3. Sadie
3
SADIE
A t least the catered food is tasty. And I’m grateful there’s not a slab of meat in sight to make my vegetarian soul shrivel.
Stepmother Number Four is a strict vegan and she chose the party menu. She’s the only person who has been nice to me since I landed in New York yesterday so I should probably stop thinking of her as Number Four and start remembering to use her name, which is Arlena.
When I get a glimpse of the giant copper pendulum clock mounted over the stairwell my heart sinks. Barely an hour has passed since the party began and it feels like days.
I’m out of practice when it comes to these social events packed with high profile egos. Yet if I must be here (and I must if I want my father’s help) then I need to keep smiling and drifting along the perimeter without engaging with anyone for longer than it takes to say, “Hello,” and “What a lovely dress” and “It’s so nice to see you again”.
I’m keeping things simple. I wouldn’t want my mouth to go running away from me. My mouth can be a problem.
Like the mountain lion incident when I was thirteen. It was the year the Dukes had their worst season on record and my father’s moods tend to rise and fall on the team’s fortunes.
There I was, minding my own business and drinking my fifth Shirley Temple of the evening while daydreaming about the unlikely hope that my father would soften his No Pets Ever rule and let me have a dog for Christmas. It was the only gift I’d asked for. Instead, I ended up receiving a highly uncomfortable designer wardrobe that happened to be an entire size too small.
Anyhow, hours before I ripped open all those disappointing boxes, I overheard the General Manager of the Dukes brag about mounting the head of a mountain lion in his study.
“Did you kill it yourself?” I asked.
And he turned, annoyed at the interruption, until he realized he was peering down at his boss’s daughter. Then he covered that irritation with a phony smile, tweaked my nose and boomed, “One shot between the eyes, little darling.”
I felt the urge to kick him but I dislike violence and I was wearing ballerina flats. I just would have hurt my foot.
Instead, I just propped my hands on my hips and announced, quite loudly, “My father says you’re a managerial coward who probably has balls the size of pencil erasers and he can’t wait to end your contract next year.”
All true.
Asher Wingate uttered those exact words when he flew into a temper on the heels of a twelve game losing streak. I was proud of myself for remembering the rant in its entirety.
My father was less proud. He didn’t speak to me directly for months. Then he decided to ship me off to an austere Vermont boarding school. No one dared argue. Not even my big brother, Baylor, who I always thought of as the one person in the family who could be counted on to take my side. One steely look from Father Dearest was enough to make Bay shrink like a slug in salt. He wouldn’t even come with me for the ride to Vermont no matter how I begged. He just waved from the driveway and advised me to ‘behave’ after shoving me into the back of the car. I stared at the bald head of my father’s silent driver for hundreds of miles through a film of tears.
Nothing was ever really the same between me and Baylor again but I did learn how to behave. Or at least give a pretty convincing imitation. Those skills propelled me through the insufferable prep school era and four dull years at Cornell.
In the end, I was behaving so hard that I forgot who I was.
I’m never forgetting again.
But I can’t dwell on that tonight as I drift along the walls and graze on stuffed mushrooms heaped into a white linen napkin. The mushrooms are truly the best thing about this party, although that might be the hunger talking. I’d been too nervous to eat since I got here, focusing all my energy on screwing up the nerve to approach my father for a loan.
This afternoon he turned me down before I even finished the sentence. Then I was dismissed with an annoyed hand gesture so he could answer a phone call.
Not that I’m giving up. I can’t. Bright Hearts Ranch is not just my dream. It’s a refuge for dozens of animals with nowhere else to go. Every time I close my eyes I can see all those hopeful little faces who only want to be loved. I won’t return without a plan to save them.
“Mercedes,” barks a woman’s voice in the same tone that someone might say ‘Vomit’.
I know who it belongs to. My brain is screaming but I can’t cause a scene.
“Mrs, um, Gallant.” I stutter at the formality. She used to urge me to call her Jessica but that was back in the season of temporary insanity when I agreed to marry her son.
Her cold eyes skate up and down and her mouth quirks with disapproval. The powder blue dress I’m wearing is much more of a summer choice but it’s my father’s favorite color. The last time I wore it was for my college graduation and I thought the bright color might remind him of that brief era when I was a dutiful daughter.
Probably a bad idea since he’s also sure to be reminded of how I shredded all his plans. Anyway, now I just feel out of place amid all the sleek evening wear. Jessica Gallant’s smirk is just making the feeling worse.
“Such a surprise to see you here.” She pecks the air six inches from my right cheek. I have a feeling she’d rather bite me. “I wasn’t aware you were in town.”
Her perfume is overpowering. I sneeze into my mushroom napkin. “Just for Christmas. I’ll be leaving before New Year’s.”
“So you can return to battling ticks in the Idaho wilderness, I presume?” She cackles at her non-joke. “Wonderful.”
“Colorado. Not the wilderness. Just not New York. I haven’t seen any ticks.”
“Right.” Her lips flatten with disinterest. “Grant is around here somewhere. He’ll want the opportunity to say hello.”
Red alert!!!
The feeling is far from mutual.
I didn’t dare to ask anyone if the Gallants had been invited to the Christmas Eve party this year. The topic raises some sticky issues and I’m not in a position to remind anyone of sticky issues.
“Haven’t you seen him?” she presses.
“Not yet,” I mutter, peering into the thicket of holiday revelers with new wariness.
None of the faces belong to my despicable ex. This is hardly a comfort. It’s sort of like hearing the hiss of a venomous snake under your bed. You can’t see it right now but you know it’s there, waiting to strike.
Jessica Gallant is unaware of my silent panic attack. She toys with the pearl choker at her neck. “Of course Francesca with him. They are getting quite serious.”
I have no clue who Francesca is. Grant’s personal life is not a subject I’m obligated to care about anymore. But I just want this conversation to end so I say, “Great.”
“And I’m sure you know that Francesca was a top runway model before she started designing for Dior.”
“Francesca sounds like a keeper.”
The edge of sarcasm won’t quite stay out of my voice. I’m actually sorry for Runway Model Francesca. I sure hope she catches a glimpse of Grant Gallant’s narcissism and treachery before she makes any permanent choices.
Grant’s mother flashes a thin-lipped smile. “And what about you, Mercedes? I’m sure you couldn’t possibly still be single, could you?”
Now she’s just openly being a jerk.
In her mind, the script is simple. Grant, the dashing prince, was wronged by an ungrateful little troll who should have kissed the ground at his feet and thanked her lucky stars that he ever looked her way.
Jessica Gallant wouldn’t believe the truth and I can’t be bothered to correct whatever nonsense her son fed her.
As for the dating game, I’m too busy to deal with extra drama. One near miss with matrimonial hell was more than enough.
“Nope, happily single,” I say and stifle another sneeze. “Merry Christmas.”
I walk away before she can respond. The news that Grant Gallant is lurking about makes me want to sneak upstairs and hide in a closet until all the party noises evaporate.
Too bad that will solve nothing.
I’ve come all this way and I can’t run. No, I need to figure out a way to earn my father’s sympathy and I don’t have much time. In three more days I have to return to Colorado to face the people and the animals who are counting on me to figure out how to keep Bright Hearts Ranch on its feet.
Despite my issues with Baylor, I thought he might be willing to put in a good word on my behalf. I should have known better. The goofy, occasionally devilish big brother of my childhood has devolved into Asher Wingate’s prop. Baylor doesn’t even tie his shoes without our father’s blessing. We barely keep in touch and I haven’t seen him since his wedding a year and a half ago. I knew nothing of his political plans until this week.
My sister was always a lost cause but Hadley and I never got along so her indifference stings less than Baylor’s. At least she’s consistent. Hadley genuinely doesn’t care a fig about anyone but herself, her social media fandom and her vast shoe collection. After two short-lived unions followed by quick divorces, I’m convinced she’s only getting married for the third time because she really really likes playing the bride. She just has no use for all the actual marriage stuff that comes next.
The pianist parked at the antique grand piano begins playing Silver Bells. I think I like the song more without the words. The whole Christmas in the city thing isn’t too appealing. When I was very small, back in that foggy time before my mother died, she used to take me to Rockefeller Center during the holidays. Manhattan is beautiful in December. Yet even back then the lights and the buzzing throngs of people made me feel uneasy and restless, as if I was dropped in the middle of a scene where I didn’t belong.
Kind of like how I feel right now.
With a tug of deep longing, my mind veers back to home, the scrappy little center of my universe. Peggy is likely doing the evening rounds right now, checking the outbuildings to make sure all our four legged residents are warm and safe. According to the weather report, the skies are all clear for Christmas. Once Peggy is satisfied that all is well for the night she’ll make the short walk back to the house. She might even pause and look up, marveling at the canopy of stars overhead, before retiring to her cozy little suite where she’ll relax with all of her cats plus my two dogs and settle down with one of her many ongoing yarn projects.
When I bought the property the realtor warned the house was ‘dated’, as if I’m supposed to scream over dark wood paneling and chipped tile countertops. I didn’t change a thing. I love the house, even if the list of more practical repairs is tougher to ignore. The old furnace is one shuddering belch away from dying, the roof leaks have caused water damage in the den and in September a worried electrician warned that the breaker box urgently needs to be replaced.
Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as I win the lottery.
My wish to be back at Bright Hearts right now is so powerful I can taste it, even though the place is in good hands with Peggy. And Gus assured me she’d be visiting every day while I’m gone.
It’s a stroke of luck that my best friend is a veterinarian but I try not to take advantage. It’s just that every time I attempt to pay her for her veterinary services she refuses, despite the fact that the practice she took over from her retired father barely scrapes by.
The last time I meekly made the offer was three weeks ago right after she performed lifesaving surgery on a pregnant stray Labrador who would have otherwise lost her puppies. Augusta Edelstein responded with one of her trademark withering looks and said, “If you insult me like that again then I will be forced to watch the next Bridgerton season without you.”
She knows how to deliver a threat. I clamped my mouth shut instantly. Anyway, I don’t have any actual money to give her. Every cent of the trust fund I received on my twenty-first birthday has been sunk into the ranch.
Often I wonder if my mother would approve of how I used the legacy she left to me. I was only five when she died and no one was willing to talk about her after that. Baylor and Hadley spent occasional holidays with their jet-setting socialite of a mother and hordes of British cousins but I had no other family. And my father was remarried within six months.
His voice now rises above the blend of voices and laughter, echoing all the way from the media room. Anyone else would be accused of shouting but Asher Wingate’s everyday volume is a booming baritone. Impossible to ignore. At the moment he’s bragging about a recent high profile trade to snag the best goalie in the league.
The Dukes are the core of my father’s personality. His pride and joy. I’ve been dragged to more hockey games than I can count and always found them confusing. I mean, I understand the basics. But what’s so exciting about watching a bunch of grown men chase a little disc back and forth? It seems pointless. Maybe I would have learned to enjoy the game if there wasn’t such a strict behavioral code for the owner’s suite.
No reading.
No yawning.
No texting.
No dumping Dr. Pepper all over your sister’s dress after she calls you a stubby, chipmunk-faced loser.
That’s what it means to be a Wingate in New York. People are always watching. Had I married Grant, my permanent fate would have been corner Wall Street offices, cocktail events and yacht clubs.
There’s nothing wrong with those things. Many people spend their lives longing for them. But I was assigned a role that I failed to fulfill. I have not been forgiven.
While moping, I’ve somehow backed all the way into the alcove off the dining hall. It was once a favorite reading spot of mine and yet I don’t feel the slightest bit nostalgic. Maybe it’s because I’ve nearly tripped over a Christmas tree, a prickly miniature twin of the giant in the foyer. Or maybe it’s because my stomach is gurgling and begging for something more substantial than five stuffed mushrooms.
It really is tough to strategize when hungry. I need to sharpen my wits if I’m going to evade the orbit of Grant Gallant and then figure out how to butter my father up so that he gives me the large loan that I need to save Bright Hearts.
Might as well feed my stomach before I return to scheming. Long tables covered with trays of stacked appetizers have been set up in various locations all over the ground floor as guests coast from room to room. The catering staff briskly weaves among the fray and discreetly replaces silver trays before they are even half empty.
Peeling myself off the alcove wall, I start scanning the food options. I’m about to make a grab for a tower of tiny individual veggie and bean salads when I think I see the back of Grant’s head ten feet away. He was always particular about his dark blond hair, keeping it just long enough to slick back and cover a thinning spot on the crown.
Rather than wait for the head to turn around, I veer to the right, toward the dining room. The long center table has been temporarily replaced with rows of black tables and matching chairs. A tall silver vase filled with fresh poinsettias sits in the middle of each table and more Christmas trees, festooned with ribbons and dripping with twinkling lights, stand watch in the four corners of the room.
It's all very pretty but the best part is how the entire opposite wall is lined with tables holding a variety of sinful looking desserts. I’m a total dessert junkie and will never apologize for my sugar weakness. Earlier today, Number Four (sorry, I mean Arlena ) made me promise to try the five tiered vegan white chocolate fountain.
And there it is, smack in the center of the sugar cornucopia. I’m halfway across the room to meet my destiny before I spot something unusual. And yet familiar.
Seeing Cale Connelly in this house used to be nothing special. I can’t remember when he moved in next door to live with his uncle.
The Amato property was surrounded by thick wrought iron fencing and now and then I would try to peer through the dense hedges, curious about why I was told to keep away from that house.
I never saw anything interesting. Just a lagoon-sized swimming pool, a large stone fountain that gurgled water in all seasons except winter and occasional groups of black-suited men who never smiled.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned the meaning of the name Richie Amato. Last I heard, Cale works for his uncle and the days when he was my brother’s best friend are long gone.
Though I was much younger and far outside their social circle, I was fascinated by Baylor’s friendship with the boy next door. Even when he was a teenager Cale seemed almost like a grown man to me; tall and serious and another quality that’s harder to describe.
Cale had presence . If he was in the room, you couldn’t help but notice, and not just because he was absurdly good looking.
He still is, more than ever. The years have added to his muscles, sharpened his jaw and given him an air that is altogether rakish. He and my brother are sitting alone and having a conversation.
They don’t look like two men who used to be inseparable. They look more like two men who can hardly stand to be in the same room for five minutes. Baylor’s posture is tight and his movements are fidgety. He flashes a smile and it looks even more bogus than usual.
Cale seems more at ease, leaning back in his chair, his sharp eyes gazing at my brother with an expression that I can only describe as wolfish. I get the feeling he sees Baylor’s discomfort and enjoys the idea that he’s the cause.
I have no clue why Cale showed up here out of the blue and I don’t much care. Cale and I probably never exchanged more than a handful of sentences. I feel no obligation to wade into their tense interaction and say hello.
Bypassing their table, I take my time to select the best options among the tiered trays of delights and arrange them on a scalloped white plate. Arlena would no doubt be pleased to see the way I’ve drowned three plum-sized strawberries in the white chocolate fountain.
There are plenty of other guests buzzing around, delicately selecting food. A woman hovering to my right glances at my piled plate.
“Leave some for the rest of us.” She giggles. The twinkling Christmas tree lights bounce off her floor length silver gown.
“I’ll try,” I say. “Nice outfit you’ve got on.”
“Thank you so much. Bought it on my last trip to Paris.”
“I was just thinking how it reminds me of crumpled aluminum foil.”
She blinks. The superior smile evaporates. “What was that?”
Instead of answering, I pop a giant vegan white chocolate strawberry in my mouth and crush it between my teeth. Juice squirts out and trails down my chin, ruining the victory.
Then I turn around and things get a whole lot worse.
Grant Gallant, Despicable Ex, has slithered onto the scene.
We haven’t been face to face in two years. I really hoped things would stay that way for the rest of my natural life. His beastly arm is slung over the slim shoulders of a tall, stunning brunette who must be Francesca. She’s smiling and chatting with another woman, completely oblivious to the way her companion glowers in my direction.
A shiver skates from the base of my spine to my neck. I never saw Grant get violent and it’s unlikely he would grab me by the throat in my father’s house in front of a roomful of people. But the last words he spoke to me the day I returned his diamond ring have always been in the back of my mind.
“Have it your way, bitch. I can’t wait to see how hard you’ll regret this.”
He must still be waiting. I’ve never regretted ditching Grant. I never will. But the spiteful look in his eyes right now makes me wish I had something more substantial than some fat strawberries at hand to defend myself.
I’m trying to figure out the best escape route when an unlikely voice breaks my concentration. “Hello there, Scraps.”
My eyes veer from Grant’s seething face.
To my shock, the greeting came from Cale Connelly.
He’s at the table alone now and acting like we’re old friends, beckoning with a wave of his hand. At first it doesn’t even register that he’s using my old and very hated nickname.
Cale stands and pulls out the chair my brother was sitting in a minute ago. “Take a seat and let’s have a talk.”
Grant is watching.
Strawberry juice drips from my chin.
Cale waits expectantly, sure that I’ll obey his request, which is really closer to a command.
Normally I don’t obey commands.
And Cale is some sort of mafia prince, which doesn’t do anything for me no matter how broad-shouldered and virile and brooding he is.
However, I really would like to sit down. Another plus is that Grant is far too much of a coward to bother me if I’m in Cale’s company.
With nothing to lose, I plunk down in the waiting chair. Then I subtly wipe juice off my chin with the back of my hand while Cale casually steps around to the other side of the table to reclaim his seat.
I have no clue what we’ll talk about but I’m not worried. After all, Cale was once my brother’s best friend and we’re in the middle of a Christmas party with over a hundred people roaming around.
What could possibly go wrong?