Chapter Six
Lila
The text message hit my phone two days later as I left the Colony Hotel.
I stepped out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk.
Once again, leaving the hotel felt like closing a door on the unsavory aspects of my life.
Besides, that was my only client of the day, anyway, so I didn’t have to think about my “job” for almost two whole days.
My phone buzzed a second time, and I dug it from the bottom of my quilted Chanel satchel, one of three designer handbags I had allowed myself to keep.
In a way, it was a visible reminder of the life I wanted to lead, the one I wanted to get back to as soon as I could.
I’d put the rest of my beautiful collection on sale through one of the apps on my iPhone.
The fifteen bags had brought in eight-grand, a fraction of what I originally paid, but it had helped.
So had the sale of ninety percent of my clothes, which gave me another twenty-five thousand.
The dresses and coats I now wore on client visits all came from a fashion rental service, which allowed me to look the part.
I’d done the math, and it had been a decent savings.
To get where I wanted to be—needed to be—I had to be budget-minded and more.
Sighing, I unlocked my phone. Julie had sent me two texts in the span of sixty seconds.
One chastised me for disappearing in the weeks since Christmas, and the other begged me to meet her and a few other people for drinks at seven thirty.
She wanted to go to Blue Ridge Taco, one of the restaurants in the Royal Poinciana Plaza with a signature speakeasy bar in the back.
Normally, I would have said no, but this kicked off a much-needed weekend of relaxation. I’d almost forgotten what that felt like. Besides, I could use something that would provide an escape from all the stress. I typed a few words telling Julie I’d join them at the bar.
Hours later, in the confines of my closet, I tried on and discarded several outfits, unsure of what to wear.
The rental service allowed five pieces at a time, and at that moment, four of those were dresses still fresh in their dry-cleaning bags.
All were sexier and racier than what I normally wore.
But they were also all designer, and in season, and around Palm Beach, that mattered.
I chose a sleeveless black knit sheath with a flutter hem paired with my black espadrille wedges.
I refreshed my makeup, smoothed my hair, and threw my iPhone, wallet, lipstick, charger, and powder compact in my last remaining Hermes clutch.
When I looked in my car’s driver-side mirror, I still somewhat resembled my former self. Good.
Julie and two women crowded around one of the tiny tables in the far corner of Blue Ridge Taco’s secret bar.
She raised her hand and gave me a big wave when I walked through swinging doors.
The grin that crossed her face resembled one I saw on kids’ faces when they got cotton candy or ice cream—triumphant and satisfied.
I gave her a smile back; it had been a good decision to come out among the living.
“I already got you a margarita,” she said after a quick embrace and a round of introductions. She handed over a glass with a spicy salted rim. “Bottoms up.”
I clicked my cocktail with hers and promptly sucked down half of it.
That wasn’t dainty or close to proper, but I had passed the point of caring about unspoken rules.
Already, I felt myself unwinding, just by being there with Julie and two of her friends from Pilates class.
I didn’t know Amberly or Kennedy well, but it didn’t matter.
I’d rather spend time out with them than another pathetic night at home, feeling sorry for myself and even sorrier for my oblivious mother.
They were the friends you hung at a bar with, gossiped with, but as far as sharing real issues, I knew not to go there.
Tonight, I could be carefree Lila. What a relief.
The bar filled up with people, and a band played from a distant corner, but after about an hour, Kennedy began scanning her phone. After a long sip of her second margarita, she leaned into all of us. “Hey, we should go to Ibis Isle.”
Amberly’s eyes widened. “Is he having another party?”
“Who? Who’s having another party?” I asked. Julie, Kennedy, and Amberly ignored me.
“He’s had like ten this season alone.”
“Come on, not that many. More like five,” Julie said. “Or six.”
“Well, who cares? He’s doing it again. At least, that’s what this text says.” Kennedy put the device back in her bamboo-encased clutch. “Started about a half hour ago.”
“Intriguing.” Amberly glanced at Julie and me. “We are totally going to it. Did you hear about last week? He had a chartered yacht in the dock and people were getting naked in the hot tub. And he hired Jimmy Krane to play for half the night.”
“Who hired Jimmy Krane?” I asked.
“The owner, silly,” Julie replied before turning back to Amberly. “Do you know if we can get in?”
“I hope so.” Amberly’s skinny shoulders slumped. “You should have been there the other day at barre class. The instructor said she got in, and she wouldn’t stop talking about it.”
“I’ve seen a bunch of photos of his parties on Instagram. Every week is a different theme.” Julie finished her drink and signaled for the check.
“We should try to go. See if they’ll let us in.”
“But what if there’s a guest list this time?”
“We can’t go anywhere we aren’t invited,” I said, tossing out one of my cardinal rules.
“I think we have a shot.” Amberly shook her head, finally acknowledging my questions and reservations. “The instructor said the parties are all open to whoever wants to come, as long as…well, as long as you’re a certain class.”
Julie shot Amberly a wry smile. “And I think we are.” The check arrived, and she didn’t bother glancing at it as she paid for all our drinks. When she finished with the bill, she stood up and motioned to all of us. “Well, shall we get going?”
“I don’t know about this,” I said as I got up from the table. I wasn’t a fan of showing up places unannounced, and besides, we had no idea about the attire or who would be there…
“I’m excited,” Amberly said. “Finally, something interesting is going to happen.”
Julie hooked her arm through mine. “You’re going, Lila. I’m not going to let you chicken out. You haven’t been out in weeks.”
She was right. I hadn’t been out for any social engagements lately. No one from our circles had seen me. No one saw me except the people who paid for my time. My clients—although they saw Rose, not Lila.
No, no, no. Don’t think about all that. Tonight is for you, not them.
“Okay. I’ll go.” I squashed the uneasy warning growing in my stomach. “Just for you, I’ll do it.”
Ibis Isle was about a ten-minute drive south from Blue Ridge Taco, and since we’d all had more than one drink, Amberly ordered us a car on her phone.
She gave a small squeal when she discovered we’d be riding in a Lincoln Navigator, and made a few comments about how we’d arrive to the party in style.
I had started to find her a little annoying, but I overlooked it in favor of being happy to do something millions of twenty-five-year-olds did on a Friday night—go out.
“So, tell me more about this guy,” I said as the car passed Worth Avenue and began driving along the ocean. “The one throwing these parties.”
“They happen every Friday or Saturday night,” Julie said. “Depends on what other events are going on that week. But they always happen.”
“He doesn’t spare any expense.” Amberly opened the camera app on her phone and gave her makeup a once-over. “Open bar, exotic food, all of it. It’s amazing.”
I frowned, skeptical. This was Palm Beach, after all, and parties were like a love language around town.
No one would think of having a cash bar or an entrance fee at any event on this eighteen-mile-long island.
And who cared what famous crooner or band entertained us? That wasn’t anything unique either.
“I heard he has a huge collection of Warhol on the walls,” Kennedy said. “The Met wanted him to donate some, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“And he has part of the King Tut archeological dig in the living room. One of the necklaces,” Amberly added. “My cousin said at the third party, Prince Phillip of Monaco showed up.”
“Half the models in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show were there on New Year’s Eve,” Kennedy claimed. “Even Kelsey Ross.”
“The fireworks show went off for like thirty minutes. Oh God, this is going to be so good. I wonder what the theme will be this week?”
“Who cares? Whatever it is, we aren’t paying for it.”
Julie and her friends were off and running, trading stories about the person who threw these parties, and each comment sounded more outlandish than the one before.
They were even more obnoxious as the car drew closer to the property.
I’d never heard people talk this way in Palm Beach, especially not around old money.
Propriety was expected and accepted in this town.
People had nice homes, great clothes, massive art collections, and exotic cars. No need to comment on it.
“I’m sorry. Who owns this place?” I asked, processing all the random comments they were making about this mysterious owner. “You still didn’t tell me.”
“Oh—” Amberly blinked at me. “Adam Greene owns it. He made a fortune in shipping or was it natural gas?”
“No, he did that app”—Julie snapped her fingers—“InstaPost. The news app.”
“That’s it. InstaPost. God, I use that thing all the time. He’s so smart.”
“Genius.”
“A-Adam Greene?” I managed, my voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. His business partner is Preston Samuel. Apple wanted to buy InstaPost from them, but they aren’t selling,” Amberly said.
“Is he still single? He’s not married, right?” Julie asked.
“He’s totally single. And have you seen Preston? He’s hot too.” Amberly replied.