Chapter 1
ONE
veronica
Sometimes, when the universe wants you to change the course of your life, it sends you a sign.
Perhaps a recurring dream. Or you keep seeing the same numbers everywhere. Or hearing the same song over and over again.
Me?
I got a sext.
I had very little experience with sexting—none at all, really—but in my opinion, this one wasn’t bad.
It was from my fiancé, Cornelius “Neil” Vanderhoof V.
Hey Valerie. I can’t stop thinking about your naked body in my bed last night. Your sexy mouth. Those hands all over me. The way I licked every inch of your skin.
There were even some emojis. An eggplant. A cat. Some raindrops.
While I was taking it all in, another text arrived.
Suddenly I was subjected to an up-close and personal pic of the Vanderhoof family jewels, making it very clear that Neil was eager to repeat last night’s activities, right now if possible.
Look how bad I want you right now. Think we have time for an afternoon delight?
An afternoon delight?
Today?
There were a few obvious problems with this.
First, my name wasn’t Valerie.
Second, I hadn’t been in his bed last night.
Finally, we were going to be busy this afternoon.
GETTING MARRIED.
In fact, I was already tucked away in the little “bride’s room” off the vestibule of Cherry Tree Harbor’s charming little Chapel by the Sea.
I was wearing the big white strapless dress Neil had liked best. My veil was pinned above the elegant chignon he had suggested.
My makeup had been professionally done, and it was understated and classic—just like Neil had requested.
He’d even sent me a photo from Pinterest so I could get the look just right.
A natural eye. A faint blush on the cheeks. A demure, nude lip.
“But I like a red lip,” I said.
“I know you do, teacup, but that’s more of a showy thing, isn’t it? Like stage makeup?”
My shoulders stiffened. Was that a dig at my past?
When Neil and I met, I was a Radio City Rockette.
He was in the audience one night, and he said when the curtain went up, he took one look at me and knew in an instant he had to have me.
He waited with flowers at the stage door every night for a week before I finally gave in and had dinner with him.
“It’s just that Mother would prefer we keep things toned down,” he went on.
“Things like my personality?”
“Don’t make such a fuss, teacup. It’s just lipstick. And you know how she is.”
Did I ever.
I’d been putting up with Bootsy Vanderhoof’s subtle judgment and criticism for a solid year. She handed out her opinions like they were gold coins, about everything from my wardrobe (too black) to my job (too splashy) to my complexion (too pale) to my laugh (too loud).
“Yes,” I said through my teeth.
“Good.” Neil had given me a patronizing kiss on the cheek—he’d perfected that move—and moved on to how he’d prefer me to wear flats with my wedding dress instead of heels. He wasn’t short, but I was a solid five-foot-ten, and two-inch heels made us about even in stature.
This was not in keeping with the way Neil saw the world.
“But Neil,” I said, “I wore heels when I had my final fitting. If I wear flats with my dress, it will be too long.”
“No need to fuss, the shop will hem it for you,” he said confidently.
“We’ve still got two weeks, and we’re certainly good enough customers.
All three of my sisters bought their wedding gowns there.
” His voice took on the haughty tone of someone who’d done a massive favor for you that you didn’t properly appreciate.
“The Vanderhoof family has practically kept that shop in business.”
I pressed my lips together. I knew alllll about his three older sisters’ weddings—where they bought their gowns and what flowers they carried and what foods were served at dinner and what music was played at the yacht club receptions.
Every one of them had done practically the same exact thing, as if the same June wedding was on repeat three years in a row—ours would be the fourth.
The guests had to feel like they were in the movie Groundhog Day at this point.
But if I’d learned anything in the last year, it was that the Vanderhoofs of Chicago’s Gold Coast believed in tradition.
Tradition ruled the day. You did not ignore it, buck it, or break it.
You didn’t dare criticize it. You embraced it, reverently, eagerly, yet nonchalantly—no one likes a fuss—and then the Vanderhoofs would approve of you.
And the crazy thing was, I’d wanted that approval.
I’d worked so hard to earn it, to be treated like I fit in to their family.
Twelve months of allowing myself to be shaped into a different person.
Of trying to distract myself from grief.
Of doing my best to keep a promise I never should have made in the first place. I’d been so desperate to belong.
But as I stared at those texts, it was like a fog began to lift.
This was all wrong.
I didn’t want to marry him.
And he didn’t really want to marry me—not the real me, anyway.
I glanced at my phone again, certain that this wasn’t the first time he’d cheated and would not be the last.
There had been several times over the last year that I’d suspected Neil wasn’t entirely faithful—the smell of a strange perfume on his clothes, a flirtatious wink at a pub waitress, a knowing look exchanged among his male co-workers at the office Christmas party.
He always brushed aside my worries or had a decent enough excuse, but doubt lingered at the back of my mind. His father was a notorious cheat—a philanderer, whispered the ladies at tennis—and Neil had been groomed his entire life to step into his father’s polished wing tips.
Like father, like son, was what everyone said about them.
“I don’t want to marry him,” I said out loud. “I don’t want his name or his money or his Lake Shore Drive high-rise or his family connections. I don’t need to be Veronica Vanderhoof—I’ll be plain old Roni Sutton, and I’m fine with that.”
“Are you okay, dear?”
I jumped at the sound of the voice behind me.
It was Irene, the church’s wedding coordinator, who’d entered the room so quietly I hadn’t heard her.
“Yes.” I was surprised at how calm I sounded. “I’m actually okay.”
Irene moved closer to me with tentative steps, hugging her clipboard to her chest. “Are you sure?” She glanced around the empty room. “Where are your friends? I thought you had . . .” She checked her notes. “Three bridesmaids?”
“I do, but they’re not my friends. They’re the groom’s sisters. I think they’re with the family, greeting guests.”
“Oh. I see.” Her eyes moved down the page. “No maid of honor?”
“She had a baby two days ago, so she couldn’t make it.” I felt a pang of longing for Morgan, who’d been so loyal to me.
“And no father of the bride, correct? You’ll be unescorted down the aisle?”
I wasn’t going to walk down the aisle, escorted or otherwise, but Irene didn’t need to know that yet.
“That’s the plan,” I said.
Suddenly I was grateful for the sneakers hidden beneath the ballgown skirt of my newly hemmed dress, rather than the ivory Chanel ballet flats Neil had gifted me last week.
It had felt like a monumental act of defiance to wear them, even if they couldn’t be seen—I saw it now as a little sign that not all of my spirit had been snuffed out.
Also, I might have to make a hasty exit.
“Well, try to relax.” Irene smiled without showing any teeth. “Guests are starting to arrive, but you’ve got about thirty more minutes.”
“Actually, could you send Neil in here?”
Irene looked aghast and steepled her fingers above her pearls. “Neil? The groom?”
“Yes, please.”
“But it’s before the wedding! You can’t see each other before the wedding.”
“I know what the tradition is. Just send him in.” Hopefully he didn’t still have his hand in his pants when she found him.
Scandalized, she left the room. I glanced at my phone again, rereading the words he’d sent Valerie, his assistant. She’d worked for him for about six months, a pretty young blonde I’d heard Bootsy refer to behind one hand as a “social climber.”
She must have stayed last night at the Vanderhoof’s sprawling summer home overlooking the bay (they referred to it as a “cottage,” but the place had eight bedrooms, a tennis court, and a name—they called it Rosethorn), although I found it hard to believe Bootsy had issued such an invitation. Maybe Neil had snuck her in.
I’d stayed at a quaint little inn just off Main Street that was walking distance from the salon and spa where Morgan and I had made hair and makeup appointments.
After she’d called me sobbing that she wouldn’t be able to come in from New York since she was going into early labor, Bootsy had suggested I keep the reservation since all the bedrooms at Rosethorn would be occupied by family. Neil hadn’t argued.
More missed signs.
As I stuck my phone back into my bag, I remembered why I’d been digging through it in the first place. After studying my classic and understated makeup in the full-length mirror bolted to one wall, I’d decided I looked so unlike myself that I’d started to panic.
Getting married shouldn’t mean losing yourself completely, right? I knew marriage took patience, acceptance, and compromise, but did it have to take beige lipstick?
I’d decided to add a little bit of color to my look—I’d stuck my own makeup case in my bag—and was hunting for the tube of Don’t F*ck With Me, my favorite shade of red, when I noticed the new text on my phone from Neil.
Pulling the head-turning color from the small, zippered bag now, I took out the tube and painted a bright, confident, badass red over the demure nude on my lips. I rubbed them together, puckered, and squared my shoulders.
“I’m calling it off,” I promised the girl in the mirror. “I don’t know where I go from here, but it won’t be with him.”
At the knock on the door, I jumped. “Come in!”