Harbor House (The Women of Harbor House #1)

Chapter 1

It was one of the greatest ironies of Stella Vanberg’s life that, to be taken seriously in the world of philanthropy, she had to look the part of a wealthy philanthropist. Only then, she’d found over the years, did her wealthy “friends” in Manhattan and beyond offer her and the other philanthropists the money they needed to build schools, aid women in need across the world, and strengthen the foundation of communities that had never so much as glimpsed Central Park or the white coasts of Martha’s Vineyard.

They had no idea what fine dining meant, nor how essential it was to use the right fork at the right time.

Yes, to be taken seriously for the betterment of humanity (as laughable as that sounded to Stella) meant hair treatments and facials in the lead-up to the big fundraiser events.

It meant Botox and face lifts, and gorgeous, elegant gowns shipped from European designers.

It meant getting her nails done, avoiding the sunlight, and getting plenty of beauty rest in the lead-up to the big night.

It meant that, at age sixty-eight, she was pretending that she could live forever.

Better than that, it meant that, at sixty-eight, she looked like the type of woman who could lead a movement to change the world.

It was mid-May, and two hours before the big spring dinner she and her assistant, Gwen, had been planning for the better part of four months.

There was a strange hiccup in her breath, a strange burning in her stomach, both of which she attributed to nerves.

Regardless of how often she’d given speeches and asked her contemporaries for money, Stella always got a little nervous.

A voice in the back of her mind told her that she didn’t belong here, with these people, in these spaces.

Stella and Gwen were in Stella’s Upper West Side apartment.

Outside, rain slashed through the gray streets, and the orange traffic light oozed through puddles.

Stella stepped into her dress, then felt Gwen move toward her to zip it all the way up her back.

Together, Stella and Gwen glanced at the mirror to the right, which showed Stella to be every bit the fashionable, older, and wiser woman she needed to be tonight.

“The Chanel was a brilliant idea, Gwen,” Stella said, smiling at her assistant, a woman in her mid-thirties who’d worked as Stella’s assistant for nearly five years.

“I’ve been studying up,” Gwen said. “Remember how lost I was when you hired me? I didn’t know Chanel from Gap.”

Stella threw her head back in laughter. “I’ve told you.

That didn’t matter to me.” No, Gwen’s spirit had led Stella to hire her.

That, and her past. Gwen had been raised in the deep countryside in Ohio, where she and her siblings had no more than a few pennies to rub together.

Gwen had worked her way tirelessly through high school, where she’d secured a scholarship to attend Yale University.

Now, Gwen ran just about everything in Stella’s life, including the foundation.

Stella guessed that Gwen had bigger dreams for herself down the line.

Someday soon, she’d probably leave Stella’s life and leave a giant hole.

Stella prayed she’d have another few years with her.

She’d begun to think of her tenderly—almost like a daughter.

Just then, Gwen rifled through her bag, searching for something. But the bag fell to the floor with a clonk and knocked a familiar-looking book to the ground. Gwen gasped, then hurried to hide it. But Stella had already seen what it was—The Human Agenda by Nathan Lerner.

Stella waited a few seconds to ask for it.

Gwen handed it over with a shaking hand, unable to look Stella in the eye.

Stella felt another simmering of something in her stomach, something acidic, and pains ricocheted up her chest and into her arm.

She’d been doing too much yoga lately. She’d wanted to sculpt her shoulders for tonight’s event.

She made a mental note to lay off, to allow herself a little bit of rest.

Stella had known The Human Agenda was out. She’d seen an entire bookstore window filled with it. She turned it over to see Nathan Lerner’s photograph, in which he wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses and scowled, just as he had in many of his wedding photos.

It seemed that Stella’s silence was making Gwen insane.

“I really am sorry,” Gwen warbled. “A friend of mine swears by his prose, and I only borrowed it, I swear. I didn’t buy it.”

Stella smiled and handed the book back to Gwen, who threw it into her backpack. There was sweat on her forehead.

“I know it doesn’t help, thinking about them,” Gwen said, clasping her hands.

Stella sat down in the chair by the mahogany desk and tried to think of a way to calm Gwen down. “Nathan’s a very famous writer,” she said finally. “It’s not like I could avoid him if I tried. And it’s not like I detest him, really. He’s family.”

Gwen furrowed her brow, as though this made it even worse.

Stella wanted to drop the subject. She let her eyes dance over to the window, which glistened with raindrops.

“I should really give her a call,” she said, thinking now of her daughter, of Candice, whom she hadn’t spoken to since Christmas.

Stella had read a few reviews of The Human Agenda in The London Review and The New York Times, and The Atlantic.

She hadn’t liked what she’d seen. She wondered if Candice had read various drafts of The Human Agenda. She wondered if she’d been consulted.

Stella very much hoped she had been.

By the time the black Lincoln rolled up to pick Gwen and Stella up from the Upper West Side apartment building, one of the old-world ones that spoke of a more romantic Manhattan, complete with a doorman and a marble foyer, Stella felt a level of anxiety that alarmed her.

It felt as though someone sat on her chest, pressing hard on her heart.

It felt as though she couldn’t get a full breath.

Sitting in the back seat, Stella reminded herself to breathe, to fill her lungs. Beside her, Gwen repeated aloud the schedule of events for the dinner: who would speak and when, at which times the various appetizers and cocktails would be rolled out, and at which time the art auction would begin.

Stella managed a strangled, “It’s going to be a long night.”

Gwen turned to look at Stella, her eyes glinting with fear. She blackened her phone. “I really am sorry about Nathan’s book,” she said again. “It was thoughtless of me.”

“It’s not the book,” Stella said. Her thoughts had begun to tumble into themselves. Her heart simmered and shook. She felt as though she’d just run at least ten miles. She felt as though the world was drizzling past her eyes.

“What is it?” Gwen asked, although Stella was struggling to hear her. “Is it the schedule? I can call Melissa right away and fix whatever you need.” Melissa was the event planner they always worked with. She had black hair and eyes that reminded Stella of a snake.

But Stella found that when she opened her lips to speak, she couldn’t find the words.

Slowly, she turned to look at Gwen. Pain shimmered down her arm, and she felt as though she might throw up all over the back seat of this luxurious, idiotic car.

Why had she wanted to arrive at the philanthropic dinner in such an immense, terrible, tragic car?

“Stella?” Gwen gasped. Normally, she called her Ms. Vanberg, although Stella had told Gwen many times to call her by her first name. “Stella, is everything all right?” And then, Gwen called up to the driver ahead and said, “We need to go to the hospital! We need to go, now!”

The driver turned to glance back at them. “What did you say?”

“Hospital!” Gwen called. “Or pull over, and I’ll call an ambulance?” Her cheeks were blotchy.

The next few moments were strange and amorphous.

Stella heard the click of her seat belt as someone unbuckled it.

She felt herself lean across the back seat, offering relief to her shoulders.

She felt the gorgeous, imported fabric of her dress between her fingertips, and it made her think of the dresses her mother had worn when she was little.

They hadn’t been made of fabric like this.

They’d been cotton, or sometimes they’d been made from old blankets they had lying around.

But Stella had always thought her mother was the most beautiful.

She’d always thought her dresses were the finest things around.

“Please, make me one,” she’d begged her mother.

It seemed that she was saying that aloud, now. It seemed that she was losing her grip.

Gwen called out, “Please, hurry!”

But Stella reached for Gwen’s hand and squeezed it hard. She wanted to tell Gwen to slow down. She wanted to tell Gwen that life was something you had to hold in your hands and really look at, lest it slip away from you too quickly.

“Stay with me, Stella,” Gwen whispered.

Stella smiled up at this beautiful young woman, this woman she was sure loved her so much more than either of her daughters or her son ever could.

“Appetizers or no appetizers,” Stella said, “make sure everyone knows what we’re here for.

Make sure everyone knows that we’re here to raise money.

We’re not here for Chanel. We’re not here for Dior.

” She said each word as if it were a curse.

She squeezed Gwen’s hand harder, then listened as sirens screamed closer and closer.

Were they coming for her? She couldn’t be sure.