing her reaction. “No,” she admitted. “But it’s fine.”
“Those animals. Aren’t they sick of us by now?” But there was a strange lilt in Natasha’s voice, almost as if this amused her. “Anyway, I should jet. Have fun at the tasting! And I’ll see you next weekend for the bachelorette,” she called out, getting swept up in the crowd.
Corinne blinked. Go home, said a voice in her mind. This felt like an ominous harbinger of what was to come. She should just get in bed, pull the covers over her head, and wait to wake up married. But she turned east, walking past Fifth Avenue to the St. Regis. She took a deep breath as she pressed through the gilded double doors into the glittering lobby. When she spied Will waiting for her by the concierge, she lowered her eyes and counted the checkerboard squares on the floor as she crossed the room. Her heart pounded hard.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to Will as she approached, trying not to look directly at him. He looked as handsome as ever. Too handsome.
Will glanced behind her. “Where’s your fiancé?” He said “fiancé” the way someone might say “child molester.”
Corinne swallowed hard. “Something came up.” Unfortunately, she wanted to add.
“No problem,” he told her smoothly—and somewhat impersonally. They started down a set of carpeted stairs, past the King Cole Bar, where Corinne had spent countless hours with Dixon and his buddies, and then down another flight of stairs, where they entered a small, grottolike private room lit by hundreds of flickering candles. Oak wine racks lined the walls around them, and the place smelled of grapes and oil and a tinge of cigar smoke. There was a bar set up at the end of the room; two stools beckoned.