AS ERICA MAKES HER WAY down Fifty-Seventh Street, people are staring at her and she hates her fame—it’s intrusive, assaultive, a trap. Has she stepped into a trap? Her secret-in-a-box has just sprung open and a leering clown has popped out—she’s shocked, scared, humiliated. And angry—at herself. She paid a heavy price for her transgressions, but the records were sealed and she felt that the slate had been wiped clean. She believes in redemption, and every step she took in getting to GNN brought her closer to it. How could she have been so naive as to think the records would never come to light? Or be dragged into the light by someone like Claire Wilcox. Imagine if the tabloids and gossip sites get ahold of it?
She passes a liquor store. She needs a bottle of wine. For Greg, of course. She ducks inside. It’s a lovely liquor store with wood accents and soft jazz playing, filled with bottles of expensive vodka and gin and exotic whiskies and fine wines from all over the world. Erica feels herself relax; she walks down an aisle, reaches the vodkas, and stops in front of the display of Belvedere. She loves the image on the frosted bottle—a palace reached through mysterious, beckoning branches. Belvedere. Her friend. She runs her fingers down a bottle. She was famous for her Belvedere and tonic. First pour the vodka into the chilled glass—two fingers’ worth—then squeeze in a whole lime, yes, a whole lime, and then add the tonic—those lovely effervescent bubbles—and finally two lime wedges. It was an elixir more than a cocktail, stimulating, invigorating, it heightened all of her senses, made her so witty and carefree—la-di-da!
“May I help you?” a young male clerk asks.
“Oh . . . I’m looking for a nice bottle of wine to go with a mushroom omelet.”
“I would suggest a white, perhaps a Sauvignon Blanc. What’s your price range?”
“Price range?” Erica remembers she’s rich, she’s rich and famous, she’s a star. “No budget. I want the best. It’s for a dear friend. I don’t drink. I mean it’s not some sort of rule or edict. I just don’t. Not that I can’t or won’t. I just don’t. Today. Tonight.”
The clerk’s brow furrows. “We have a really superior Sauvignon Blanc for eighty-five dollars.”
“I’ll take a bottle.” As the clerk goes to retrieve the wine, Erica calls after him, “Make it two.”