Look on the Bright Side

Chapter Eight

Joy Deveaux was getting a housemate. Well, a guest. She did not have the words to say how happy that made her.

For nearly a year, she had lived in this vast, beautiful house on the water—a stranger’s house that technically, she owned—and for a year, she’d been so, so lonely. She had Lark out in the little guesthouse, and her tenant was amazing and beautiful and magical, like a unicorn that had wandered into the yard. But even Joy knew that, like a unicorn, Lark was a little unreachable, like if you looked directly at her, she’d disappear. What was that word, that fancy word that was so pretty but sort of magical? Something you couldn’t pin down? Ephemeral? Yes. That was it. Lark was ephemeral.

But her mother was quite real. Joy hadn’t really bonded with Ellie, though Lark had made sure Joy was invited to various holidays since they’d met. Ellie was so accomplished. Pretty and confident and fit, filled with busyness and security as a wife, mother, grandmother.

The idea that she needed Joy was bananas.

“You want to move in here?” Joy had asked when Ellie called just a little while ago, half a Hostess cupcake in one hand, the phone in the other.

“Yes. I know it’s unexpected, but—”

“Yes! Of course! I would love that, Elsbeth! You can come right now! Which bedroom do you want? You can have your pick!”

“Oh, gosh, Joy, thank you. Thank you. I’ll explain later.” There was a pause. “Actually, if you’re free tonight, I could come over around seven.”

“Yes! Sure! Whatever works for you. See you tonight! I’ll have wine.” She hung up, stuffed the rest of the cupcake in her mouth and practically ran to the kitchen. She had plenty of wine, of course she did, she had a wine fridge, after all. Ellie Smith, coming here to stay! It was so exciting. There was some cheese, too. Ice cream. Pasta. Eggs. Aging lettuce for a salad Joy hadn’t yet made. That was about it. Maybe she should order some food to be delivered. Did she have time to run down to Wellfleet Marketplace? She did. She’d go.

The Smiths were all so normal and healthy and fond of each other. The sweet old grandfather, the happily married parents, the healthy and employed children, the attractive, spoiled little girls. It was like watching zoo animals or something. Joy knew the invitations to Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinner were pity invitations, but she didn’t care. It beat spending those wrenching firsts all by her lonesome.

And now Ellie wanted to stay with her. Gosh! It was like having Joanna Gaines ask if she could hang out for a while. Ellie was Wellfleet famous…she was an artist, of course, and a good one (well, Joy liked her stuff because you could tell what the picture was, not like those smear-and-splatter or white-on-white types of things her brother, Paulie, had loved). She was naturally attractive like…like…like, well, Michelle Pfeiffer, maybe. Then there was her husband. Those two had the kind of love that was in the movies. The kind that didn’t look like Joy’s three and a half marriages one single bit. (The half marriage was to Carl, who’d proposed, set her up in an apartment, supported and slept with her, but had a wife and family the whole time. Live and learn.)

Joy didn’t even care why Ellie was coming. Maybe their house needed work and she was allergic to the smell of paint. Or no, that wouldn’t be right, because she was a painter. Maybe dust? At any rate, Joy had four hours to get ready. Her housekeeper had just been in, so there were clean sheets and towels.

This was just so exciting.

She’d never had a true girlfriend. Only her brother, Paulie, and his gang. In a lot of ways, Joy had always been Paulie’s costar, and that had been fine with her. Since he died, though, she wasn’t sure who she was supposed to be.

As she reapplied blush and bronzer, adjusted her left eyelash and grabbed her giant Chanel sunglasses, Joy’s heart was soaring. Someone needed her. Well, her house, to be specific, but still.

Joy had always been expected to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Marry an overbearing, abusive little man; give up all your rights and freedom; have a few babies; steep in bitterness and fear but never call a divorce attorney because Jesus would hate that; and take all that misery out on your own kids. You’d think Mama would’ve wanted better for her own daughter. Not the case.

Joy—and Paulie—had wanted a better life even so. Not that Joy had ever been able to picture it. Her only plan was to be someone other than Gianna-Marie Moretti, the name she’d been born with. The truth was, she still wasn’t sure what her life was supposed to be about.

She’d moved to Cape Cod on impulse, six weeks after she lost her brother so suddenly, unable to bear the familiarity of life without him. He had been her best friend, her only sibling, the other survivor from their awful childhood. When she did have a job, it had been in his salon. When she was with friends, they were his friends. She’d married his lover, for heaven’s sake. Sweet Abdul, or Abe, as he asked to be called. Her favorite ex-husband.

Joy had bought this house on impulse without even seeing it first. Misery-scrolling through Zillow one night, she’d typed in Cape Cod. Seen this house, called the listing agent, offered a couple hundred grand over asking price. She had plenty of money. The house had come furnished and decorated. The only other things that were new were the bed linens and towels. One day, she was in their brownstone in New York; the next day, she was here, like Dorothy dropped into Oz.

It was awful. In her grief and befuddlement, she couldn’t remember how to talk to people. She was fifty-eight, and without the most important person in her life. The first week had been murder, Joy crying almost nonstop, drinking wine at ten in the morning, ordering crap online for no reason. The second week, she went to the local pet shelter, adopted a puppy—a Cairn terrier mutt already named Connery—and then almost immediately regretted it. What did she know about dogs? Nothing. He ran around the house, barking, then peed on the kitchen floor, ate with such gusto that kibble flew, and wrestled with the curtains in the living room, tearing the bottoms to shreds. But that night, he slept in her bed, curled against her chin, his fur soaking up her tears of loneliness.

On Monday of Labor Day weekend, as the summer people left to return to their regular lives, Joy sat on the deck and looked out over the beach, so empty inside her heart felt like it was made of the thinnest, sharpest glass. Just two months ago, she’d had her brother. And not that long ago, she’d had Paulie and Abe and their beautiful life to share, their friends, their stories, their gossip and lives to enjoy, a delicious buffet that filled her up. Now there was nothing.

She was on her third martini (Smirnoff vodka poured into a glass, if that counted as a martini) when she heard yapping coming from the beach. Oh, goddamn it, the dog! She’d forgotten about him! What if he ran into the ocean and drowned or was eaten by a shark? Or a coyote? Or a bear? Were there bears on Cape Cod? She wasn’t sure. You know what? If she got him back, she’d return him. All she did was clutch him and cry, anyway. The shelter had suggested puppy training, but Joy could barely make it to the little market in town, let alone focus on teaching a puppy anything.

She ran crookedly down the long wooden boardwalk that connected her property to the beach, twisted her ankle, kept going. “Connery! Connery, honey! Come to Mommy! Oh, damn it all to hell, Connery, please!”

There he was, racing into the surf, then yapping at the waves. “Honey! You’ll get sucked out! Come back here!” Was there a ripped tide? Why did they call it that, anyway? Because it ripped you in half? Joy didn’t swim. She didn’t know these things. “Connery!”

Then she saw someone, a young woman with long blond hair, throwing a stick, which Connery chased and pounced on. “Hi,” the young woman called. “Is this your dog?” She bent over and scooped Connery into her arms.

“Yes! Oh, God, thank you!” Joy said, teetering on her kitten heels in the sand. “Connery, I was so worried!”

“What a sweetheart he is,” the woman said. She looked about twenty. “And he’s so good at fetch. You love this stick, don’t you, honey? Connery, you said his name was? That’s so cute. You’re a smart boy, Connery.”

“He is?”

“Oh, definitely. I’ve been playing with him for about half an hour. I was going to start knocking on doors to see whose he was, but we were having a lot of fun.” She smiled and handed the dog to Joy. “I’m Lark Smith,” she said. “One of the Smith kids? My mom owns Long Pond Arts, and my sister owns Open Book.” At Joy’s blank stare, she added, “The bookstore?”

“Oh. Right.” She was the prettiest person Joy had seen in real life.

Connery whined and leaned back toward the woman. Lark. Even her name was beautiful.

“I’m Joy Deveaux,” Joy blurted. “My brother died two months ago, and I just moved here and I don’t know anyone. I just bought this dog for company, but…” Tears rushed to her eyes, and she was horrified. “I’m still adjusting. My brother was my best friend.” Mama would be disgusted at her, spilling her guts to a stranger.

“Oh no!” said Lark. “I’m so sorry.”

“Would you come up to the house with me? I’m a little”—drunk—“unsteady. The fear, right? Are there sharks out here? I was so afraid Connery would run in the water and get eaten. Like in Jaws? The movie?”

The rest, as they said, was history. Lark came back to the house, accepted a glass of wine and sat in the living room with Joy, as Connery, now exhausted, curled on her lap. She was an intern, in her thirties (what skin-care line did she use?), still living with her parents. “Kind of hard to find a place on my own, and I don’t have a lot of time to look.”

“I have a guesthouse,” Joy said immediately. It had come with the property, though the main house had five bedrooms. Joy had only looked into the tiny cottage once. “You could have it. For free.”

“Oh, no, that’s crazy. You could get a bundle, renting that.” Lark smiled and petted the sleeping dog.

“But would they be nice? Would they like dogs? You could pay me something if you wanted.” Please say yes. “Connery already loves you, and you could help me train him. I don’t know anything about dogs.”

“We had a dog growing up,” Lark said. “I did love teaching him tricks. Mostly dumb stuff, like balancing a cookie on his nose and then flipping it into the air and catching it.”

“We can share Connery, then,” Joy said. “Joint custody. Please?” She looked at Lark, her pretty eyes and smooth hair. “Please say yes. I’ll give you a break on rent if you can give me some Botox once in a while. And some filler, since you’re a doctor and all that.”

“That’s way too generous of you,” Lark said.

“You’d be doing me a favor. I’m…” I’m not sure I can go on living this way. “My brother was all I had. We were so close, and I’m…I’m lost without him. I’ll leave you alone, I promise, but I’d be right here if you wanted company. Or food. Or to use the house or anything.”

Lark looked at her then, and Joy saw something she recognized. Sadness. For all her smiles and prettiness, Joy had the sudden feeling that Lark was, possibly, a little lost herself.

She moved in the next weekend. Some nights, Lark would come in after a hospital shift and tell Joy about her patients, why she wanted to become an oncologist. She told Joy about Justin, and tears had streamed down both women’s cheeks. “I’m okay,” Lark said. “I mean…I’m not, but I am.”

“I get it,” Joy said. “I totally do. Come on, let’s go get something to eat. My treat.”

Besides her sweetness (and excellence at dog training), Lark was…how to think this without sounding creepy?…Lark was like a Pinterest board come to life. The smooth waterfall of naturally blond hair. Green eyes with a golden starburst around the irises. (Joy’s eyes were brown, and there wasn’t a lot you could do to romanticize brown eyes.) Lark was tall and slim and had a hearty appetite, and when she and Joy ate together, Joy watched, fascinated, as Lark scarfed down a cheeseburger without bemoaning the fat or calories.

But there was also a sense of fragility about Lark. Joy recognized that glued-back-together look. But on Lark, even grief looked beautiful. She was everything Joy had once wanted to be. Had been obsessed with being.

Joy had fought her physical self since the age of eight onward, both self-obsessed and horribly insecure. Joy didn’t go to the mailbox or the operating room without a full face of makeup. She got her hair colored every four weeks, a manicure every ten days, a pedicure once a month, a spray tan every six weeks. She wore a peignoir around the house and didn’t own a pair of yoga pants or sweats, thanks to her brother being the kind of gay man who thought women were gorgeous, glam and mysterious and should dress the part at all times. She had spent a fortune on plastic surgery and upkeep over the years, from her first nose job at age seventeen, forging her mother’s signature on the consent form, Paulie driving her to the hospital and letting her spend the weekend at his apartment. Since then, Joy had lost count of the number of times she’d been under the knife. Boob jobs, lipo, butt lift, chin implants, eyelids, lip fillers, more lipo. The unfortunate result was that she now looked neither younger nor well rested…just like a woman who’d had a shit-ton of plastic surgery.

She bet Ellie Smith had never had a single procedure done in her life. As Joy hustled to and from Wellfleet Marketplace and flew through the house, trying to see it through Ellie’s eyes, she couldn’t help comparing herself with Ellie. They were about the same age, but Ellie…she knew who she was. Joy never had.

Joy remembered with great clarity the day her quest to change herself had started. It had been the summer before fourth grade. Her parents were in the bedroom, Mama crying, Daddy yelling. There were some thuds, which caused a sick, weak feeling in Joy’s knees. She knew what caused those sounds, and no matter how often she heard them, it wasn’t something a person could get used to.

She’d been on her way to sneak down to the cellar but stopped to grab some Oreos, since Mama hadn’t made lunch. Unfortunately, she’d underestimated the length of her parents’ fight, and her hand was in the package when her father was suddenly storming through the kitchen. She froze.

If only Paulie had been there that day to scoop her into his room or take her to the park or to the corner store. But he hadn’t been. Joy’s eight-year-old self felt her soul curl into itself like the injured dragonfly she’d tried to save last week. Whatever happened next would be bad. She knew that with her whole heart.

“Whaddaya standin’ there for, huh?” Daddy barked, striding across the kitchen and grabbing her by the shirt. “You stupid or somethin’? And you’re eating junk, of course. You’re fat and ugly, just like your mother. Too bad you weren’t a boy. Maybe I coulda had a real son if you had been. Don’t just sit there, frog! Clean up the kitchen and do something useful for once.” He shoved her aside as he left, slamming the door so hard a pane cracked, and it would remain cracked until the house was sold forty years later.

Gianna-Marie did not clean up the kitchen. Instead, she stood there, Oreos still clutched in her hand, as her father’s words burned themselves on her soul. She knew to slip and slide around Daddy, to try to be invisible and away and quiet. She knew that he was always angry at Paulie, though why, she had no idea, since Paulie was perfect. But until he’d said those awful words—stupid, fat, ugly, frog—she hadn’t thought much about how she was. It wasn’t like anyone told her she was pretty, of course. They weren’t that kind of family. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought too much about herself at all, really.

There wasn’t a lot of room for anyone’s feelings but Daddy’s in the Moretti household—Gianna-Marie knew that before she could put it into words. Mama told Paulie and her to be quiet, to listen to Daddy, to understand how hard he worked, how smart he was. When Daddy was home, she’d coo and fuss and serve him, which kept him calm…until it didn’t.

She and Paulie didn’t talk about their parents. Daddy’s parents, who lived on the third floor, didn’t, either. When the fighting started, Nonna would turn up the TV, and Papa would leave the house. Her other grandparents lived in Brooklyn, and when they visited, they only talked in rapid-fire Italian. Kids were not invited into the conversation. Mama wore long sleeves even on the hottest days. If the bruises were on her face, the priest would ask how she was doing, and she’d glare at him. “Fine, Father. Just fine,” Mama would say, and she’d sound almost proud. “It’s nobody’s business, that’s what it is,” she’d add to Paulie and Gianna. “We’re a family. What happens at home is our business, and you two keep it to yourselves, you hear me?”

That day in the kitchen, Gianna-Marie became suddenly aware of how disgusting she was. She went into Paulie’s room, since he had a full-length mirror on the door of his closet. She ignored Mama’s quiet sobs from the bedroom. Experience had taught her not to knock on the door, because Mama would just yell at her.

What she saw was dark hair on her legs. Bulging calf muscles, fat upper arms that jiggled, like Nonna’s. Her neck was stubby and fat, and her stomach bulged like there was a baby in there. Daddy was mean, but he was also right. She did look like a frog. So what if she was the best kickball player in third grade? So what if Sister Noreen praised her for getting a B+ on her math test?

Why couldn’t she look like Paulie, who took after their grandfather? Paulie was beautiful. He was skinny. His black hair was thick and curly, not frizzy, his brown eyes coppery and clear with long lashes that every woman loved. Women fawned over Paulie, and he flirted right back.

Moments after her father crushed her soul, Gianna-Marie went on her first diet, one of the hundreds she would undertake during her life. That weekend, she asked Paulie to walk her to the pharmacy, where she stared at shampoo and conditioner.

“Don’t get that stuff,” Paulie said when she reached for a bottle of Breck shampoo, handing her a bottle of Lustre-Crème instead. “This is way better for your hair. And get the cream rinse, too. Also, Gia…” He dropped his voice. “You should probably start shaving your legs.” He made a kind face, and Gia felt weak with relief that he was so nice. “And your arms.”

By puberty, Gia, or Joy, as she called herself outside the house, was religiously saving for a nose job. Paulie gave her skin- and hair-care products for her birthday and Christmas (on the sly, of course, because Daddy would have a fit that his son knew so much about feminine beauty). The two siblings had an unspoken agreement that Paulie’s advice and expertise would be kept from their parents, and in exchange, she’d cover for him on the nights he told his parents he was on a date with a nice girl from New Brighton (or Livingston or Great Kills…these imaginary relationships tended not to last). When Paulie joined the NYPD, Daddy said, “Finally I got something to be proud of with my kids. About fuckin’ time.”

“Yes, I’m a police officer now. And I don’t know if you know this, Dad, but domestic violence is a crime. Mom doesn’t have to press charges for you to get arrested.”

There was a stunned silence at the table. For a second, the world trembled, and hope bloomed like a million white flowers in Joy’s chest. Finally, finally someone would put their horrible father in his place.

“You ever say anything like that again, you can kiss your mother goodbye,” Daddy hissed. “You think she wants to see her faggot son making a scene? Right, Anna?” He turned and glared at their mother.

“You watch your mouth, Paulie,” Mama said. “You don’t know nothin’ about anything.”

Those white flowers shriveled and turned brown. Paulie looked at Joy, and his eyes were so, so sad.

So nothing changed on the home front, except Paulie wasn’t around. Her father continued to beat up her mother, and everyone ignored the violence and bruises. Joy sequestered herself with a fictional world—TV movies, magazine covers, where the citizens were blond girls with blue eyes, straight noses and pink cheeks, or Black girls with flawless skin and perfectly straight teeth. Thin arms, tiny waists, flat stomachs, trim thighs…things Joy had never experienced. At night, she pinched the flab around her abdomen mercilessly, wishing she could just cut it off with a knife. Mama’s cooking and Moretti genetics eradicated any weight loss she achieved by drinking cabbage juice or eating only iceberg lettuce for five days straight.

Stupid. Fat. Ugly. Too bad you weren’t a boy.

Paulie was the only one she could talk to. Though he’d never said the words out loud, the fact that he was gay was like the sky being blue. He lived in the West Village, never invited his parents to his apartment, visiting them on Staten Island only on major holidays. But he did invite her to the Village. All his friends were men, and they loved Joy, told her how fun she was, admired things about her that she’d never have thought were attractive.

“You have such a kind soul,” said one of the friends, and Joy was in shock. Did she? Well, that was a nice surprise!

“Honey, I could stare into your eyes all day,” said another, sighing. “If I was straight, I’d marry you so fast.”

The nose job made her look more like Mama, especially with the bruises under her eyes. Her grandmother told her she was a vain whore, her father said, “For fuck’s sake, Gianna! Why you wasting your money?” and her mother, always backing him up, said, “If you think that makes you pretty, you’re wrong.”

Finally, high school ended. First order of business—get out of her parents’ house. Getting a job that could cover rent and everything else she wanted…she wasn’t that na?ve. Instead, she went to LaGuardia Community College and looked for a boy who’d marry her.

Husband number one: Frankie O’Dell, a nice Irish Catholic boy who couldn’t take his eyes off her 42E breasts. His family owned an auto parts store—they were well off, in other words. She let him kiss her, let his hands wander, told him they should wait to get married. When he protested and seemed like he might be losing interest, she let him rid her of her virginity. Afterward, she mentioned that her father might be connected to the Mafia (he wasn’t) and would kill Frankie if he found out.

The next day, Frankie bought her a sizable diamond ring, dropped out of college and went to work at his dad’s store in sales. Joy started working at the register. College had served its purpose. The wedding night was not awful, though she had to let Frankie see her naked, something she’d been able to avoid in the back seat of his car.

“Hon, you’re beautiful,” he said, making her roll her eyes. At least sex didn’t hurt this time. Frankie wanted kids right away, but Joy said no. Not until she had some work done. O’Dell’s Auto Parts was a good business, and Frankie made enough money for plastic surgery if they didn’t buy a house and lived in his parents’ basement. Besides, she’d probably like sex more if she liked her own body, she argued. If he loved her, he’d understand. He was no match for her single-minded determination. She was going to change herself with or without him.

First surgery—tummy tuck with liposuction on her thighs and arms. The pain was staggering and lasted for weeks, and the bruising was hard to look at, but she was smaller. Not thin, not svelte, not yet, but better.

“Oh, my God, you look amazing,” Paulie had said when she hobbled up the stairs to his apartment. “Joy, you’re beautiful!”

But now her breasts looked even more ridiculous, so six months later, she had a reduction, bringing her down to a 38C, as well as more liposuction on her thighs and ass since it was before the days of Sir Mix-a-Lot praising big butts. Her parents said nothing, if they even noticed. Her mother-in-law, a stern Irish woman, had correctly guessed Joy was using her son, and barely spoke to her.

Oh, well. Joy wasn’t done. Oh, no. Not by far. Early tech laser hair removal on her upper lip, cheeks, hands and forehead. It hurt like a son of a bitch and left her face red for days, but it was worth it. She took makeup lessons from one of Paulie’s friends, who was a drag performer. It was the age of “more is more” in plastic surgery, and boy, did Joy want more.

When she told Frankie, three years after their marriage, that she wanted cheek and chin implants, he put his foot down and said no, it was time for kids. If she didn’t agree, maybe they should get a divorce.

Divorce it was. She’d been flirting with a client at O’Dell’s—Carl, who owned a used car dealership, one of O’Dell’s biggest clients. She had a feeling he’d be happy to pay for plastic surgery for a sweet young thing such as herself. She was only twenty-two, after all. Carl’s wife didn’t put out, and his kids were spoiled and disrespectful, “like their mother,” he told her. He gave Joy a diamond ring (a carat, not bad), told her he was filing for divorce and rented her a nice apartment near the ferry, so she could pop across to Manhattan to see Paulie and his crowd whenever she wanted. And yes, he gave her a generous allowance, which Joy had no problem spending on more procedures.

When Carl inevitably dumped her to stay with his wife, Joy quickly found another man, an actual husband this time. George was twenty-seven years older than she was; they dated for two months before she became his fourth wife. He owned a construction company on Long Island. Immediately after the honeymoon, she got two more plastic surgeries (butt lift and another breast reduction with implants this time, to make them “perkier,” by which the plastic surgeon apparently meant “like two cannonballs lodged under your collarbone”). George was pleased, anyway.

Then came the night when he came home all coked up, told her she was a whore and punched her in the face. Unlike her mother, it was one and done. She called Paulie, who came over, beat the ever-living crap out of George and promised him a very short life span if he ever came near her again. Paulie took her to his apartment for a month. George put fifty grand in a Swiss bank account for her…something he and Paulie worked out. As a cop, her brother knew pressing charges would probably result in nothing substantial, not back then.

When Paulie was about forty, he retired from the NYPD and opened a salon, which had always been his dream. Joy was so proud of him. He put her to work as a makeup artist, which she enjoyed, and between what she got from her two divorces, she had plenty. She had a second tummy tuck, an eyelid lift and surgery to give her dimples. Her lips were plumped with the first fillers on the market.

Still, she saw that eight-year-old girl when she looked in the mirror. Fat. Frog. Ugly. Stupid.

But she had Paulie. His friends, his clients, a job in his salon, an automatic invitation to any party he was hosting or attending. She didn’t seem to be able to make female friends, though. Her own mother and both her grandmothers operated in some Italian cone of silence, and it had rubbed off. It was okay, she guessed. She only needed her brother, and with him, she was her best self—funny without trying, sometimes without even knowing; pretty, accepted, kind.

She changed her name legally—she’d changed it both times she was married, but now chose her own name—Joy Eloise Deveaux. It was very glamorous, she thought, and far, far away from that sad little girl she couldn’t seem to shake. Paulie approved.

Then one summer day, a limo was rear-ended by a cab in front of the salon. Paulie invited the driver and his passenger into the air-conditioned salon as they waited for limo number two. The passenger’s name was Abdul. Joy had been working that day, and it was just like the movies—the meeting of the eyes, a charge in the air, a sense of wonder and potential. That second limo took the driver away, but Abdul and Paulie went around the corner for dinner.

Abdul—Abe, he immediately asked to be called—was handsome, well educated, funny and surprisingly down to earth for a man whose wealth literally could not be measured. He was…oh, what was that word? When you can’t stop thinking about someone because they’re so great? Captivated. That was it. Yes, he’d been captivated by Paulie, the gay former cop turned salon owner and hairstylist with so many friends. He loved talking to Joy, asking questions about Paulie and her as if they were aliens from a very charming planet he’d only read about.

Paulie had always dated, but he’d never been in love. Not until now. The two men couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. Abe had an apartment in the super-luxe St. Urban, where his family occupied several floors when they were in town. Every time he was in New York—at least once a month—he took Paulie, and sometimes Joy, out for dinner, sometimes buying out the entire restaurant, sometimes picking up a few pizzas from around the corner, a novel experience for him.

“I can’t believe how much I love him,” Paulie said one night when the three of them were out for dinner at Jean-Georges, reputedly the most expensive restaurant in Manhattan. Abe had gone to take a phone call, and Paulie’s eyes got shiny as he spoke. “I have never, ever felt like this before. I didn’t even know I could. I mean, you’re basically the only other person I’ve ever loved, Joy.”

“Aw, honey,” she said, tearing up herself. “Well, you know, he’s lucky, too, because you’re amazing, Paulie.” She didn’t even feel jealous.

The problem was, Abe was deeply closeted, way more than Paulie had ever been. Paulie had simply not discussed his sexuality with their parents. Abe—Abdul Hamza Mohammed al-Fayez—was from Saudi Arabia, a culture where being gay could be punishable by death. The pressure for him to marry a woman was mounting from his conservative parents—Abdul was thirty-nine and had been ducking and dodging marriage for years. They were getting suspicious. His family business, whatever it was, did plenty of work in New York, and his mother had started tagging along on Abdul’s trips, not letting her son off the leash of family obligations…and cutting into his free time.

The three of them were sitting in Paulie’s apartment in the Village when Abe admitted this, wiping his eyes. “It’s getting harder to get away,” he said. “I hate to lead you on, Paulie. I just don’t know how much time I can realistically spend with you. Last night, my parents introduced me to a girl they want me to marry. She’s nineteen! It was horrifying.” Paulie put his arm around his lover, both their faces awash in misery.

“What if I married you?” Joy suggested, looking at her nail polish. The neon pink had been a mistake. Should’ve gone with red. She glanced up at the two men. “Would that work? I mean, I’m forty-four, so probably no kids, plus I can’t say I really want any. But would that get your parents off your back?”

Paulie and Abe looked at each other, eyes wide with hope.

Within a month, it was done. Abe set up a trust for her, bought a four-story town house right on Washington Square Park—“I am nothing if not rich”—and had the first-floor apartment completely redone for Joy. He and Paulie would live on the top two floors, with one for guests in between them, for privacy.

It was with glee that she and Paulie visited their parents with the news. Dad, who was unabashedly racist, was furious. “You think I’m gonna watch my daughter marry some—”

“You’re actually not invited to the wedding,” Joy said. “Neither are you, Ma. Just figured you should know my new last name is gonna be al-Fayez. Oh. And I’m really, really rich now.” She and Paulie laughed all the way home.

Their wedding was the only time Joy would meet her in-laws, who didn’t speak to her, only glared. The ceremony was at city hall, to cover the shame of their son marrying a white, twice-married, older woman. Joy smiled back. Let them fume. Abdul loved her brother, and if Joy was a prop, who cared?

It was the happiest time of her life. She had plenty of money to keep on chipping and melting and slicing away at herself, and both men thought she was wonderful no matter what. They avoided Staten Island as much as possible, opting not even to go to their father’s funeral when he died from a stroke, which infuriated their mother. Oh, well.

The years slid past in a luxurious, happy blur. Joy still did makeup a few times a month, usually for a bride or a C-list actor. Paulie and Abe included her in nearly everything. When Abe traveled, it was just her and Paulie, and that was great, too.

Sometimes, though…sometimes Joy wondered if there was more to life. She didn’t have a lot of ambition to do anything, really. She tried various things over the years…Abe bought her a luxury apartment so she could flirt with interior design, but once she’d bought sequined throw pillows and an orange range that cost $100,000, she lost interest. Besides, there were an awful lot of wealthy women in Manhattan who considered themselves interior decorators. Getting a client was harder than she’d thought. She tried a lifestyle blog in the days before Instagram, but didn’t get much traction, and she often forgot to post.

It was fine. She was very lucky in so many ways. She shouldn’t want more than what she had, even if she did feel like a costar in her own life.

But then, horribly, Abe sat them both down one night, more than a decade into their marriage, and announced that he was leaving them. He’d been traveling more and more the past two years, and the pressure to marry a Muslim woman and become a father finally broke him. The cost of secrecy was too high. He missed his parents and sisters, and yes, maybe he did want children after all. He was sorry, but he couldn’t do this anymore.

Paulie was broken. Furious. He screamed and threw things, their father’s temper finally showing itself, then fell to the floor, sobbing.

Of course, Abe gave Joy a generous settlement, including the town house, but it wasn’t the same. A devastated Paulie moved to the second floor because it was too painful to stay in the home he’d shared with the man he loved. Within a month of their divorce, the New York Times Vows section informed them that Abdul married a Muslim girl twenty years his junior. A year later, they had a son.

“Guess he got what he wanted,” Paulie said bitterly.

His light dimmed without Abe. He tried, going on mindfulness kicks, talking about purpose and gratitude, but Joy could see the truth. He was a whisper of the man he’d once been. That was what love did to you. It ruined you. Once upon a time, she’d loved her parents, and all they’d given back was anger, resentment and disappointment. She’d used Frankie O’Dell without a thought to his feelings, breaking his heart, maybe. She’d loved Abdul as a cherished friend, but he blocked her number the day he made his announcement. Paulie’s, too.

Love was…what was the word? When something eats away and destroys something? Corrosive. That’s what it was.

The only person she was sure she loved was her brother.

Then, one summer day, Joy was walking home with a pair of shoes she’d probably never wear, and a strange number came up on her phone. She answered, her hands tingling with premonition.

“Hello, I’m looking for Joy Deveaux,” said a deep voice.

“Speaking,” she said.

“My name is Ralph Colchek, Ms.Deveaux. I’m a chaplain at Mount Sinai Hospital. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

Suddenly, Joy was sitting on the gritty sidewalk, tearing her hair, extensions coming out by the fistful, rocking back and forth as she wailed. Just like that, the deep voice at the end of the phone shattered her life.

Paulie had been riding in a cab on his way uptown. A crane toppled off a building and crushed the car he was in. The driver was unharmed; Paulie died instantly, and with him went Joy’s whole world.

She gave him the send-off he deserved with a Michelin-starred chef making all his favorite foods, a live band, disco ball, a fog machine, huge flower arrangements and balloons. There were eleven speeches that she counted—she wasn’t able to talk herself, since her throat was locked tight. More than four hundred people came (though not Mama). Even Abe came, sobbing as he hugged her. He had five children now. Paulie was toasted repeatedly, and Joy drank and drank and ate and cried. Paulie’s friends were wonderful, said how much Paulie had loved her, reassured her that they were here for her.

But they weren’t. Or they tried, maybe, but it didn’t touch her gaping fear and aching loneliness. Hence the house on the Cape. It would be different, at least. It wouldn’t be soaked with reminders that she had once been Paulie’s sister, and without that title, she wasn’t anything anymore.

Maybe Paulie had sent her Lark. He would have loved Connery. And now Ellie was due in just fifteen more minutes.

Judging by Ellie’s shaky voice, Joy had the feeling that once again, she was needed.