Thirty-Six #2
walks over to talk to her. I use the distraction to disappear into the tent.
I’m a lioness stalking her prey, single-minded in my search, brushing off the various people who try to talk to me, who try to stop me as I move through the crowds, scanning furiously for the one face I’m looking for.
There she is. Clara. In a figure-hugging black suit, the hem several inches above the knee, with elegant D’Orsay Pumps that
look like Manolo Blahnik. Her mousy blond hair has been severely highlighted since the last time I saw her, now sweeping her
cheekbones—cheekbones that seem larger and higher than I have ever seen, cheekbones that in fact did not appear to have existed
prior to my trip to Europe—in a platinum wave.
She has maneuvered her features into a mask of sadness as she shakes her head while talking to a man I don’t recognize, but
I see the split second of fear in her eyes when she looks around the room as she talks, and catches sight of me.
“Missy . . .” Her voice drips concern as she walks over to me, extending her hands in a bid to clasp mine, but I do not move,
I stand stock-still as she moves toward me, refusing to be embraced, refusing to touch her. I stifle a burst of laughter at
how she has changed, how she must have plotted this all along. Loyal, sensible Clara Woodlander. So reliable. No social life
until a husband miraculously appeared, only interested in being the perfect foil to Marty Cooke. Look at her now, reeking
of money, of success, of power.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she says as I think how fake she is, how fake she has always been. I’m furious with myself
for not seeing this before, for believing that she cared about me, had my best interests at heart. “I am so sorry for everything
that has happened.”
You liar, I think. This is no longer the woman I thought of as my mentor and friend, the woman I hoped to be. I’m done with
pretending.
I lean forward, my mouth close to her ear. I smell her perfume, which has changed. For years it was gardenia, floral, light,
but now she smells of amber and fig, dark, and dusky, and mysterious.
“I know what you did,” I say in her ear, stepping back, and is it my imagination or do I see her blanch?
She opens her mouth to say something, doubtless to try and wriggle out of it, or make me look like a daughter so crazed with grief I will make all kinds of crazy accusations, but I have no room for liars and traitors.
She allowed me to think myself worthless.
She allowed me to think my own father didn’t believe in me, and now I know that wasn’t true.
I turn and walk away, planning on finding Lucy and getting out of here, when I see a familiar face approaching. I don’t want
to be here, I don’t want to engage with anyone, but seeing Preeti, her bright eyes shining, I literally break into a run,
falling into her hug.
“What the fuck?” she says, dragging me out of the tent and behind the trees on one side of the garden. “What the fuck is going
on? I mean, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry and so devastated at the loss of your father, but what the fuck is Clara doing as CEO
and what the fuck, Missy? Just what the fuck?”
I start crying tears of relief, which quickly turn to laughter as she holds my arms and keeps saying “what the fuck?” over
and over.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? I’m here for your father’s funeral. Pavit was supposed to be here as well but usual
last-minute family drama.” She rolls her eyes. “Missy, I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Why are you no longer CEO and
what the fuck is that bitch Clara doing in your place? I think something fishy has happened and I want to know what it is.”
I exhale, long and loudly. “Thank God,” I say.
“Thank God you’re here. It’s a nightmare.
Everything is awful. I don’t blame Clara for my father’s death, but the minute she knew he was incapacitated, I’m pretty sure she got him to sign papers that revoked my position as CEO and put her there in my place.
I met the nurse who told me he had no idea what he was signing.
She told Scarlett she wanted to see him to say goodbye, and had him sign when he had no idea what he was signing. ”
Preeti is still. “Can you prove this?”
“I think so. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do yet, but I have the nurse who said he was barely conscious and confused,
didn’t know who anyone was. Even Scarlett said Clara had come to say goodbye, on the exact date he signed the papers. She
would have brought the papers to the hospital and done it without anyone’s knowledge.”
“God. This is huge, Missy.” She shakes her head. “I knew it. I told Pavit there was something fishy, but he didn’t want to
get involved. He said there were all kinds of internal workings that we weren’t aware of, and that we didn’t know the full
story. I told him that was true, but there is no way Marty Cooke would have gotten rid of his daughter, deathbed or no deathbed.
I don’t want to have anything to do with that Clara, but Pavit says we are contractually bound. If we break the contract,
there is a huge penalty. We’ve got to get this fixed.” She squeezes my hand. “I know we haven’t known each other long, but
I know you’re a sister. I will do whatever it takes to help make this right.” She releases my hand and claps her own hand
to her chest. “TeamMissy,” she says.
I put my own hand to my chest. “TeamPreeti.” I smile.
“Nope. You’re TeamMissy too. At least until we figure out what to do to expose that bitch.” We both turn at the rustling of
leaves. Nico comes tearing through the foliage, a wide smile on his face, his white-blond hair sticking up in a sweaty mess.
He looks exactly as a six-year-old should: happy and carefree. No one would ever know his father had just died.