Chapter 2 Jessiah
Rockaway Beach was gray and empty that morning as I got out of the water and set down my board. I fell onto the hard sand, rolled onto my back, and tried to get my breath.
The waves had been perfect early this morning—fierce and unpredictable, just how I liked them—but challenging too.
The ocean was ice-cold this time of year, and every wipeout was like being hit by a freezer box.
Regardless, I came here as often as possible—surfing in forty-degree water might be shitty, but it was better than nothing.
I needed exercise like I needed oxygen, and I’d rather saw off my own leg than hit the gym and run on a treadmill.
And though my powers of imagination didn’t quite stretch to convincing me I was somewhere off the coast of Australia, at least my board gave me the illusion of freedom. It helped keep me sane.
I lay on the ground another couple of minutes, until the feeling started to come back into my body, and my lungs burned a little less.
I got up, grabbed my board, and carried it over to the black pickup truck parked in the lot behind a patch of snow.
My friend Balthazar’s words rang in my ear: Why do you need such an enormous car?
This is New York, Jess, remember. Yeah—exactly, I thought.
I owned a pickup because it at least gave me the feeling that I could get out of this damned city whenever I wanted.
It was wishful thinking, but it got me through the day often enough.
Two other surfers had parked their camper nearby, and I greeted them briefly before securing my board safely in the back of the truck and reaching behind me to unzip my wetsuit.
I peeled it hastily over my arms and down to my hips, gritting my teeth against the icy wind on my damp skin.
God, I hated the cold. I always had, even though I’d been born in New York.
There was something in my DNA that seemed to think I belonged in a warmer climate, and it wasn’t adapting well to my current surroundings.
I fished my zip-up hoodie from the passenger seat and put it on, pulling the hood up over my wet hair, before reaching for my sweatpants.
A few fluid movements later and I was in dry clothes.
Tossing the wetsuit into the back of the pickup next to the surfboard, I got in the truck and blasted the heat.
If I was lucky, I’d be able to feel my whole body again before I was back in the city.
Traffic on Sundays wasn’t as hellish as usual, but it still took the best part of an hour to get back into Manhattan—and there was a construction holdup on the Williamsburg Bridge.
Just as I was wondering whether to take the direct route or go via the FDR, my cell phone rang.
I hesitated for a second when I saw the name on the display. Then I took the call.
“Hi, Trish,” I greeted my mother over the Bluetooth. We weren’t really on “good morning” terms, and anyway, it was after nine a.m. on a Sunday—the woman had probably done a five-mile run already, started plans for three new projects, and fired her assistant again.
“Jess? Where are you right now?” she asked. No hellos today, then, either. That meant she was in a crappy mood, and I probably had something to do with it. I’d learned to speak fluent Trish Coldwell over the years.
“On my way home from the beach.” There was yet another honk somewhere behind me, and I rolled my eyes. Making a racket and busting everyone’s balls isn’t going to make this go any faster. What was the problem with people in this city? “Why do you ask—is everything okay with Eli?”
“Yes, yes, your brother is fine,” she said impatiently.
“But I sent Indigo to your apartment yesterday evening with a selection of outfits, and you weren’t there.
” She sounded thoroughly put out, as though I’d missed an actual appointment with her assistant.
Typical Trish. She wanted the entire world at her beck and call.
“Maybe you should give me a heads-up before you send someone over,” I replied, not bothering to hide my irritation. “And besides, I already have something to wear tonight.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t show up in a tux you’ve worn before—this is a very important event. Everyone will be there.”
Right—because the great and the good of high society were obviously able to tell one black tuxedo from the next.
God knows how, maybe they took photos on the sly or wrote down the details in a little notebook, like secret agents on the hunt for poor people.
The things people did when they had nothing better to do than worry about who was breaching etiquette that week.
At that thought, strangely enough, a name popped into my head.
Then again, no, it wasn’t really that strange.
“Everyone?” I insisted. “Even the Westons?”
My mother made a hissing sound, showing just how triggered she was by the mention of that name. “Of course not. Do you really think they’d sit there and clap while a prize is awarded to me, for special services to New York City’s architecture?”
“Maybe, if their absence would make people talk,” I said.
Nothing was more important to those people than appearances and reputation, after all.
I had no qualms about coming face-to-face with the Westons; that wasn’t why I’d asked.
Despite the fact that every time I saw them, I was confronted by what I’d lost. Mrs. Weston especially, with her resemblance to her daughter, was a perpetual reminder of just who I had to thank for my brother being dead.
My hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. Why couldn’t Valerie have chosen some other guy? Why did it have to be Adam?
“Let them come,” my mother said grimly. “As long as you’re in a brand-new tux, I don’t care.”
“Fine,” I conceded. “I’ll come by your place first and change there.” At least then I’d get to see my little brother, and the evening wouldn’t be a total waste. “I have to go, Trish—I have a meeting, and I want to swing home first.”
“A meeting about one of your projects?” she asked, sounding disapproving above all else.
“That’s right.” I ignored the undertone. “A place in SoHo.”
“Whereabouts?”
“The corner of Sullivan and Bleecker.”
“Prime location,” she said. “How did you find it?”
“Same as always,” I said with a shrug, though of course she couldn’t see it.
“I got to talking with some people at the opening of Karma last fall. Someone knew the previous owner was thinking about shutting down, so I had a chat with him, and eventually he agreed to lease it to two young women for their vegan bistro.”
My mother sighed. “You really are a sensational waste of talent. When are you going to do something useful with your gifts? You know you could have any position you want at the firm.”
I bit back a harsh response. Of course I knew; she never stopped going on about it.
And I also knew that losing Adam had turned this notion of hers into something of a mission.
But as much I was trying to hold everything together, I couldn’t force myself to do that.
A job at CW Buildings—like living in New York City for too long—would be the death of me.
“When should I be there tonight?” I asked, ignoring her. It wouldn’t help, explaining to my mother again why I would never work for the family firm. I’d tried often enough.
“Seven,” she informed me. “Don’t be late. And do something with your hair. That surfer mane of yours is impossible.”
“Forget it,” was all I said. “See you later, Trish.”
Despite the burn, I did check my blond hair in the rearview mirror but found no cause for complaint.
Okay, it was a little scruffy, thanks to all the wind and salt water, but it was also a lot shorter than it had been when I’d returned two and a half years ago.
I couldn’t even tie it back right now. It was one of many concessions I made to the role that I performed here—but there were limits to how far I would sacrifice myself. So she’d just have to live with it.
Luckily, the traffic on the bridge was moving again, and I took my usual route into the West Village.
There was a free spot in front of my building, which I decided to take as a good sign for the rest of the day.
This evening was not going to be fun, that was for sure, but it was still a few hours away.
I took the four flights of stairs at a jog, already looking forward to getting in the shower as I put my key in the lock.
As soon as I was inside my apartment, I pulled off my clothes and threw them carelessly on the floor.
The car’s heated seats had helped a little, but what I really needed now was hot running water.
The hot-water tank in the bathroom really was my best friend, especially in the cold winter months.
Twenty minutes later I emerged from a cloud of steam, wrapped a towel around my hips, and went into the living room.
Although that wasn’t really an accurate description, since the loft had an open-floor plan.
The kitchen with its island and breakfast bar opened directly onto the living area, complete with large couch and an untreated oak dining table that sat up to eight people.
At the rear of the fifteen-foot-high loft space, an iron staircase led to a mezzanine level built from steel beams, and my bed.