Thirty-Seven
FINALLY, MY WONDERFUL DAUGHTER, WHO I WANT TO THANK FOR welcoming my new bride,” Dash declares. “What a beautiful family we have.”
I raise my champagne flute, my feigned smile matching the performed love in my dad’s words. I hate how easily he lies, the cheap fakeness in his invocation of me. Remembering how differently he spoke to me in his office, I set down my glass without sipping.
With the groom’s toast concluded, dinner commences. The lawn has been transformed for the post-ceremony festivities, Phase Two of Maureen’s own operation. In the center of the green, under the deepening light of dusk, dinner is held in a palatial white tent. Inside the structure’s white folds, lights strung from end to end dazzle overhead. There’s even a chandelier. It’s the fanciest tent I could ever imagine.
Dash and Maureen start making their rounds, greeting their guests. I know what my father’s really doing, of course. He regards every one of them for what they can give him, or why he needs to keep them close, and he charms them.
His performance, as on the lawn for our photos, is infuriatingly perfect. The winking charm, the fratty candor when he needs, the fawning. He’s a world-class schmooze. It’s his only genuine gift—and, I admit, the only moments in which I catch glimpses of the man my mother said she married. The Dash Owens who could make people feel like the diamonds amid displays of lesser jewels.
I’m seated at the large rectangular table reserved for the wedding party. The sweetheart table with the happy couple is behind me. And with the wedding dinner laid out for my watch, I do what my father inspired in me.
I examine the guests as if they exist only for my machinations. I pass evaluative eyes over them, looking for weaknesses to exploit or incentives I can offer. I view these people as opportunities, the way they do one another. Lifestyles of the rich and shameless.
I made sure I was the first one into the tent in order to rearrange the seating, placing myself across from Jerry Hausman and his wife, with my back to my father. Next to me is Allen Chang, another friend from college, a member of Dash’s old Princeton Eating Club.
I’m poised, prepared. With the neatness of the silverware in front of me, my next move is set. While Lexi might have interrupted me, I’ve recalibrated. Everything is in place.
Or nearly everything.
The only problem is, as ever, Jackson.
He watches me seemingly without even blinking. It’s the frustrating flip of happier moments when Jackson’s stare on me felt like devotion instead of inconvenience. Now I can’t have the conversations I need to without raising his rightful suspicions.
I keep waiting for the woman next to him to engage him in conversation. No such luck. Jackson has picked now to debut the first antisocial aura he’s ever given off in his life.
Servers deposit strawberry salads in front of us with elegant coordination. With Jackson’s eyes on me, I reach for my fork. I slant my head to him, smiling politely.
“Are you going to count how many times I chew before I swallow?” I ask.
He doesn’t look like his obvious scrutiny of me embarrasses him at all. “You’re the one who wanted to sit with me,” he replies levelly. His voice holds flat notes of your problem, not mine.
I stab a strawberry. I plop it into my mouth. I deliberately chew three times. When I swallow, I grin at Jackson like I just put on a show. If I were standing, I’d curtsy.
He looks as if he wants to laugh. Instead, he restrains himself.
“Riveting,” he remarks.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling a little, the hidden mirror of his own repressed expression.
It’s fun. Irritatingly fun. Fun, I remind myself, won’t get me what I need. I have to wrench matters into my own hands.
I peer past Jackson to the woman to his left. Trish Parris. Wife of Lamonte Parris, the CFO of the Galmont Group, Dash’s company’s largest newspaper portfolio. Founder of her own nonprofit dedicated to restoring and protecting centuries-old houses in East Coast cities.
Pursing my lips, I comb my recollection of the research I’ve done on her. I can’t make convincing conversation about Philadelphia mansions or whatever. Recreational golfer… Mother of twin ten-year-old boys.
Yes. Perfect. My angle.
Reaching behind Jackson, I tap Trish on the shoulder. When she looks over in polite incomprehension, I nonetheless notice her gratitude for how I’ve delivered her from sitting in silence while her husband discusses “the markets.”
“Trish, how are the boys?” I ask enthusiastically. “I haven’t seen them since the holiday party. Aren’t they into soccer?”
Trish brightens. “Both boys are playing club this year.”
However delighted Mrs. Parris is, she’s got nothing on me. I grin. Forget recalibrated, I’m feeling victorious now, and it’s a rush. While designing the perfect conversation isn’t much, momentum starts with small wins.
“Oh my god,” I gush. “You have to talk to Jackson. He goes to East Coventry High, and his coach says he’s, like, definitely getting a likely letter from UPenn for soccer.”
I predicted exactly the way the light in Trish’s eyes sharpens. The favorite subject of these parents isn’t their children—it’s how to get those children into Ivy League colleges. I should know. All of my dad’s colleagues have asked me what prestigious campus I’m planning on making mine next year. While my enthusiasm for the subject is fake, my lack of real answer is honest—I’m kind of preoccupied. With my mom, with my divided household. With my heist, which unfortunately I cannot put on my application.
Jackson darts me a glance, like, low blow. But it’s too late. Trish engages him instantly. “Likely letter?” she repeats. “What’s a likely letter?”
Smiling to myself, I put another strawberry into my mouth. I can let myself enjoy the flavor now. Its sweetness is exactly how I’m feeling. I face Jerry, my mark, who’s laughing at something Allen has said. I wait for a lull in the conversation.
“Jerry,” I interject. “Do you know if Abigail is here tonight?”
Execution of days like this, I’m learning, is ninety percent planning and ten percent instinct. Here, my instinct is to hit the question head-on.
Jerry startles, surprised Dash’s daughter is speaking to him. It almost looks like he needs a moment to remember who I am, even though I’m pretty sure he’s my godfather. “Abigail who?” he asks.
I plunge forward. “Pierce.”
Jerry furrows his brow. “Abigail Pierce…,” he repeats. “Who is she again?”
I dig my heel into the grass beneath me, hiding my nerves. “You don’t remember Abigail?” While I keep my voice friendly—the overenthusiastic questioning of Dash’s gossipy daughter—inside, I’m flailing. Jerry’s nonrecognition looks genuine. He doesn’t seem like the type who would cover for my dad, or who would do it well if he intended to. I look for winking references to shared confidences or glib flickers of glee. I find none.
“Can’t say I do,” he replies disinterestedly. His gaze returns to his friend. “Hey, Allen, remember that one ex of Dash’s? Alice something? I wonder if she’s here. I wouldn’t mind running into her again.”
I can’t help glancing at Jerry’s wife. In conversation with the woman next to her, she looks as if she didn’t hear her husband’s remark. Still, it’s pretty cavalier of Mr. Hausman.
Allen laughs. “She’s definitely not.”
I hear the hint of unsavory indication in Allen’s voice, as does Jerry, who straightens.
“Oh shit,” he starts. “She wasn’t the girl he—” He falters, his shrewd eyes flitting to me. Remembering present company, he has the unfortunate grace to look mortified. “Sorry, never mind,” he says.
“Please,” I reply, hoping he can’t hear my desperation. “Don’t get shy on my account, now.”
“It’s not appropriate,” Jerry insists decisively. “What’s going on with you, Olivia? How’s your mom?”
I don’t credit Jerry with concern. Instead, I’m forced to wonder whether the pivot to my mother is Jerry’s logical leap to one more hot ex of my dad’s he wishes he could reconnect with. In fact, I’m certain my mom could get it if she wanted to date. Jerry Hausman wouldn’t be the hundred-millionth runner-up, even if he weren’t married.
“You’d know if any of you guys checked in on her,” I reply, no longer caring that I come off withering.
Jerry’s eyes flash with retaliatory fury. Not surprising. Getting called out is what people like him hate most in the world. He takes a sip of his wine, passing a veil of discretion over his emotions quickly. “You’re very right,” he says, then turns to his wife—finally. He inserts himself into her conversation, unambiguously ending ours.
I chew the inside of my lip, frustrated. Nothing from Jerry. Nothing. With the first course winding down, I’m empty-handed.
“He deserved that,” Allen says next to me.
I look over, not expecting the resolute reprimand from the man who was just joking with Jerry. I shift tactics. If insulting Jerry Hausman wins me Allen Chang’s alliance, I won’t object. “I don’t know how you all are still friends,” I remark, hopefully just dismissive enough for Allen to want to justify himself.
He scoffs. “Friends is not really the word for it.”
While the server collects his salad plate, I consider my approach. Asking about Abigail outright didn’t yield anything, and I can’t press the subject again without raising suspicion. I decide to proceed more broadly, gather whatever information I can and piece it together later.
“Why are you here, then?” I ask.
Allen studies me. I meet his gaze, unwavering. When the corner of his mouth lifts, I can practically see the moment he realizes I’m smarter than his “friends” assumed. He leans back in his seat, delighted.
“Dash owes me money.” His voice is quieter now, but his words are enunciated so I don’t mishear. “I would very much like to be paid back one day.”
I don’t even consider my next question. It flies out of my mouth. “My dad needed money?” It feels ridiculous when I say it out loud, here in front of his multimillion-dollar mansion, during the most expensive wedding Rhode Island has hosted in years.
He tips his head ever so slightly toward me, conspiratorial. “It was a decade ago. I’d prefer not to go to court to collect, so”—he gestures to his engraved crystal nameplate next to his place setting—“I keep up appearances, hoping the next time I bring it up, Dash will write the check. So far, it hasn’t worked.” His eyes fix on me with renewed interest. “Maybe I’ll collect it from you one day, heiress.”
The words don’t feel friendly. A chill creeps down my neck despite the warm fall evening. Smiling stiffly, I’m relieved when Allen’s wife pulls him into her conversation.
Wanting to look unaffected, I return to my salad. The servers are gradually collecting them, preparing the tent for the next course. I can only handle four bites before I feel my stomach resisting. Is Dash’s debt connected to Mitchum’s insinuation? Or Abigail Pierce? Do any of these pieces have anything to do with the others? I’m starting to feel like I’m holding multiple threads in each hand and none of them tie together.
Did he not get a prenup because there isn’t money to protect? Maybe Maureen comes from money. She went to Berkshire, after all. I always assumed she was the gold digger—maybe it’s the other way around.
Worst of all, if Dash hasn’t paid Allen back, does he even have millions in his offshore accounts?
He must, I reassure myself. He has his inheritance from his father. His portfolios of companies. He’s probably just being a dick to Allen for the power trip.
We just have to stay focused. Stick to The Plan.
I glance around the tent, clocking my crew. McCoy is standing at Maureen’s family’s table, talking genially with the mother of the bride. Tom is next to Amanda, seat stealing at Kevin’s table, a hand clapped on his shoulder. Deonte is nowhere to be seen, but neither is Quinn.
Everyone is doing their jobs. I need to do my part.
I stand, determined to speak to the groomsmen at the other end of the table.
Jackson’s hand on my wrist stops me.