2. Tamsyn
2
Tamsyn
“There you are, Mary Poppins,” Mrs. Hooper says in her booming Texas twang the second I leave my bedroom in her Upper East Side townhouse and join her in the marble extravaganza of the airy kitchen, where she’s got a spread of bagels, cream cheeses and enough toppings to fuel every local brunch for the next week or so. She uses her remote to mute the TV on her morning news show and hits me with all her good morning, Sunshine energy. “Did you sleep well? I was about to come upstairs and give you the mirror test to make sure you were still alive.”
I discreetly check the clock on the range. It’s seven thirty-two. Exactly two minutes later than I normally appear in the mornings. I exchange a weary it’s too early for this glance with her cute but satanic Yorkie, Juniper, in her little four poster dog bed on the floor under the table. Juniper pauses gnawing her latest stuffed animal into extinction long enough to bare her teeth and growl at me.
“I slept great,” I tell Mrs. Hooper, my bright smile firmly in place once I shoot a veiled glare at Juniper. It’s a total lie. I didn’t sleep. At all. But since I’m firmly in my fake it till I make it phase, I’m determined to lie my ass off. Whatever it takes to power through this heartbroken season of my life. And it is just a season. I have complete confidence that if I repeat this mantra, it will become true.
Besides, Mrs. Hooper is nosy enough already. I don’t plan to add more leafy branches to her ladies who lunch grapevine by admitting that I had another bad night and that it took me longer than usual to hoist my I’m okay, nothing to see here facade into place this morning. If nothing else, my pride won’t allow it.
“I see.” She’s cheery as usual today, her pink and green Lilly Pulitzer summer florals firmly in place and her short silver fox hair coiffed to perfection. But she eyes me with dubious concern, her expression sharper than usual. Difficult to believe she took a hard fall several short days ago and had me and her niece Penny concerned about possible dementia. She’s good as new now, thank God. Following a thorough workup and a simple tweak of her medications, she’s now got the brain of young Nancy Drew and is determined to ferret out every personal detail she can about my failed relationship with Lucien Winter.
I’m just as determined to keep the details to myself.
“If you say so,” she adds, absently tearing off a piece of smoked salmon and slipping it under the counter to Juniper, who snaps it up with gusto. “Those bags under your eyes aren’t getting any lighter though, honey. Let me know if you want me to put you in touch with my plastic surgeon.”
Right. Because I, as a newly graduated RN in her early twenties and whose full-time job as an oncology nurse at one of the local cancer centers doesn’t start until the fall, have an unlimited budget for cosmetic procedures.
“Will do,” I say, my pleasant smile already feeling signs of strain. I grab a plate and load it up with breakfast as though I plan to eat it. Everything tastes like moldy sawdust to me, these days, but I’ve discovered that it’s easier to pretend to eat rather than give her something else to comment on. “Where’s Penny?”
“Oh, she’s already off to Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. One of the fancy markets. She said something about having a taste for pomegranates.”
“Pomegranates are important,” I murmur, keeping a close eye on Juniper as he comes over to give me an experimental sniff. As a long-time enemy of mine from when I was Mrs. Hooper’s personal nurse, I never know when he might decide to nip one of my unsuspecting ankles for kicks.
“Going for another jog in the park, are you?” She says, her swift gaze encompassing my baseball cap, ponytail, tank top and runner’s shorts. “You’ll be ready for the Olympics with all this training. You won’t catch me running in this heat.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say, sliding onto one of the stools and helping myself to some coffee. “It’s good for me.”
This is another lie. I hate jogging with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns. But you know what I hate worse than jogging? Being so hyped up on adrenaline that all I see is the cruel set of Lucien’s mouth when he ripped out my foolish little heart by telling me — what was it? — that he’s already bored with me and doesn’t love me despite previously claiming that he did . So if enduring forty-five minutes or so of burning thighs and blinding sweat dripping in my eyes gives me a little bit of a respite from hearing the harshness of his voice the last time we were together, I’ll take it.
“Oh, and Cynthia Johnson called a little while ago.” Mrs. Johnson is one of Mrs. Hooper’s friends who joined us on the cruise. “She asked about you, of course.”
“Did she?” I say, now slathering cream cheese on my unwanted bagel with relentless focus. I know it’s coming. This is one of Mrs. Hooper’s periodic attempts to gather information from me. You really gotta hand it to her. She’s like one of the velociraptors systematically testing the electronic fence for weakness in Jurassic Park. She’s got endless focus and endless angles for trying to break through my resistance. My only job is to see the attempts coming and continue deflecting. “And how is she doing? Is she still talking about you ladies going to Atlantic City for a girl’s night out soon?”
“We’re just all so worried about you,” she says as though I haven’t spoken. “All this business about Lucien’s wife coming back from the dead. I mean, the timing couldn’t be worse, could it? Just as you went off to Ackerley to spend the rest of the summer with him. And now it’s all ended in tears.” A delicate pause. “As I thought it would with a young girl like you and an older and much more sophisticated man like that.”
I continue slathering, deciding not to mention that I’ve never cried in front of her. It would be a waste of time and breath. There’s no stopping her when she gets like this.
“Far be it for me to ever tell anyone I told you so . That’s not me, honey. You know it’s not.”
I repress a snort with difficulty.
“But I did do my best to warn you that a man like Lucien Winter is not for you, Tam. Resurrected wife or not. As painful as this all seems right now, it’s for the best that he’s out of your life now. And I’m here. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need —”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper,” I say, grateful for her generosity. Even if it does seem to entitle her to a bird’s eye view of my dumpster fire of a personal life.
“— As long as it isn’t more than another week or so. You know the folks are coming to put some of my things in storage and stage the house so I can get it on the market. And we’ll need to fumigate just to make sure we don’t have any critter issues. That would be a nightmare.”
My heart sinks at this reminder. “Of course. I understand. My plan is to be gone before then,” I say, leaving off the part about not having any idea of where I plan to go or how I plan to pay for it. I just spent a large chunk of my savings on securing a new apartment for when I start working in the fall. But it’s not available for weeks yet. Plus, I don’t exactly have the funds for a nice temporary rental or hotel room in the meantime. But I’m smart. I’ll figure it out. That’s an issue for another day.
“Meanwhile, if you ever want to talk about, you know, what happened with Lucien at Ackerley, I’m here for you. It’s none of my business, of course, but I assume that he and Ravenna reconciled…?”
She waits and watches hopefully, but there’s no way I can respond to her, much less disabuse her of the notion that they reconciled. I just don’t have the energy for it. Plus, she’s right. It’s absolutely none of her business. Meanwhile, a new batch of roiling emotions crowds into my throat and smolders there at the mention of Lucien’s name.
Talk about it? And what would I say, exactly? That he swooped into my world like the most beautiful summer dream imaginable, then left just as quickly with the force and brutality of an F5 tornado? Should I tell her that he took my sun with him and I now have no sun at all now—just this cratering black anger and bitterness?
And the funny thing is, I’m not angry at him . I’m angry at myself . Because I didn’t listen to my gut when it came to him. I belong somewhere between Taylor Swift and Carrie Bradshaw as she beat Mr. Big about the head and shoulders with her wedding bouquet. Why? Because I knew both that Lucien Winter was trouble when he walked in and I knew he would do this to me before it was all over.
Oh, I enjoyed the adventure, sure. God knows I enjoyed the sex. I couldn’t hand him my V-card fast enough, could I? My cheeks heat and my pussy throbs as I remember some of the things we did together and to each other. Delicious, illicit things. I let myself be swept away with the passion and the romance of it all. The laughter and the whispers and the tenderness. I allowed myself to pretend that an inexperienced twenty-something Brooklynite like me could catch the eye of a sophisticated, adventure-loving and easily bored billionaire like him. But it was all a girlish fantasy and part of me always knew it. A man like him isn’t for me. He’s got knowledge I’ll never possess. He’s full of secrets and lies. He’s got an appetite for playing games with people’s lives and the fortune to fund the games.
And I was the foolish and lovestruck idiot who allowed myself to think that I was getting to know him. That he was letting me in. Opening up and showing me his vulnerable side. My heart squeezes again, solidifying into a rock deep inside my chest. Like he said when he dumped me, I never knew him at all. I never had any idea what he was capable of. The manipulations.
Like what?
He followed me to Europe. I never suspected a thing, as he well knew, and he couldn’t wait to throw my naiveté in my face once he decided he’d had enough of me. And suddenly the whole improbable chain of events leading to our summer romance became painfully clear.
It went something like this:
He saw me at the airport. He wanted me. So he followed me to Europe. Stalked me, as a matter of fact. Because it was all a game for him. Instead of doing the normal, non-shady thing like asking me for a drink when we both got back to the city after our separate trips.
I was never a person with her own life and feelings as far as he was concerned. I was only a trinket he wanted to collect, the same as a blue Fabergé egg he might have bought at an auction and then sold at the next auction when he got tired of looking at it and decided he wanted a gold one instead.
Maybe I’m selling myself short. I was pretty enough to catch his attention, I suppose, and lucky enough to catch him on a day when he was bored enough to follow me. I guess he wanted to see how quickly he could seduce me. How tightly he could wrap me around his little finger. How deeply he could pull me into his twisted world. The thing that really sickens me is that I made it all so easy for him. I couldn’t have made it easier. He twinkled his eyes at me and I was a goner. Now here I am, damaged. Hell, most days I feel ruined. But I still have my pride.
And Mrs. Hooper is still watching me.
“I’m fine. Really.” I hoist a smile back onto my lips. It takes a great deal of exhaustive effort. Then I catch myself reaching for the little necklace with the car pendant he gave me to remind me of my father, a car mechanic, remember I took it off and swore to myself I’d never wear it again, and drop my hand. “I know you’re right. I had a summer adventure, but it’s over now. And I’m getting ready for a new job, new apartment and making new friends. I’m excited about all that.”
“And dating new men, honey. Don’t forget about that.”
A new man. Right. I fight back a grimace. I want to jump back into the dating world the way a double amputee wants to take another stab at climbing that ladder with his running chainsaw. Still, I play along.
“Yep. You and your friends don’t have to worry about me,” I say. “I mean it. Lucien is out of my life. I’ll never see him again.”
She looks dubious. “You sure, honey?”
“I’m positive.”
This part is true. It came to me at zero dark thirty last night, after I’d run out of another batch of tears just before I fell asleep. The best thing I can do for myself is to keep busy. To focus on putting him out of my head. To pretend he’s dead to me. I’m tough. I can do it. I will not ask anyone about him or cyber-stalk him. I will stay in my own lane and focus on my own life. I will?—
My gaze suddenly and unwillingly snags on the TV over Mrs. Hooper’s shoulder. They’re showing an aerial view of an estate that looks — oh, my God — that looks like Ackerley.
Lucien’s estate.
“Hang on,” I say, getting up and lunging for the remote at the other end of the counter. And that’s when I see it: the breaking news banner crawling across the bottom of the screen.
Mystery deepens as Ravenna Winter found dead. Investigation ongoing.
Wait, what? Ravenna is dead?
“Oh, my God.” The information hits me hard, knocking out my breath and making my knees weak enough that I need to plant my palms on the counter for support to keep myself from dropping to the floor. “Oh, my God.”
“What’s this?” Mrs. Hooper cries, pressing her hand to her heart. “Oh, my God. That poor woman. She just came back from the dead, and now this? And poor Lucien, losing her again so soon after she came back to him. Life is so cruel, isn’t it, honey?”
I don’t bother trying to answer. My spinning thoughts refuse to settle on anything, much less a succinct explanation for everything that’s happened in the last few days. I didn’t tell Mrs. Hooper about Ravenna trying to kill me. Nor did the news ever hit the papers, other than a small online piece about how there’d been a fire at the guest cottage at Ackerley. I suppose that’s how rich people like Lucien do it. They hire PR teams and people to, I don’t know, bribe the cops and the press to keep nasty little things like their arsonist wives out of the news.
Even so, now is not the moment for me to tell Mrs. Hooper how ambivalent I feel about Ravenna’s death. Why? For one thing, part of me refuses to believe that Ravenna could ever really die. What’s that saying about Satan protecting his own? Surely all that spite and malice provides some sort of force field through which death can’t quite reach Ravenna. I can’t imagine her beauty and vitality being gone from this earth. It’s inconceivable. And now, for the first time, I truly understand how Lucien spent years refusing to believe that she was dead following her boating accident. There’s just no way an energy forcefield like that could ever be snuffed out.
On the other hand…the bitch is dead, they say?
Good.
That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while. Not that I’m proud of myself for thinking it.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Hooper says. “This is unbelievable. What is happening? How can this be? It just doesn’t make any sense, does it?”
Her running commentary continues all through the field reporter’s story, but I catch a few key phrases. Police statement… Continuing investigation… Cause of death undetermined thus far… Lucien Winter requests privacy at this difficult time.
“You know what this means, Tam,” Mrs. Hooper says when the report ends, the familiar, scandalized glow of fresh gossip lighting up her face and energizing her voice. “This must’ve been a murder or suicide. We’ve both watched enough Law & Order to know that. And if it’s not suicide, then —”
“Lucien’s the main suspect,” I supply dully, the room swooping in and out of focus.
That’s when the dueling voices start up in my head.
Voice One: He didn’t do it, Tamsyn. You know he didn’t do it. He’s not a murderer. No matter how much he hated her and wanted to be rid of her.
Voice Two: Do I? I’ve seen him angry enough to kill her himself. Plus, he’s got the resources to hire someone to do it for him if he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.
I don’t know which voice is the angel and which voice is the devil on my shoulder. I just know that both voices are equally loud. And that I cannot process this information under Mrs. Hooper’s watchful gaze.
“I’m gonna go,” I say, backing away from her and grabbing my keys from the basket on the counter as I go.
She looks startled. “Go ? You haven’t even eaten your breakfast, Tam.”
“It’s fine. I want to get out there before it gets too hot. I’ll be right back.”
“But —”
Too late. I make my escape by darting out the back door and down the steps before she can get anything else out. The air is dense and humid already, with no sign of a breeze, but it’s fresh and desperately needed. So I greedily suck it in and try to get my spiraling thoughts under control.
Ravenna is dead. And Lucien —
I don’t know what’s at the end of that thought other than a brick wall. And it doesn’t matter anyway. None of the twisted drama coming from Ackerley has anything to do with me. I need to remember that.
Feeling better and more clearheaded, I head around the corner to the front of the brownstone?—
“There she is!” someone shouts, startling me.
I whip my head around looking for both the shouter and the she in question. Every now and then, I see a horde of paparazzi following some beleaguered celebrity. That’s not unusual here in Manhattan. The last time it happened, I caught a glimpse of Lady Gaga as she strode down the street.
But this time, the swarm of all male photographers congregating on the other side of the street with their long lenses swoop in and surround…me.
Wait, me ?
“Tamsyn Scott? You’re Tamsyn Scott, aren’t you?” one of them calls.
“That’s her,” another one says. “I recognize her from her graduation photo online.”
“Oh, my God,” I say with rising panic, shrinking in on myself as they press closer and click away, right in my face. There’s nowhere to hide. Every time I try to turn away, another one jostles into position on the other side of me. They bump me. I stumble. They don’t seem to notice or care. The only thing keeping me from hitting the pavement is that I don’t have enough available space to face plant. There’s like five of them and one of me and I don’t know what the fuck is happening. I just know that I’m in trouble and the brownstone’s safety suddenly seems very far away. “What’s happening? What do you want ?”
All their voices rise at the same time, a chorus of shouts.
“Any comment on Ravenna Winter’s sudden death?”
“How is your boyfriend Lucien handling this tragedy?”
“Any comment on the rumors of foul play? Is your boyfriend capable of something like that? Any theories?”
By now, I’m starting to get my wits about me. I’m also starting to get annoyed. How the hell do they even know I exist? “No comment,” I say, ducking my head and trying to shoulder my way through so I can continue toward Central Park. But there’s no opening and we’re all moving down the sidewalk together, one giant mass of arms, legs and cameras. I may need to sharpen my elbows and throw a few jabs and put a little more bass in my tone. “No comment, I said. Let me through .”
“All right, that’s enough,” comes a loud new voice rising above the fray. The next thing I know, a strong hand is clamped firmly around my upper arm and steering me toward the street. “She said no comment.”
Hang on. I know that voice. I know that tall frame and that uniform of white polo shirt and khaki pants. It’s one of Lucien’s security guys from Ackerley. Hank, isn’t it?
“Oh, thank God. Get me out of here, Hank,” I say, sagging against him with relief.
“You got it, Ms. Scott.”
Using his own body as a shield, he marches me over to a gleaming black Range Rover idling at the curb. The driver hops out — it’s another one of Lucien’s security guys, but I don’t know this one’s name — and opens the door for me. The next thing I know, I’m safely ensconced in the backseat of this little cocoon of safety, zooming away from the paparazzi still shouting after us.