Chapter 14
WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AND IT’S been a long, exhausting day. I’m tired and hungry, and I’d love to just stay in my own apartment and chill. But I promised Vicky I’d meet her for dinner. Since there’s no time to change out of my nanny gear and into real clothes, I think about canceling.
Then I get a better idea.
True, Metcalf swore me to secrecy about this new assignment. But I’d feel better if somebody knew what I was up to. Worst-case scenario, if things really go south with the cartel, Vicky will be able to identify my charred body.
Vicky and I have been friends forever, since junior high. Even at thirteen she was tall, blond, and absolutely gorgeous. I tried desperately to hate her back then. We all did. But we couldn’t. She was just too nice.
Even today at fifty, like me, Vicky has stayed that way—tall, gorgeous, and still nice.
But now her shoulder-length hair is the color of polished sterling.
I get to the restaurant first and am sitting at a table in the rear, nursing a glass of pinot grigio, when Vicky enters.
I wave to her and she waves back and walks toward me, pushing past all the people at the bar.
I stand up as she gets closer, then screeches to a stop—like Road Runner right before he tumbles off the cliff. Beep-beep.
“Elinor? Holy shit! What happened?”
Vicky’s shocked at my appearance. I knew she would be. I decided to show up in my new nanny body, bust, face, and hair.
“I’m fine. I look like this because of a job,” I tell her.
“Doing what? I’ll have a Negroni, please.” That last statement is to the waiter who’s been watching Vicky since she walked in the door, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. He’s falling in love with her. Most men do.
“On the rocks?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
“Very good, miss,” he says to her. Then he looks at my empty glass. “And another pinot for…” He hesitates.
Oh God. Is he going to say your mother?
“For you?” he says, a beat too late.
I nod. With one last wistful look at Vicky, the waiter bows and leaves. I have to smile. Tonight is no different from the way I always feel around Vicky. She’s a living, breathing man-magnet. And I’m like something out of The Walking Dead.
“Well?” she says.
Now comes the hard part. I have to tell her what I’m up to, and she’s not going to like it. “I’m, uh, on a special assignment.”
“Oh?”
“With the FBI.”
Her eyes widen. “Don’t tell me this has anything to do with… him.”
Like any cherished friend, Vicky is always ready to declare war on anyone who hurts me. Friends are like that. Girlfriends, anyway. Always ready to take your side, no matter what.
LIZZIE BORDEN: Listen, um, I should tell you—I just gave my father forty whacks. Left him on the dining-room floor bleeding out.
HER FRIEND: Well, whatever. Serves him right. He was always on your case.
“It’s only for a few months,” I tell Vicky, trying to downplay it. “An undercover thing. He wants me to dig up information on somebody. I’ll be living with a family up in Westchester.”
The waiter reappears with Vicky’s Negroni, my pinot, a straw basket filled with an assortment of breads, and a dish of olive oil.
Vicky raises her glass half-heartedly. “Cheers, I guess,” she says, clearly not a happy camper.
We clink glasses and sip. Still starving from my first day as a nanny, I dive into the basket—soft rolls, crispy breadsticks, small cheddar muffins that I’m tempted to stuff into my pockets.
The good thing about this assignment: I don’t have to worry about carbs for a while.
My real body is hibernating under all the rubber and might not make an appearance until spring.
“And the FBI needs you to look like this because…”
“They don’t want me to call attention to myself.”
“They’re not afraid you’ll frighten small children?”
“The family doesn’t have any.”
“Well, that’s good. So what will you be doing for them? Scrubbing floors?”
Here comes the tricky part. “Taking care of a baby.”
“What?”
Vicky says that so loudly, a woman at the next table whips around to make sure everything is okay. Then she spots Vicky’s faux Birkin bag next to her chair and stares at it longingly. That’s the charm of my friend. She makes even a knockoff pocketbook look desirable.
“Okay,” Vicky says. “Now I’m really worried.”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m—”
“Not about you. About the baby. And the country. The FBI couldn’t find anyone else on the entire Eastern Seaboard who would be better suited for this job? Just look around.”
I do. The place is crawling with young people checking themselves out in the frosted mirrors. We hear the shrieks and chatter of Gen Z’ers three-deep at the bar all trying to impress one another.
“Anybody here would be a wiser choice than—”
Just then, a busboy drops a tray. Metallic clatter and then the sound of breaking glass.
“Well, maybe not him,” Vicky says. She thinks about this for a moment. “Actually—yes. Him too. I’d still pick him over you.”
“I get it,” I say.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, good luck.” She downs the rest of her Negroni in a single gulp and holds her empty glass up to the waiter, who is hovering again.
“May I tell you about tonight’s specials?” he asks.
“No need. We’ll both have the lobster ravioli,” I say. He looks crestfallen. He was probably looking forward to spending a little more time at our table.
“Can I ask what made you agree to this job?” Vicky asks as the waiter departs.
“It’s only for a few months. He promised they’ll restore my pension. And my reputation.”
“Which he destroyed.”
I decide to ignore this remark, even though she’s absolutely right. “Plus, I get a car. If I handle this well, it might lead to other things.”
She takes a deep breath. “So you sold your soul to the devil.”
“Not sold,” I say, dipping the last piece of focaccia into the olive oil. “Rented. It’s all very under-the-radar. They told me not to tell anybody. Strict orders.”
“But you’re telling me because…?”
A delicate question. How do I put this? I have to be honest without frightening her. “Well, like any FBI assignment, this job is not without risks. Think of this as a disaster check-in. Next of kin and all that. Just in case, at some point, you have to identify my body.”
She looks me up and down, taking in the brown liner that highlights every wrinkle, my ridiculously bulbous bosom, my hair that looks as if it were styled with a Weedwacker.
“Identify your body? Are you kidding?” she asks. “I can’t even do that now.”