14
When I open my eyes, a rapid-fire, jarring noise pierces the air—and my eardrums. A jackhammer, maybe? Whatever it is, the incessant pounding rattles every nerve in my body. I sit up in bed, taking a cautious look at the man
sleeping beside me, a beam of light casting shadows on his bare, suntanned back. Here we go again.
I steady myself as he shifts and rolls over, letting out a yawn. Really? The guy from the plane? I struggle to remember his name. Dan? Dean? No. Greg? Yes, I think. We met on a flight from San Francisco to New York six
or so years ago when I was upgraded to first class and seated beside him. Greg. I rack my brain, trying to recall the pertinent details. He was in real estate, I think. Successful and incredibly charming,
from what I remember. I joined him for dinner that night at a fancy sushi place in SoHo. He pulled out my chair at the table
and picked up the tab at the end, which was sizable, given that we both ordered omakase. We had fun—I think—and yet, I can’t
remember why I didn’t see him again. Work was crazy back then. Maybe I just... didn’t have time?
“Morning, beautiful,” Greg whispers, smiling across the bed at me. With that square jaw and head of thick dark hair, he’s
just as attractive as I recall—a modern-day doppelg?nger for Don Draper from Mad Men .
“Um... morning,” I say, glancing down at my left hand. No ring, though there’s an unmistakable tan line in its place. I flinch as he inches closer, grazing the small of my back under the sheets. Seriously, at some point—soon—one of these guys is going to give me a heart attack, or, rather, I’m going to give one of them a black eye.
Fortunately, Greg stretches his chiseled arms over his head and climbs out of bed—in his boxer briefs. Suddenly I feel warm,
my cheeks flushed. A bead of sweat trickles down my neck to my chest, where it makes its final descent between my breasts.
What is this place? An inferno?
“Sorry, babe,” my bedmate says, frowning. “The AC must have gone out again. Don’t worry, I’ll call my guy.”
I nod, forcing a smile, as he turns on the ceiling fan before peering out the window for a long moment. “Won’t be long until
the pool’s ready,” he continues. “Just a bit more trenching and we’ll be able to pour concrete. In a few months, we’ll be
sipping sangrías on flamingo floaties.”
He pauses, oblivious to the fact that I detest sangría—and flamingo floaties. “Or maybe we just flip this place and turn a quick profit?”
Instead of waiting for my reply, Greg scrolls through his phone, face animated. “Oh, good news,” he continues. “Jensen’s just
texted. Your ring’s all fixed and ready for pickup. I’d grab it, but, honey, my schedule’s jam-packed. I have a breakfast
meeting with my sponsor, then a ton of Danbury Estates stuff. Mind stopping by this morning?”
Sponsor. Okay, so he’s in AA.
“Uh, sure,” I say, a little confused, as usual, of course.
He pulls on a pair of navy pants and white dress shirt before sitting on the edge of the bed beside me, lifting my right leg
into his lap. “Foot rub before I go?”
Without waiting for my response, he begins kneading my heel. It feels good—weirdly good. “How did I get so lucky?” he muses,
reaching for my second foot. “Don’t worry, babe. When this deal goes through, we’ll be set for life. Anything you want, it’s
yours.”
I smile nervously as he walks to the dresser, grabbing his wallet and keys as the jackhammer continues its relentless tirade
outside.
“Oh, don’t forget about our meeting at eleven. Victoria Campbell. It’s in the calendar. This one’s pivotal.” He flashes a smile. “I need your special sauce.”
In the spirit of self-preservation, I nod compliantly.
“Love you,” he says, kissing my cheek before heading to the door, turning back briefly as if awaiting my reply.
“Um...” I mutter. “Love... you... too.”
I listen as Greg’s footsteps fade into the ether, then let out a giant exhale and have a look around the sparsely furnished
bedroom, taking in every detail. The paint is fresh, the carpet, too. A new-car smell permeates the warm air. It has that
just-built-construction look—no curtains or wall art, just a few boxes in the far corner by the closet. Okay, so we just moved in?
I lean back against my pillow, trying to remember what Greg just said about my ring. That I’m supposed to pick it up? I reach
for the phone on my bedside table, opening the shared calendar: Pick Up Ring: 9:00 , beside Greg’s appointment, AA Breakfast .
I cool myself off in front of a fan for a long moment, before heading to the closet, where I frown, staring at a legion of
blazer-and-pants sets—in almost every color of the rainbow. They hang at attention like military officers awaiting my command.
Reluctantly, I choose a navy set, pairing it with a beige silk camisole and matching navy pumps, before giving myself a long
look in the bathroom mirror. My hair is a little darker than yesterday, and I notice a streak of gray at the temples. I lean
in closer, shocked. What is this? I don’t have gray hair, at least not yet , and what the heck is that on my face? I inch toward the mirror for a better look at the faded, but substantial, scar on my upper right cheek, just
below my eye socket. Yikes—what happened? I fumble through a few drawers until I find a tube of concealer, which I dab into place.
Moderately satisfied with my camouflaging skills, I survey the bedroom a final time for any clues about this life. Greg’s side of the closet tells me what I already know—he’s a tailored-suit sort of guy, with plenty of polished designer loafers and even more pressed shirts. Not surprising, but something else in the closet is. I kneel to get a better look, and there, in the far corner, a safe is wedged against the wall. I tug at the handle, but the keypad is locked.
I sigh, walking across the room to Greg’s nightstand. I open the top drawer and find a tube of eye cream and one of those
silk sleep masks the airline gives you on international flights. I check the bottom drawer next, gulping when I find a...
handgun lying inconspicuously beside a bottle of Advil. Spooked, I clutch my chest, sitting up straighter. Heart racing, I
reach inside the drawer, grasping the handle. I’ve never held a gun before. Should I be worried? Is Greg... a criminal?
I tell myself not to be ridiculous. Lots of people have guns. This is America, after all.
A little rattled, I delicately set the eerie discovery back inside the bottom drawer. I grab my phone and a beige Chanel bag
hanging in the closet, then venture downstairs.
The lower floor is just as sparsely furnished, with more moving boxes stacked around the perimeter. I look inside one—pots
and pans—then lift back the lid of another, where I find a collection of bubble-wrapped framed photos. I tear the plastic
off an eight-by-ten from our wedding day. There we are, smiling like the two happiest people on earth—bridesmaids and groomsmen
flanking us on either side. Some I recognize, others I don’t, but what’s most surprising is Frankie’s notable absence. Why wasn’t she there?
I set the photo on the coffee table, then venture into the kitchen, where I peer into the Sub-Zero fridge—empty, aside from
a few take-out containers and a jar of ketchup. On the granite island is an assortment of brochures, folders, and various
other glossy, full-color marketing materials. I open one of the packets, which is filled with sales information for what looks
like a new retirement community: The Danbury Estates: Where Retirement Meets Luxury. The photos depict smiling people in their seventies and eighties seemingly living their best lives: playing golf, sipping wine beside a rose garden, eating gourmet food served by a chef in a big white hat. So this must be the big “deal” Greg mentioned earlier. I tuck one of the brochures in my bag, then reach for a set of keys on the kitchen island.
If I thought the bedroom was hot, I do a double-take when I step outside, where I’m immediately hit by a wall of humidity.
I look right, then left, taking in the sea of houses around me—every one of them virtually the same. What is this? The Truman Show? A little girl, no more than eight, pedals her bike down the sidewalk, her older brother on a Razor scooter, just behind.
“Morning, Lena!”
I turn to my right, where a woman in a bathrobe with curlers in her hair is waving from her porch. She’s in her late sixties,
maybe older—hard to tell.
“Hot as Hades out here, isn’t it?” she continues, fanning her face as I approach.
“Indeed,” I reply, perspiring more by the second.
She smiles cheerfully, cinching the tie on her robe. “Oh, honey, I just wanted to say how happy Bob and I are to be investors
in the Danbury Estates.”
I nod, thinking of the marketing materials on the kitchen island.
“Between his bad back and my bad hip”—she pauses, clutching her side—“we just can’t wait to move in. And to think that you...
chose us... to come on board. Well, dear, we couldn’t be more grateful. Anyway, be sure to tell that wonderful hubby of
yours how grateful we are.”
“Um, I will,” I reply, smiling tentatively, trying my best to follow along.
“Oh,” she continues, beaming, “I saw your new billboard in town!”
I stare at her.
“Front and center on North Orange.” She nods, her fingers making air quotes. “ discover your sarasota paradise . When Bob and I drove by last night, I thought to myself, Our neighbor is a celebrity! I made him circle back so I could see it a second time. He said, ‘Ellen, she lives next door! If you want to see her, just stop by!’” She laughs. “Well, congratulations, dear.”
Dear God, I’m a real estate agent, with my face on a billboard. “Um, thanks,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
When I press the key fob, a Mercedes SUV with Florida plates beeps back at me. I slide into the driver’s seat and key Jensen’s
Jewelry into the navigation system.
With the AC blowing full-blast, I turn onto North Orange, immediately slamming my brakes when I notice the billboard Ellen
mentioned. There I am, in a glaring magenta pantsuit—arms folded confidently across my chest, a gleaming smile plastered on
my face. I pull the car to the side of the road to catch my breath. Wow, I look like a personal injury lawyer. Though it’s painful, I will myself to take a closer look. discover your sarasota paradise! the billboard reads. i’m lena lester, and i can help you find your forever home. call me today! It’s worse than I could possibly imagine. I’m the cheesiest sort of real estate agent, with the last name Lester.
The jewelry store is just ahead, and I pull into a spot in the parking lot out front.
“Hi,” I say to the woman behind the counter. “I’m here to... pick up my ring.”
“Ah yes,” she says. “I recognize you from the billboards. Derrick Lester’s wife, right?” she asks, eying me curiously.
I nod, a little taken aback. Weird, I must have gotten his name wrong. Greg, Derrick—whatever. It was a long time ago. There’s no mistaking Lester, though.
She disappears to the back room, before returning a moment later with a black velvet box. “It’s all fixed up,” she says, lifting
the lid to reveal a stunning gold setting with an enormous diamond at the center. “You’ll see that the... stone is now
secured. You shouldn’t have any more issues, with those prongs.”
“Wow,” I say, a little taken aback as I slip the bauble on my finger. It looks like something you’d see at a museum in London showcasing the crown jewels. “Thank you,” I continue, collecting myself. “What do I owe you? I mean... for the repairs.”
The woman shakes her head, her expression a little strained. “Your husband took care of everything.”
“Okay,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the enormous diamond on my hand. “Well, thanks.”
“Ma’am,” the woman says, giving me a long look.
“Yes?”
She pauses, eyes piercing mine, as she opens her mouth to speak, then shakes her head. “Nothing... it’s nothing. I just...
hope you’re... satisfied with our repairs.”
“Absolutely, yes,” I reply. “Thanks again.”
As if mechanically, the corners of her mouth creep upward into a smile. “You have a nice day, all right?”
Back in the car, I stare at the rock on my finger for a long—sweltering—moment before turning on the air and reaching for
my phone. I search for Frankie’s number, which, oddly, isn’t listed in my contacts. I sigh, dialing it in manually—hers and
Rosie’s being the only two I know by heart.
“Hello?” Frankie says, answering on the third ring. “Who is this?” Her voice sounds different—deeper, somehow, but also clipped
and impatient.
“Frankie! It’s me, Lena!”
There’s a long pause on the line, my heart beating faster with every second.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I... I’m in Florida. I’m—”
“Still with that douchebag, I take it.”
I grip the steering wheel tightly. “Um... yeah.”
“What’s this about, Lena? I don’t have much time.”
“Oh,” I continue, a little hurt. “I was just calling to... say hi.”
“Okay, then, hi.” She pauses. “Is that all?”
“Frankie, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”
She laughs. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”
“Well... yeah?”
“Lena, it’s been six years . You can’t just snap your fingers and expect me to forget everything that happened. I mean, if you’re having marital problems,
I’m sorry, well, not sorry. You should have left that guy a long time ago. Listen, I’ve got to run.” She sighs. “I wish you
the best, I really do, but—”
“Frankie, I need your help. I need to know what—”
“Goodbye, Lena.”
After she hangs up, I try her number again, but it goes straight to voice mail. I lean back against the edge of the car seat,
deeply disturbed and more lost than ever. What happened to us? In what version of my life am I estranged from my best friend? She’s like oxygen to me, and the thought of losing her? Well,
I can barely breathe. Even if this will all vaporize in the morning, I still want to know what happened between us. I need to know.
I sit in the car for a few minutes more, thinking about my predicament as I slide the ring off my finger, holding it up to
the light. I notice an inscription on the inside of the band. It’s tiny—almost impossible to read—but I can just make out
the microscopic engraving: 5683 forever , it reads. What the hell does that mean?
When my phone buzzes, I perk up for a moment, deflating when I see Greg, er, Derrick’s face on the screen. Reluctantly, I
answer. “Hey.”
“Hey, where are you?”
“At the jewelry shop,” I say. “I... just picked up my ring.”
“Oh good—you’re not too far out. I messed up. The Victoria Campbell meeting is at ten, not eleven. I’m on my way. How soon
can you get there?”
“I don’t know, I’ll... do my best.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ll stall until you arrive. This client, well, she’s a big one, babe. I need some of that Lena magic.”
“All right,” I say, sighing.
“The address is in the calendar. Hurry.”
I punch the location into my GPS, just as the woman from the jewelry shop appears in the parking lot, waving her arms at me
as she approaches.
“Hey,” I say, rolling down my window as a blast of offensively humid air rushes in. “Did I forget something?”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she begins. “I told myself I wouldn’t, but I’ve seen your billboards.
I know what a successful woman you are, and I”—she pauses, biting the edge of her lip—“well, I think you deserve to know the
truth.”
“What truth?”
She inhales, then exhales deeply. “Your ring,” she continues. “When your husband brought it in, I gave it our normal assessment,
like we do with all our clients’ pieces—you know, checking the size, noting inclusions, yada, yada. Well, when I inspected
yours, I...” She pauses, swallowing hard. “Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this, Mrs. Lester, but that stone is not a diamond.”
I look down at the ring, thoroughly confused. “Then what is it?”
She shakes her head. “Moissanite, cubic zirconia... possibly some other type of knockoff—I don’t know. All I can tell you
is that it’s fake. I’m sorry. I don’t know what your husband told you. I just... thought you deserved the truth.”
I nod, taking it all in, more annoyed than anything else. Who gives someone a knockoff engagement ring? Is this the kind of
thing Frankie was alluding to?
Standing beside my car, the woman purses her thin lips as she searches my face. “I really am sorry about this.”
“No,” I reply, regaining my composure, just like the woman on the billboard. “It’s okay.”
She nods. “Well, at least he did a good job with that engraving.”
I pause, doing my best to follow along.
“Five six eight three,” she continues. “It stands for the word love , right? On a keypad, anyway. It took me a minute, but when I figured it out, I had to admit... pretty clever.” Her smile slowly fades. “Anyway, I hope this hasn’t upset you.”
I shake my head. “I appreciate your honesty—more than you know.”
I pull up to an old Spanish colonial with cracked stucco and a tile roof in grave disrepair, clinging to its former glory
like an old woman who was crowned prom queen in 1959.
“There you are!” Derrick says as I step out of the car, gravel crunching beneath my pumps.
Wherever we are, it’s the boondocks. There isn’t another house in sight—not that I’d be able to tell. With layers of overgrowth
and vines creeping up the exterior, the property obviously hasn’t seen a weed whacker since the first Bush administration.
I shift my stance, cautiously eyeing my surroundings as if at any moment a creature might skulk out of the brush and clamp
onto my ankle. Yikes, there are alligators in Florida.
Derrick, however, seems entirely unfazed. “Ready?” he asks, eagerly, clutching his leather briefcase as he looks up at the
derelict home, eyes wide.
I shake my head. “Remind me why we’re here again?”
“Lena,” he whispers. “I told you. Victoria Campbell. She could be the Danbury Estates’ crown jewel .”
Like my wedding ring? I keep my thoughts to myself as I follow him to the house, where two stone lions perch on either side of the front door.
A green lizard slithers behind one, disappearing into the overgrowth as Derrick rings the doorbell.
A moment later, the hinges creak open, and a frail, older woman appears, squinting into the sunlight. At least eighty, maybe
older, with unkempt wispy white hair, and obviously confused, she eyes us suspiciously.
Derrick steps in with a winning smile. “Mrs. Campbell,” he says, extending his hand. “A pleasure. We spoke on the phone. I’m
Derrick Lester, and this is my wife, Lena.”
The woman nods blankly, her gaze shifting back and forth between me and Derrick. “It sure is hot out here!” he says, patting the back of his wrist against his brow. “Mind if we come in?”
“Are you a friend of Larry’s?” she asks cautiously.
Derrick pauses, his eyes scouring family photos on the entryway wall behind her. “Well, yes, I am. A good man, Larry.”
Mrs. Campbell’s face lights up as if Derrick has just uttered the secret code. “Come inside, then,” she says graciously, leading
us to the living room, where a TV is blaring. An enormous stack of yellowing newspapers teeters on the edge of the coffee
table, which is littered with wadded-up tissues and dirty plates and cups. I wince, taking in the sight of her home, but if
Derrick is concerned, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he opens his briefcase and places a marketing folder in her lap.
“As we discussed on the phone, we believe the Danbury Estates will be a perfect opportunity for you, ma’am,” he begins. “A
state-of-the-art retirement community, with all the bells and whistles, and, as one of our early, premiere investors, you qualify for our upgrade program.” He smiles. “Mrs. Campbell, have you ever imagined yourself living in a penthouse
suite?”
Her eyes get big. “A penthouse? Like in the movies?”
“Exactly,” Derrick replies, pulling a sheet of paper from the packet.
“Larry loves movies,” she says. “His favorite actress is Barbra Streisand. Did you see her in Hello Dolly ?”
“A classic,” Derrick replies, turning to me. “Right, Lena?”
I nod uncomfortably.
“All right,” Derrick continues, directing the woman’s attention back to the folder. “These are all the finishes you can choose from.” He grins. “Travertine tile or granite? Jacuzzi hot tub? Walk-in closet? I know it’s a lot to consider—and you can have it all—but don’t worry, we have time. I’ll circle back on the details. The good news is that construction is on track and clipping along well. If we can get the specifications mapped out for your penthouse before the end of the month, you should have no issues moving in by November 1—maybe even sooner. Home for the holidays, right?” He grins, turning to me. “Honey, tell her about the garden.”
I pause nervously, remembering the marketing materials this morning. “Uh, the garden, it’s—”
“Are there roses?” Mrs. Campbell asks. “Because I love roses. Larry always brings me two dozen on our wedding anniversary.”
She smiles at me. “He’s very romantic.”
“That’s... sweet,” I say, casting a wary look in Derrick’s direction.
“And, yes, ma’am,” he continues, “the Danbury Estates will have its very own rose garden. We’re even procuring a sign for
the entrance that reads”—he pauses, holding up his hands theatrically—“ stop and smell the roses .”
“Well, that sounds delightful,” Mrs. Campbell exclaims.
“Yes, yes,” Derrick says, extracting a piece of paper from his briefcase and setting it on the table before her. “Now the
easy part.” He hands her a pen. “All we need is your signature, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
“And here I thought I’d die in this old house.” She pauses, squinting at the document. “This is... just wonderful.”
“We’re happy to help,” Derrick continues. “And don’t forget, as a premiere investor, your return is likely to be significant.”
She smiles, pleased. “Well, I guess my ship finally came in, didn’t it? I can’t wait to tell Larry.” She looks around. “Have
you seen him? He should be home by now.” She cups her hands to her mouth. “Larry!” she calls. “Larry, come say hi to these
nice young people!”
“It’s okay,” Derrick says, patting her arm. “We’ll see Larry next time. I’ll stop by in a few days to go over your customizations.”
He slips the signed contract into his briefcase, before standing up and flashing me a knowing look. “Well, Mrs. Campbell,
we should be going. So much work to do, you know. I’ll be in touch, okay?”
“All right, dear,” she says.
Outside, Derrick is like a tight end who’s just run the football into the end zone. “Can you believe this?” he asks, almost giddy. “Lena, seriously. Do you have any idea what this property is worth?”
I shake my head, still a little stunned. Derrick, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to take a victory lap. He unfastens
the top button of his shirt. “Five million, at least.”
I look back at the ramshackle dwelling, slightly nauseated. I feel an urge to wash my hands—or vomit. Maybe both.
“Fifteen acres.” He looks around—eyes wild, plotting, planning. “That’s thirty parcels—at least. Thirty homes. An entire community.
Developers will be salivating.”
I stare ahead; none of this is adding up. “I don’t know, Derrick. Is Mrs. Campbell even in the right state of mind to make
such a big decision? Also, what about Larry?”
“Babe. Larry passed away in 1999 . They didn’t have children.” He grins. “Told you this was a home run.”
I clench my fist. “So you lied to her, then?”
“No, no,” he says quickly. “Of course not. Look, if her memories of Larry give her comfort, why rock the boat?” He tucks his
arm around my waist, smiling tenderly. “You have such a big heart, honey. I love that about you—always worried about others—but,
listen, we just closed an enormous deal, and she’s getting out of that hellhole. We’re helping her; she’s helping us. It’s
a win-win.” He opens his briefcase and pulls out the signed document, along with a stack of other pages. “Babe, I’ve got a
full plate today. Mind countersigning and sending this over to Christina at escrow?”
“Wait,” I say, taken aback. “What are all of these other pages?”
“Just standard legal stuff,” he says. “Be sure to send the PDF out this afternoon, okay? I want to keep this ball rolling .”
Before I can protest, Derrick kisses my cheek and heads to his car.