A few days before Aster left to model in Europe, she’d come back to Meriweather to see Danielle. She couldn’t leave for the summer without saying good-bye to her best friend. Danielle didn’t know she was coming; it would be a surprise.
The car tires crunched over the gravel on the long drive and came to a stop between her family’s estate and the guesthouse. Aster closed the car door quietly behind her, clutching a Magnolia crumb cake—Danielle’s favorite—in one hand and a bottle of prosecco in the other. She crept up the path, past Danielle’s discarded bicycle and a bunch of empty terra-cotta planters, and was about to burst through the front door when two shapes shifted in front of the window. Aster had paused as she realized: Danielle had a guy over.
Aster had started to step forward and knock anyway—Danielle had interrupted her fair share of Aster’s hookups, after all—when she did a double take. Danielle was in there with Mason; Aster’s father’s arms were wrapped tight around the redhead.
Aster stood there, frozen, for a long beat. She thought of how her father had stared at Danielle only a couple of weeks ago. What a fool she’d been.
She ran blindly toward the house, loud sobs erupting from her chest. Her father and her best friend. It was like something off a trashy talk show. How could she ever face either of them again? The answer, Aster decided after drinking the bottle of prosecco by herself and staring blankly at the kitchen wall, was that she wouldn’t.
Aster lasted only a couple of months in Paris. All her pictures were outstanding, but most of the photographers had refused to ever work with her again. She couldn’t really blame them, considering that she’d drunkenly insulted all of them, showed up high to almost every shoot, and almost set fire to one of the studios. When she landed back in the States at the end of the summer, she hadn’t even wanted to attend the family’s annual Labor Day party. She told her parents that she would be going to the Hamptons instead. To her surprise, Edith was the one who called and insisted that she be there.
“Aster,” her grandmother had commanded, “I don’t care what your reasons are for not wanting to come—you will be at Meriweather for the end-of-summer party. No excuses. We’re celebrating Poppy this year. Come for her sake, if nothing else.”
“Okay,” Aster had said, cowed. No one could ever say no to Edith.
And so Aster had showed up at Meriweather, her stomach a nervous knot of dread.
What if she caught Mason and Danielle together again? Were they still seeing each other? Did anyone know?
Aster managed to avoid her parents for most of the party. But eventually Mason and Penelope had found their way to her. They were accompanied by Steven Barnett, the creative director of Saybrook’s and Papa Alfred’s long-standing right-hand man. Aster wondered if he was upset about Poppy’s promotion; before her grandfather’s death, a lot of people had thought he might be the next president. But he seemed happy enough, grinning widely and holding a glass full of bourbon.
“Well, well. Hello, Aster,” Penelope said coolly, her eyes taking in Aster’s very short white dress. She knew how badly Aster had screwed up in Europe. It was written all over her face.
Mason regarded Aster with a mix of confusion, hurt, and anger. “The bill at the George V was astronomical.”
“I had a few get-togethers,” Aster said stiffly, crossing her arms.
“Oh, you can afford it, Mason,” Steven Barnett said, smiling at Aster. His words were slurred; Aster wondered just how drunk he was. “And you’re only young once.”
Mason just stared at Aster. She stared back.
“I need another drink,” she announced, and turned to walk away from her parents without a second glance.
“Me too,” Steven said, and to her surprise, he walked with her toward the bar. “So,” he said in a low voice. “You can tell me the truth. Did you go wild in Paris because you were trying to get over a broken heart?”
Aster sniffed. “Sort of.” It was achingly close to the truth.
“Poor, poor Aster,” Steven murmured, his tone light and teasing. He stared at her for a long time. Aster knew that he was mentally undressing her—and to her surprise, she kind of liked it.
Wordlessly, they turned and started away from the rest of the party. “And what’s this I hear about you quitting modeling?” Steven asked.
Aster played with the long necklace that had been dangling in her cleavage. “I wouldn’t call it quitting,” she said. “I would call it being asked never to model again.”
“Tsk.” Steven’s breath was hot on her cheeks, and smelled of whiskey and Spearmint gum. “We didn’t even get to work together.”
The bass notes from the stage thumped loudly in her ears. Aster gave him a playful swat, but he caught her hand and held it hard. Her stomach swooped. When he reached out and touched the back of Aster’s neck, she shuddered.