Chapter 1 #2
“I guess we’ll talk about that later, because Gemma’s here. She’s in the foyer.”
Gemma. Another name in my mental roster of dark horses. If Polly’s my pint-size neighbor sidekick, Gemma’s my grown-up project.
Still buried under a silk dress, my phone starts vibrating again—a low, insistent rattle against the custom wood of the island.
But I ignore it, instead grabbing the Neiman Marcus bag on the island and a garment bag hanging by the door.
Then, brushing past Beau with another kiss, I head toward the front of the house, where Gemma is waiting.
“Hey, Este,” she says as I round the corner. “You look great.”
The designer dress I don’t remember choosing comes into full view now—the shimmer of the satin is too delicate to be practical—and I feel a flare of self-consciousness.
Gemma is wearing a button-down shirt and high-waisted navy trousers, crisp and unfussy—her unofficial work uniform.
And the contrast between our outfits feels like a fault line.
Once we were both chasing a break. Now our lives have split in opposite directions.
My cheeks heat, and I wonder if she sees it, too. The fork in the road where I got lucky and she didn’t.
I first met Gemma ten years ago in California, and she’s the only person from my past life I still talk to.
Way back then I was an aspiring corporate executive.
She was bartending at a place near my office.
After Beau and I left the West Coast, I lost touch with everyone from that part of my life.
But about a year ago—when photos of Nora and me briefly went viral after Will had gone missing—Gemma found my private Instagram.
The new account. The one I made when Beau and I moved to Florida.
The bar where she worked had closed, and she was looking for a change. Not long after, she moved here, trading L.A.’s cutthroat service scene for something in the Central Florida hospitality industry.
Tourism and hospitality are sizable economic pillars here, and Gemma has a gift for thoughtful touches so perfect they almost seem subliminal.
I helped her land a part-time gig with Marcus, managing Lemon & Fig.
Next week, she has an interview with one of the new hotels down by the theme parks.
Something that might be the next step on her career ladder.
I’ve been where she is—hopeful, hungry, and almost there. I like helping her. Maybe I need it more than I want to admit.
Beau’s money makes our lives feel like a glass-bottom boat. We can see everything happening around us, but we’re insulated. Remote. We skate above the grind of other people’s jobs and skim over gossip.
That’s the way I prefer it. Or at least, I tell myself I do. Who wouldn’t?
Beau and I have been in Winter Park for five years now, splashing out our new money on a mansion at the end of an exclusive private drive known to locals as the Isle of Sicily.
But we didn’t pick Winter Park for its two country clubs.
We picked it because it’s as far away from California as possible without leaving the continental United States.
All part of our glass-boat lifestyle.
Restlessness crept in, though. And that’s about the time I started looking for underdogs to rehabilitate—people like Polly and Nora.
Maybe it’s because my parents died when I was a teenager, and I know what truly being alone in the world can feel like.
Or because I felt orphaned a second time when life in California blew up in my face.
Maybe I envy the way people like Nora and Polly still have a stubborn faith in the world.
I’m a sucker for anyone who wears their heart on their sleeve.
It’s probably all of those things mixed in with a side of unlimited free time.
Whatever the pathology, I’ve been helping Gemma with her job hunt all summer, reviewing her résumé, making calls to what few connections I have, and practicing interview strategies with her.
She’s this close to landing on the next stepping-stone.
I remember what it’s like to stand at the bottom of the career ladder, dreaming of reaching the top.
“This is for you,” I say, holding up the garment bag, swallowing another pinch of survivor’s guilt.
My lucky work dress. I used to wear it like a suit of armor. Now, I hand her the bag with the dress inside—steamed and waiting to work its magic one more time.
“It’s vintage Chanel,” I say solemnly. “It’s the last thing I have from my chief of staff days in California, so it’s something of a collector’s item. I’m going to need it back. But”—I proffer the Neiman Marcus bag next—“there’s something in there for you to keep.”
Gemma’s face ticks with curiosity. “Este, you’ve already done so much. You didn’t have to—” Amidst her protests, she’s lifting the shoebox out, removing the lid, and tearing through the tissue paper. “Jimmy Choo?” She squeals and her face lights, looking between me and the brand-new designer shoes.
I had seen her admiring my Jimmy Choo pumps at a dinner a few weeks ago, and when she landed the interview, I knew she needed a pair of her own.
“They’re not exactly sensible for Lemon & Fig,” I say, nodding at her black work mules. She solemnly pulls out the new heel to admire the point of the three-inch stiletto. “But in the right setting, they’ll make you feel ten feet tall.”
There’s an awed expression on her face as she examines the shoes, like they’re enchanted—or the gateway to a version of herself she’s only dreamed of until now. I know what she’s thinking, because I’ve been where she is.
This is the beginning of everything.
Beginnings are rare—electric and intoxicating. Alight with the promise of anything being possible. I’ve always found them preferable to endings.
“Thank you.” She hugs the shoes to her chest, adding, “I promise I’ll have the dress dry-cleaned and back in your closet the second the interview is over.”
“It’s not like I’ll need it that quickly, but it’s important to me.”
I was wearing it the night I met Beau.
She nods, like it’s a promise.
“Oh, I almost forgot! Check your email,” I say.
“I made you a cheat sheet. It’s a rundown of answers to McKinsey-style interview questions.
Things people like to ask to throw you off-balance.
Like How would you explain blockchain to a Martian?
or How many golf balls would it take to fill a Boeing 737? Curveballs designed to make you sweat.”
The kinds of questions I used to ace.
Gemma opens her phone and scans the document. “You annotated this.”
“It’s color-coded, too,” I say. “I might be retired, but I’m still me.”
Someone’s going to reach the top of their career track. There was a time when I thought it would be me. I had big dreams of sealing myself off in some well-appointed executive wing—aloof and in control. But now, it feels like it should be Gemma.
“I better get going,” she says. “My shift starts in about an hour and I still have errands to run. But I’ll see you there?”
“You will.” I walk her to the door. “I’ll be the one hoarding Marcus’s passed hors d’oeuvres.”
Instead of her laughing at my joke, though, Gemma’s face softens into something earnest. “I really mean it. I don’t think I would have gotten through this job search without your support.
I won’t forget it.” She throws her arms around me, squeezing as if she could transfer gratitude through force. “Thank you so much, Este.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper into her hair. She releases me.
The knowledge that my lucky work dress is off for a new adventure sparks the flicker of a memory, faint but unmistakable.
There’s a whole world still running on ambition and hustle and the fight to reach some top. And I’m here, in a house half the size of a Los Angeles city block.
I found the power and control I was after in the bubble Beau and I made together, and don’t tell The Feminine Mystique, but it’s just as good.
My career went from being my entire life to something I can only barely remember the shape and size of—some vague sketch of a thing. My lucky dress and Beau are the only proof it ever happened at all. And after how spectacularly badly things went toward the end, that’s the way I like it.
“You’re a good friend,” Gemma says.
“Careful,” I warn. “If you make me cry, I’m taking the shoes back.”
“Too late.” She steps back with a smirk. “Me and the shoes are already gone.”
“Text me if you need to borrow earrings,” I call after her. “But don’t get any ideas about my handbag collection.”
She blows me a kiss as she disappears out the door.
And then, the foyer is quiet again.
Beau is leaning in the archway that leads back toward our bedroom. “Your work dress is going on a job interview?”
I can hear what he’s not saying. The dress I once wore for forty-eight hours straight while accompanying my boss to conferences on both coasts is going on an interview. This time without me.
“Do you miss it?” Beau asks, searching my face.
I don’t miss the stress migraines or eating dinner at my desk. But I ran on the high of being indispensable. Sometimes I still miss the rush of what that was.
Maybe that’s how I ended up out past midnight with a tween, throwing Charmin on Carol’s fence.
“I wouldn’t trade our lives here for anything,” I say.
Beau tilts his head. “What about your Carol Parker vendetta? Would you trade that?”
“Hey, the TPing story stays between us,” I say with a smile and a wagging finger.
“Sure. My lips are sealed.” Beau follows me back toward the closet. “I did everything I could to civilize you,” he teases. “But you really are unreformable, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m beyond help,” I agree, matching his flirtatious tone. “But only one of us could be the rich, hot, smart one, and I drew the short straw.”