Chapter 1 – Amber
I check my teeth for rogue lipstick and smooth down a maverick hair. Heaven forbid I should have even one out of place—what would people say? I’d be the talk of Manhattan. I can imagine the headline: Shock in the City: Scandal as Amber James Looks Less than Perfect.
I allow myself a small smile at the idea. Maybe I should turn up in jeans and Birkenstocks just for fun. Maybe even Elijah’s old Ramones T-shirt. No, that won’t work. Can’t risk him thinking I’ve cherished it all these years. Wouldn’t want him to know that I sleep in it every night when he’s away. He might start thinking I have fond feelings about our early days together, and that would never do. I’ve worked too hard to convince him and the rest of the world that I have no feelings at all to blow it with a twenty-year-old scrap of cotton.
I scoop the T-shirt up from my bed, where I left it this morning, and hold it under my nose. Obviously it’s been washed in the last two decades, but some trick of the brain allows it to retain a lingering scent of that time in my life: hint of Love Spell, a trace of Elijah’s shower gel, and base notes of pancakes, coffee, cheap beer, and the occasional cigarette. Carefree times when the world looked like a very different place. I allow myself one last inhale before I stash the shirt in its rightful place at the bottom of my underwear drawer. That’s where I keep all evidence of my one guilty secret—that I am actually human.
That taken care of, I pose in front of the full-length mirror and carefully examine myself from all possible angles. Dressing for a wedding is always a challenge, at least partly because I hate weddings. They’re too full of hope and promise. Still, I can’t get out of this one, so I need to tough it out. It could be worse—at least my in-laws won’t be there.
My dress falls to right below the knee and is fitted but not full-on bodycon. It’s a deep shade of red that communicates restrained class. I add some earrings, tastefully small diamonds, and a spritz of my favorite perfume. I’ve moved on from Love Spell to something French and unfathomably expensive, as is befitting a woman of my station. I slip on my heels and do a final inspection. Yes, that’ll do nicely.
Thanks to years of practice, I know how to find the proper balance for a wide variety of social occasions. For a wedding, one mustn’t try too hard and risk accusations of attempting to upstage the mother of the bride. However, one must always look perfectly put together or risk whispers and titters behind her back about how she’s letting herself go.
In the mirror, I practice my repertoire of wedding smiles—a wide-eyed, excited to see you; a soft, doesn’t-the-bride-look-gorgeous bit; and my personal favorite, the simpering oh-my-goodness-how-long-has-it-been routine. As I check the time, I’m unable to help a small laugh at my cynicism. I remember when this life seemed so glamorous. How long has it been since I felt that way?
Is it too early for a glass of wine? Maybe a quick glass of pinot would help me through the day. Tempting, but no. It’s not quite noon, and although I’ve never known what a yardarm is, I’m pretty sure the sun isn’t past it yet. Vivid memories of my own mother still haunt me—raising her glass at breakfast, laughing as she said, “It’s definitely gin o’clock somewhere in the world, darling.” I have no desire to stagger in her footsteps and continue that family tradition, even if I can now understand its appeal.
Of course, I could get away with it if I wanted to most days. I could drink a whole bottle and nobody would notice. I am alone in this vast, beautiful townhouse of ours. A Beaux-Arts building constructed in 1908, it comes complete with four stories, six en suite bedrooms, and a roof garden that offers stunning views of the city. How many women have lived here over the decades, and have any of them ever felt as lonely as I do right now?
Despite the size of the place, we don’t have any live-in staff because that’s how Elijah and his brothers grew up. His mom liked it that way, but there was always noise and energy in their home. This place feels more like a mausoleum. A memorial to all our broken dreams. When Elijah isn’t here, I rattle around it alone. Actually, I pretty much rattle around it alone even when he is. It’s so big we can both easily live here without ever seeing each other. Perhaps that’s half the problem. Perhaps we should sell it and buy a trailer instead. That would force us to confront the reality that is the state of our marriage. And what then? Would we choose to fix it or to walk away? Hold ’em or fold ’em? I have no idea.
We have people who clean and fix and drive and keep everything running perfectly so we can get on with our Very Important Business. In Elijah’s case, that would be making more money. In my case, it would be giving it away. I’m under no illusions—I live a blessed life, at least financially. The only work I do is for charity, and in all fairness, I’m good at it. It’s another role I play well, like Loving Wife and Delighted Wedding Guest. I plan an epic party, I’ve raised funds for at least a hundred different causes, and I’m an asset to Elijah and the company he runs. On the surface, I have everything a woman could want.
Beneath the surface is a completely different story, of course. Beneath the surface, it’s a total shitshow.
Damn. That glass of pinot is really starting to call my name.
* * *
Elijah’s text comes through, telling me he’ll pick me up in “ten minutes sharp.” Obviously, I’m ready, but I’ll make a point of keeping him waiting anyway. He’ll be expecting it, I suppose. I don’t think I’ve left the house on time in years. Something always stops me from walking out the door when he arrives. Even now, knowing he’s on his way, I feel nerves begin to flutter in the pit of my stomach. I check my appearance once more in the full-length mirror. Everything looks perfect.
Perfect.
Before long, I hear the sound of the Bentley’s horn tooting outside. But I stay where I am, as though my feet have taken root to the floor. The thought of a whole day of pretending, of being the perfect wife… My blood runs cold. I perch on the edge of the bed and take a series of deep breaths. A few hours and it will all be over. I just need to get through today in one piece, and then I have no social events to attend for another three nights. Three whole nights when I can watch TV alone or plan my next triumphant gala. Three whole nights when I don’t have to see Elijah and be reminded of how much of a failure I am.
Another beep of the horn, and I glance at my phone. How have fifteen minutes already passed with me sitting here, trying to find enough oxygen to fill my lungs? He will only become more irate when he sees that I’ve read the increasingly irritated messages he’s sent. I really must go down there. I sneak a quick glance through the window, hidden by the drapes. There he is, my husband, leaning against the car and looking mad. Mad and far too sexy for my own good.
When I do emerge from the house, Elijah’s nostrils are flaring, his gray eyes flashing. Both signs of extreme annoyance, which I very much deserve. I see him take in my outfit, his gaze lingering on my legs, and can practically feel him making the effort to calm down. There remains a physical attraction between us that neither of us can ignore, no matter how hard we try. And I do try, but my husband is effortlessly sexy and impossible to ignore. He feels that pull too, I see it in his eyes, but he fights it as much as I do—which is no doubt why he left our marital bed.
“You look beautiful,” he says quietly, catching me unaware. It’s a simple statement, the words sincere, and my breath catches in my throat. After all these years, all the coldness between us, this man can still unravel me so easily. I was expecting him to snap, and instead, he chose to soothe. It’s much more difficult to handle. My sudden vulnerability has my legs shaking and my heart pounding. I’m emotional, and emotions are the enemy.
I simply nod in thanks, and he opens the car door for me. It’s such a small gesture of chivalry, but he’s never once failed to do it. Even in the midst of a fight that will leave us not speaking for days, Elijah always opens the car door for me. Sometimes I think it’s sweet, and often I want to tell him I’m a grown woman who can open her own damn doors. Today? Today, I simply accept it and gratefully climb into the darkened interior of the Bentley. Once inside, I feel far less exposed than I did standing in the unforgiving autumn sunlight.
“Hi, Gretchen,” I say to our driver. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”
She meets my gaze in the mirror, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. Gretchen insists on wearing a driver’s cap even though we don’t ask her to, and her curls spill out from underneath it in a black tumble. “Are you really, Mrs. J?” she replies. “Are you really?”
I wink at her but don’t answer. Elijah settles himself next to me, and Gretchen activates the privacy screen.
“How was your night?” he asks, smoothing down his pant legs and removing a piece of invisible lint. He smells divine—almost as good as that Ramones top, but a lot more sophisticated.
“Oh, the usual high-octane thrill of event-planning drama. As you know, I’m joint hosting at the Met next month, and I had a few fires to put out.”
“Yeah? Were you kicking down doors and taking names?”
“Absolutely. I mean, who on earth seats Rowena Fitzpatrick next to Olivia Samson at a charity function?”
He squints his eyes for a moment before responding. “I can’t quite remember what their beef was. Did Rowena steal Olivia’s husband?”
“It was much worse than that. She stole her housekeeper.”
One half of his mouth quirks up in amusement. I love Elijah’s lopsided grin. It’s one of the few things about him that hasn’t changed over the years, and it reminds me of earlier incarnations of our relationship. Maybe that’s why I soften a little and make a mistake. “And how was your night with your family? Is everyone well?”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Elijah and I are not what you would call happily married, but we have, in our own way, made this work. Admittedly, it’s more like a business arrangement than a love match these days, but we function as a couple. One of the ways we achieve that harmony is our unspoken agreement to avoid difficult subjects. The biggest and baddest of those taboos is his family. We both pretend they don’t exist for the purpose of our marriage, because talking about them never ends well. For some unknown reason, I opened that particular can of worms, and now they’re crawling all over me. I mentally slap myself and issue a silent Homer Simpson–style “Doh!”
His eyebrow arches as he looks at me, and I get my compact out of my purse and apply fresh lipstick, not because I need to, but because it provides some cover.
“Ah, they were great, thanks for asking,” he says, his tone neutral. “Melanie was there with baby Luke and her little sister, Ashley, who’s working on her MBA at Harvard. She’s a lot like Mel, only bubblier. And Amelia joined us later.”
I snap my compact shut and nod. Drake’s girlfriend is safer ground. I’ve spent quite a bit of time with Amelia, and she really is quite a marvelous human. He was lucky to find the love of his life in his secretary. He is truly happier than I’ve ever seen him. Nathan’s wife, Melanie, I’ve only met once, and our interaction was brief and tense. At least it was tense from my end, as I assumed my darling brother-in-law had told her what a poisonous bitch I am. I didn’t pick up any hostility from her, but I know better than anyone how well women can hide what they really feel.
I’m doing it right now, nodding and smiling in all the right places as he speaks. He tells me about Dalton’s health and Mason’s love life and rambles on about how much Luke resembles Nathan while I give the impression that none of it upsets me at all. I hide the fact that I actually spent last night alone and sad with only my laptop and a bottle of red for company. I pretend it doesn’t bother me that he spends so much time with people who can’t stand me—that he chooses them over me, every time.
It wasn’t always like this, of course.
“That sounds nice,” I reply curtly, hoping he senses how hard this is for me. Praying that we can possibly move on to something less controversial, like politics or religion or whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie.
He absentmindedly tugs at his tie the way he does when he’s feeling nervous. I reach out and straighten it for him. My fingers brush the skin of his neck, and we both look shocked at the unexpected contact. “There,” I say. “You’re all good. Wouldn’t want you showing me up in public.”
“Heaven forbid,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, I was wondering…”
Oh god. Here it comes. I don’t know what exactly, but it will be something unwelcome, I can feel it.
“I was wondering if you’d like to see a picture of Luke?”
Jesus. Is that all? Why did he make it sound like he was going to tell me something terrible? I may not be involved with his family, but I’m not a complete monster.
I nod cautiously, and he pulls out his phone and flicks through the pictures, and I soon realize that it’s not only Luke on there. It’s all of them. The James family en masse, all together in a house I haven’t set foot in for years. It’s strange, seeing the small changes—different color paint on the walls, a new couch, a whole corner full of toys and kid things. Elijah reaches a series of shots of Luke, who’s approaching ten months old. He’s sitting on Nathan’s lap wearing a jack-o-lantern outfit, looking cute as a button. Even the presence of Nathan in the background can’t stop my smile. Elijah scrolls through three or four, each one featuring the baby with a family member. I concentrate on Luke—he can’t help who he’s related to. Eventually, he reaches a picture of him in the arms of a pretty young woman I don’t recognize.
“This is Mel’s sister, Ashley,” he explains. “She’s the one at Harvard. Bright girl.”
Hmmm. Bright and bubbly. And young and gorgeous and more at home with the James family after knowing them for five minutes than I am after two decades.
Good old Ashley. And good old Melanie and good old Dalton and good old Nathan. How lovely for them all.
I know I’m overreacting. That I’m being petty and stupidly jealous. I can’t object to being left out of something I’ve made clear I want no part of. This is what I hate about emotions—they make no sense and they’re impossible to control. I feel sad and angry and also resentful that Elijah hasn’t noticed any of that.
I’m aware that I’m being irrational—I’ve shown zero sign of what I’m feeling on the outside. I’m way too good at hiding what’s going on inside me. It’s like my superpower.
Still, it’s getting more and more difficult to keep calm with every passing moment. With every sweet photo and each adoring comment that comes out of my husband’s mouth. It’s hard for Elijah, managing the two halves of his world, but it’s also hard for me. I wanted so much to be a part of that world too—until I couldn’t any longer. Listening to him now, sounding so happy as he talks about them, only emphasizes how far apart we are. He might be stuck in the middle, but I’m stranded all by myself on the other side, and it’s lonely over here. I want to scream and yell and cry. I want to shout at him: If they’re all so fucking perfect, why don’t you go and live with them instead? Why don’t you find someone new? Why don’t you do what your brothers think you should do and leave? Why not put us both out of our misery and accept that you’d be happier without me?
It’s not like he’s short of offers. He is, after all, disgustingly handsome. Not to mention rich, charming, kind, and in his own way, hilarious. I don’t see that side of him much anymore, but another woman probably would. Amelia and Melanie and Melanie’s precious little sister undoubtedly see more of that side of him than I do. Hell, I’m guessing even the woman who runs the bagel shop on the corner gets to see more of that side of him.
“Look at this one,” he says. “It’s Luke actually walking.” He’s oblivious to the conflict going on inside me even though I’m literally inches away from him. Yes, I am that good. I stare at the phone, falling to pieces even as I make all the right noises. Luke is adorable, and I’m sure he will have a little brother or sister on the way before long. And Drake and Amelia are so in love that I wouldn’t be shocked if they join the parent club before long. Everyone is playing happy families, it seems.
The way Elijah talks about Luke, the way he talks about them all… that’s what he wants too. What he expected to have when we first got together. An affectionate wife, beautiful babies, a home life filled with love and laughter.
Unfortunately for Elijah, he married me. And I haven’t given him any of those things.
“Maybe we could, I don’t know, get together for a drink sometime?” he asks, finally putting the damn phone away. “Me and you, Drake and Amelia. Maybe Maddox. You haven’t seen him since he moved back to the States. Possibly even Mel and Nathan?”
Fuck. Is he for real? Can he hear himself? Does he really think that showing me a few snapshots of a cute baby is going to change anything? How the hell does he think Nathan would react to the idea of a fun night out with me? I suspect he’d rather have his balls tasered.
It’s my own fault. I was weak. I showed an ounce of interest and opened the door to this. Now I need to slam it firmly shut again.
He wants us all to be friends. He sees their happiness and thinks it might still be possible for us. Hell, he wants us all to hold hands and put the past behind us and be besties forever. Deep down, Elijah is a good man who simply wants the important people in his life to get along. Unfortunately, he has no clue how impossible that is for the rest of us. He’s stuck in that no man’s land between the trenches, calling for a ceasefire that will never happen.
“I’m busy that night,” I say immediately. “Charity dinner. Sorry.”
“Really?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “What charity?”
“Save the Red-Footed Corn Warbler,” I answer quickly. “It’s an endangered species. Very rare.” Even more than rare, actually—it’s a creature that only exists in my mind.
Nodding, he appears to accept my excuse as he looks out at the streets of Manhattan passing us by. When he looks back at me, he speaks ever so casually. “Funny how you already knew you were busy without me suggesting a specific date. Remind me to make a donation to the poor corn warbler, won’t you?”
“Of course, darling,” I assure him, maintaining the lie. “You can count on me.” Deliberately, I avert my eyes, making it clear that our brief détente is over. I can’t wait to get out of this car and away from him, at least for a few minutes so I can compose myself. So I can remember that I am Amber James, and while no man is an island, this woman is pretty damn close to it.
I don’t need the James brothers. I don’t need them to like me or approve of me or to know how much I miss the days when I would have been at those family gatherings too.
I don’t need any of them—including Elijah.