In any case, whatever becomes of Mrs. Morgan and her son won’t make a real difference in my life. No need to prolong the circus or pretend my being here matters much at all.
I pick up the box of Pop’s things and exit the station. The past twenty-four hours remind me of why I broke away from the game. Reliving my old life, even briefly, makes me feel dirty. Best not to invite trouble by kicking up my heels or allowing rose-tinted glasses to filter the grit from my past.
I sit behind the wheel of my car and stare out the windshield. Pop’s box rests in the passenger seat beside me. With him dead, I’ve got no family—no ties at all. Just the things in this box. Normally I’m content with my solitary life, but now an unwelcome sense of doubt slides through my mind, cracking the walls I’ve constructed.
I roll the gold band over in my fingers and hold it up to the sun. Was it a prop, or is it his real wedding ring? Nah. He couldn’t have been sentimental about Mama. All his preaching about keeping one’s heart safe had come from her breaking ours.
I turn over the ignition, preparing to drive back to Los Angeles, when I realize I’m not far from Vegas. I may as well take a detour before returning home. Perhaps I’ll play a few games in honor of Pop. He’d like that.
I’ll get my adrenaline fix, eat well, flirt with a showgirl, and then head home. I nod in silent affirmation. Life’s good. I can do what I want, when I want, without anyone’s permission. And just like that, I hit Highway 95 North toward Vegas.
New York City
Lindsey
I appraise myself skeptically in the mirror once more before slipping out of the creamy-silk Amalia Carrara couture gown, careful not to prick my skin with the pins put in place for the final fitting. Smiling politely, I step out of the dress with the help of the seamstress while my mother finalizes the details of delivery and payment with the saleswoman. It still seems surreal. I’m soon to be a June bride—just before my twenty-sixth birthday.
My life’s been an uninterrupted series of events falling neatly into place right up to this point. Now I’ve got my Ivy League education, a job at a high-profile fashion magazine, and a successful fiancé. Yet a nagging sense of dissatisfaction grows like mildew, steadily enveloping my spirit. Lately, the harder I throw myself into my work and wedding plans, the more clouded my thoughts become.
I sigh and wriggle my body back into my stretch-jersey dress, throw my purse over my shoulder, and stride to the front of the store to find my mother.
“You could use a little lipstick, honey, before you meet Rob,” she suggests.
“I’m fine, Mom, but thanks for noticing.” I wrinkle my nose. She rolls her eyes.
“Never hurts to look your best, especially when your fiancé is surrounded by attractive, ambitious female colleagues at Goldman.” As if to emphasize her point, she reapplies her own lipstick and combs her bejeweled fingers through her fabulous golden hair. “I speak from experience. More than one of the women at your father’s bank tried to tempt him. Don’t expect other women to respect your wedding vows, and don’t give Rob any reason to wander.”
Her brittle tone raises questions, but this is neither the time nor the place to seek answers.
I set my bag on the counter, retrieve my lip gloss, and quickly apply it. Smacking my lips together in exasperation, I turn to my mother. “Better?”
Annoyed for capitulating, again, I blame her perfectionist attitude for why I revert to being a child in her presence. Almost everywhere else I have confidence, but with her I’m always yearning for approval that’s never fully given.
“Yes!” She smiles and opens the door for me, then follows me onto the crowded sidewalk of Fifth Avenue. “So, where are you off to now?”
My phone trills, interrupting us. “Hold on.” While I read Rob’s text message, my brows gather. “Huh. Change of plans. I’m to meet him at the apartment. Apparently something’s come up. I hope he’s not canceling our trip this weekend.”
“I’ll bet he’s planning a surprise for you.” Mom looks delighted. She loves Rob for his maturity, his million-dollar pedigree, and his million-dollar salary. “Do you want a ride?”
“No, I’ll walk.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for meeting me this morning. I’ll call you from the airport. Our flight leaves at six thirty tonight.”
“Have fun, honey.” She waves good-bye before seating herself inside the limousine waiting to whisk her off on the forty-minute ride home to Greenwich, Connecticut.
Strolling toward Central Park, I relish the gentle touch of a late-spring breeze against my arms. On my way uptown, I cut through the diverse parade of people, a grin on my face. Some don’t enjoy the river of fast-moving crowds flowing through the granite-and-glass canyons of Manhattan, or the cries of street vendors competing with the traffic noise, or the aromas of the hot dog carts. I love the energy and prefer the bustle to the pristine, isolated estate of my childhood.