Chapter 2
Taio
It’s been three years since I’ve been here.
The Marionette’s brass handle curls beneath my fingertips, cold and smooth as antique coins.
The doorman clears his throat, his charcoal peacoat buttoned to the collar, a cloud of breath hanging between us in the February air.
Behind the frosted glass, silhouettes of waiters glide between tables, carrying silver trays held high above their shoulders.
A woman’s laugh spills out when someone exits—sharp, practiced, like the clink of crystal against crystal.
I check my reflection in the window, smoothing the lapels of my sports coat with sleeves two inches too long.
Four years ago, I would’ve had it tailored for a perfect fit.
The new me doesn’t give a rat’s ass. I have heavier things on my mind than pristine attire that screams, I don’t look at prices on the menu.
I used to walk through these doors comfortably, like this uppity restaurant was a second home. Mom loved this restaurant. We always started with an artisan charcuterie tray with a warm brie. Every birthday, anniversary, graduation, or celebration dinner was here at the Marionette.
I can’t remember ever frowning here. All the memories quilting together as I stroll down memory lane are warm and happy. But that might as well be a different life now.
I’m here on a mission and it’s anything but pleasant. I ball up my trembling fist and draw in a deep breath.
It’s like a job. Put on your mask. Treat it like any other Friday night.
Except it’s not. And I can’t.
I push through anyway.
The heat hits me first, then the smell—butter and wine and something floral from the massive arrangement in the foyer.
A string quartet plays somewhere in the main dining room, the notes floating over the low murmur of conversation.
Everything is exactly as I remember it: the cream-colored walls, the crystal chandeliers casting soft stripes of light, the subtle clink of silver against porcelain.
I make it four steps before the ma?tre d’ materializes.
“Good evening, sir.” His smile is polished and professional, but his eyes have already conducted a full audit—my shoes, my watch, the cut of my coat. I pass, apparently, because his smile doesn’t waver. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m meeting someone at the bar.”
The smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “I see. And the name on the reservation?”
“I don’t have the name. She made it.”
Now the smile is glacial. The ma?tre d’ shifts his weight, positioning himself between me and the dining room like a bouncer at a club I’m not cool enough to enter. “Perhaps you could describe your party? I’d be happy to check if they’ve arrived.”
Translation: I don’t believe you belong here, and I’m two seconds from suggesting you try the burger joint down the block.
Three years ago, I would’ve given him my father’s name and watched him scramble.
James Wilkes, table twelve, the usual. Back when “the usual” meant a corner booth and the entire staff knew my dad took his whiskey neat, my mom liked hers on the rocks, and I was the shameless chump who could only take his whiskey sour.
Now I’m just another guy in a nice coat who might be lying about having plans to sneak into one of Manhattan’s most elite and exclusive clubs.
“Taio.”
The female voice comes from behind the ma?tre d’, and his posture shifts instantly—shoulders dropping, smile warming, the full performance of deference.
“Mrs. Carrington.” He practically bows. “My apologies, I didn’t realize—”
“He’s with me, Gregory.”
I watch her approach through the gap in the ma?tre d’s defensive stance.
Anne Carrington, fifty-three, in a regal navy dress.
Her blonde hair is swept up in a twist, though I can see the darker roots at her temples where she’s due for a touch-up.
She’s thinner than I remember. The angles of her face are sharper, the hollows beneath her cheekbones more pronounced.
Three years of stress will do that to a person. Three years of frantically rebuilding what my father stole.
“Of course, of course.” Gregory—who apparently we’re on a first-name basis with now—steps aside with a flourish. “Right this way, Mrs. Carrington. Your table is ready.”
Anne reaches me first, and for a moment we just look at each other. Then she does something that catches me off guard—she pulls me into a hug. Brief, but warm and maternal.
“You look too thin,” she murmurs near my ear.
We both know this is a lie. I lost a lot of weight right after the scandal broke loose, but I’m at least twenty pounds of muscle heavier than when I last saw Mrs. Carrington and her daughters.
But it’s just the thing people say to convey, I’m worried about you.
“You’re one to talk.”
She laughs, a short exhale that sounds more tired than amused, and loops her arm through mine.
We follow Gregory through the dining room, past the tables of power couples and business dinners and old money pretending to be modest. I keep my eyes forward.
I don’t want to recognize anyone, and I definitely don’t want anyone to recognize me.
The table is tucked into a corner, semi-private, with a view of the park through frost-laced windows.
I pull out Anne’s chair before Gregory can reach for it—old instincts, the ones my mother drilled into me my entire childhood.
I would beam when she’d call me her little gentleman.
I wore a three-piece suit and pocket square for Halloween when I was six.
I was always destined to have a very different life than I ended up having.
“Your server will be right with you,” Gregory says, setting leather-bound drink menus in front of us. “Can I start you with some wine? Perhaps the Montrachet you enjoyed last time?”
“Just water for now, thank you.” Anne doesn’t even glance at the menu.
I wait until Gregory retreats before I speak. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Rescue me from the ma?tre d’. I had it handled.”
“You had it handled?” She raises an eyebrow. “Taio, he was about thirty seconds from calling security. You can’t just wear a sports coat in here. You need a formal suit jacket. I didn’t agree to have lunch with the riffraff today.”
“I didn’t mean to—” I stop, because her lips are spread and her teeth on display.
I realize from her wide smile she’s teasing me.
It’s so familiar that something in my chest twists painfully.
After all, half the memories I have at this restaurant include Mrs. Carrington, her husband, and two daughters, one of which I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.
A server appears with water and a practiced speech about the evening’s specials. Anne orders a champagne—Cristal with an orange twist, her go-to for as long as I’ve known her—and a second one for me before I can object.
“You need to eat something,” she says once the server leaves. “Order whatever you want. My treat.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine. I ate before I came.”
A lie. I gulped down a chalky protein drink four hours ago but that’s it.
My stomach is rolling at the smell of warm French bread and honey butter.
My mouth waters remembering how juicy and flavorful the ribeyes are here, but there’s no way I can order anything on this menu on Mrs. Carrington’s dime.
I promised I’d pay her back, not take even more from her and her family.
“Taio.” Her voice softens. “Please.”
“I didn’t come here to eat, Mrs. Carrington.”
She sighs, but she doesn’t push. That’s one of the things I always appreciated about Anne—she knows when to let something go.
Unlike her husband, who holds grudges like family heirlooms. I invited both Mr. and Mrs. Carrington to this lunch.
Only one of them showed. Mrs. Carrington didn’t even bother to offer an excuse.
We both know the truth. I remind Richard of my dad, so he’s going to hate me until his dying breath, maybe beyond.
We sit in silence for a moment, the string quartet filling the space between us with something melancholy and classical. I study the tablecloth, the weave of the linen, the small imperfection near the corner where a thread has come loose.
“How have you been?” Anne asks finally. “And don’t say ‘fine.’ I want a real answer.”
“Busy.”
“With?”
I make an honest mental list. Escorting. Screwing strangers for money…a lot of them around your age. Visiting my father in prison. Missing my mother. Trying not to drown in the disappointment of my life.
“Work,” I say. “Staying busy.”
She watches me for a long moment, her gaze shrewd. Anne Carrington is a lot of things, easily fooled is not one of them. She knows I’m not telling her something, and she knows I know she knows.
But she lets it go.
“How’s your father?”
And there it is. The shift I’ve been bracing for. The temperature at the table drops ten degrees, even though nothing visible has changed.
“He’s…the same. Taking classes. Reading a lot.” I reach into my coat, fingers brushing the envelope I’ve been carrying against my chest like a secret. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to meet.”
I pull out the envelope and slide it across the table. It’s thick—not as thick as I’d like, but thick enough. Five thousand dollars in hundreds, rubber-banded into a neat brick. I straighten my shoulders and add, “That’s all I have right now after Dad’s legal fees. It’s rightfully yours.”
Anne looks at the envelope but doesn’t touch it. “Taio…”
“I know it’s not much. Especially compared to what he took.” I have to force the words out past the knot in my throat. “But it’s a start. There’s more coming. I just need a little time.”
“Sweetheart.” She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Her skin is cool, her rings catching the candlelight. “Where is this coming from?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”