Thanks to the smell of bacon in the apartment, I managed to get Ethan out of his room to eat breakfast. Even though it was nearly three in the afternoon and his first meal of the day, he chewed in silence and left half his eggs on the plate.
“I wish I could make this easier for you,” I said.
He shrugged. “I don’t think it felt real until today. I’m getting texts from kids who have, like, never once spoken to me, saying how great Dad was and they can’t believe they’re not going to see him again. It’s so fake, but it’s also making me realize he’s really gone.”
“People don’t know what to say when someone passes on, that’s all.” I told him his father would always be around as long as we remembered him, but I knew the words were no less hollow than the texts coming in on his phone.
News of Adam’s murder traveled quickly once the Daily News published its story in the early morning hours, first online and then in the print edition in time to hit newsstands. The latest White House scandal dominated the front cover, but Adam’s murder landed in the local crime headline along the bottom edge: Husband of #ThemToo Writer Murdered in East Hampton.
Of the articles I had skimmed briefly, about half reported that he had left a wife (me by name) and a teenage son. A few mentioned that his son was from a former marriage. And only one specified that the former marriage was to the sister of his current wife.
Until now, the only public interest in our family had been focused on me, not Adam. I had seen no reason to highlight the fact that Ethan was technically my stepson, let alone my biological nephew. How do you tell people that you married your sister’s husband without sounding horrible? But now that one news outlet had gone in that direction, it would only be a matter of time before that juicy little tidbit was in the first paragraph of every single story about Adam’s murder—or about me, for that matter. At this point, I could no longer imagine caring what strangers had to say about me.
“When’s Nicky supposed to be here?” Ethan asked, pushing his uneaten scrambled eggs into a pile of ketchup.
I wondered whether my sister’s imminent arrival was at least partially responsible for the shift in his mood between last night and this morning. Nicky had called right as we were turning off the television for the evening, and I made the mistake of answering. She had insisted on coming to New York, and I hadn’t been able to talk her out of it.
I glanced at my watch. “Her flight got in half an hour ago. She should be here any second.”
He left his plate on the table and retreated to his room without comment.
When the apartment phone rang, I was expecting it to be the doorman announcing Nicky’s arrival, but it was Bill Braddock, calling to check in. I assured him that we were holding up as well as we could under the circumstances.
“I could sense the media hounds circling yesterday when one of them called me trying to get to you, but I took the liberty of trying to give you some time to grieve in private. I’m afraid my efforts were not successful.”
I considered Bill a friend, but wasn’t particularly surprised he hadn’t called before now. He was the kind of person who liked to mingle at the center of the party, not necessarily hold your hand during a dark time. I told him that, if anything, maybe the media attention would bring in information that might help the police solve the case.
“Not to pry, but what do they think happened?” he asked.
The coverage, although widespread and splashy, was short on details. There were descriptions of us and our “celebrity-soaked,” “sought-after” East Hampton “enclave,” but little information about the crime itself other than mention of a late-night break-in and fatal stabbing.
“They seem to think it was a burglary after Adam had gone to bed. He might have heard a noise and gotten up.”
Bill was making sympathetic sighs on the other end of the line. It was on his third offer to help however possible that I finally brought up the subject of Adam’s hours out of the firm the previous week. “He told me he was meeting with people from the Gentry Group, but on his time sheets, he marked the hours as client development. Do you have any idea where he might have actually been?”
“Lawyers aren’t exactly shift workers, as you know. You can sit in the office all day, but if you don’t do something we can charge a client for, you may as well be playing golf as far as the bottom line is concerned. Client development is a bit of a catchall. It could be the real deal of putting on a dog and pony show for a potential client, but half the time I think it’s socializing—lunches with a college buddy in town, that kind of thing—because you never know where the next piece of business might come from.”
“And did you know of any dog and pony shows that Adam might have had?”
“No, but partners don’t tend to share that kind of news until it’s official. Show me the money, as we like to say. I’m very sorry not to be able to tell you more, Chloe. And forgive me for prying yet again, but I hope you’re not wondering about Adam’s fidelity to you. I never once saw him turn an eye toward another woman.”
“I know, and I keep telling myself the same thing. But I have to wonder if this has something to do with his murder.”
“Knowing Adam, he was probably planning some big surprise for you. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Maybe, but it was an explanation I would probably never have. My husband had lied to me about where he spent the last two days of his life. There was no way around it.
A beep on the phone told me that another call was coming through. It was the doorman calling from the lobby. I told Bill that I needed to go. Nicky was here.
Everything about Nicky is always bigger and louder than it needs to be. Normal people fly in airplanes every day and manage to make it to their ultimate destination all by themselves. I had even offered to arrange (and pay) for a car service from LaGuardia, but Nicky assured me she could find her own way. Now, nearly two hours after her flight landed, she was finally at my apartment door with two hip-high suitcases, a purse roughly the size of my wine fridge, and, most surprisingly, a man I didn’t recognize.
“Chloe, meet my guardian angel, Jeremy.”
Jeremy held up a sheepish hand. “Hey.” His hair was thinning, and his denim shirt didn’t hide a slight paunch, but he had bright green eyes and a dark beard. I could see him being Nicky’s type. He was looking at Nicky expectantly.
“Oh, right, sorry. It’s down that hallway. The first door on the right, as I recall.”
I watched, dumbfounded, as this stranger walked past me and made his way to our powder room.
“What the hell, Nicky.”
“I should have known you’d freak. He was on the shuttle bus with me and saw me struggling to get my bags off at Grand Central. He gave me a hand and we ended up sharing a cab downtown. By the time we got here, he needed to pee. It’s no big deal.”
I thought of all the hours I had spent around random men Nicky managed to befriend. This one sort of resembled an older version of the guy she’d brought to Asiago, where I had my first waitressing job in high school. After ordering a three-course dinner and an entire bottle of wine—he was older than her, of course—they left without paying. It was the only time I was ever fired.
Nicky insisted her date probably just forgot, but a month later, she came to my room sobbing because the same guy had used her ATM card to clear out nearly a thousand dollars from her savings account to cover a football bet. And then she kept dating the guy for another three months after that.
It was a familiar cycle with my sister. She’d complain to me about her boyfriends, alleging wrongdoings ranging from drug abuse to theft to drunken attacks of rage. You can’t tell your sister that a man spit in your face and called you a stupid whore unless you’re planning to leave him. But that’s how it was with Nicky. She’d say too much and then accuse me of being judgmental when the relationship continued, brushing off her earlier grievances as “venting.” As a result, I was skeptical about every man she brought around. They were either as bad as she said they were during the low phases, or were off-kilter enough to be drawn to a woman who seemed to thrive on histrionics. Either way, I had no interest in knowing any more than necessary. Until, of course, she met Adam.
When my unexpected bathroom guest emerged, he extended his hand for a quick shake. I was relieved when I caught a whiff of our lavender hand soap. “Jeremy Lyons. Sorry about barging in like this. And sorry about your loss.”
Of course Nicky had told a total stranger why she was in town.
I thanked him for helping my sister and ushered him out the door just as Ethan emerged from his bedroom. Usually he was reluctant around Nicky, especially when a long time passed between visits. He hadn’t seen her for well over a year, but rushed to greet her with a hug.
“So that was you,” he said. “I thought I heard some dude.”
“Someone helping with the bags,” I said, managing to mask my annoyance.
I could tell Ethan was trying his best to seem happy to see Nicky. Of course he tried. But as we made polite conversation about whether the flight was okay and why she had opted for the shuttle (“I guess I didn’t want to be alone in my thoughts in a taxi, plus it’s cheaper”), I could see Ethan shrink from a sloppy second hug that lingered too long, and the way she touched his hair like he was a baby.
“I don’t even know what to say about Adam,” Nicky said. “I’m so sorry. For both of you,” she added.
I nodded. “Thank you. I know it’s a loss for you, too. Let me give you two some time to catch up together.”
I had already spoken to Ethan about this in advance. Nicky would be less likely to do something rash like insist on taking custody of Ethan if she didn’t feel like I was trying to control the situation. But Ethan had promised to come get me if she was too much to bear. And under no circumstances was he to trust her with a word about the details of his father’s murder. Remember when that beautiful American actress married a handsome prince, and the trashy side of her family sold stories and pictures to the tabloids? I had thought of Nicky.
As I passed Ethan’s bedroom, I noticed that he had straightened it since we got home the previous day. By his standards, it was almost clean. I wondered if he did it because Nicky was coming, or for the same reason I had scraped my bathroom tile grout with a bobby pin until four in the morning.
Once I was alone in my office, one look at my screen saver—a photo of Adam, Ethan, and me in front of a Louse Point sunset—had me trembling again. I wondered if I was ever going to regain control of my emotions. I forced myself to try to work, jotting down notes for a piece I would probably never publish. I had rejected Catherine’s suggestion of a press release, but she had called again this morning, suggesting that I write something for next month’s Eve about Adam’s murder. “Nothing salacious,” she said. “But people will want to hear from you. You’re the face of the magazine. And I know you, Chloe. Writing is how you digest. How you feel. How you live. You’ll know when you’re ready.”
After forty minutes, it was clear I wasn’t even close. I woke up my computer and googled “Jeremy Lyons.” The second hit was the stranger who had used my powder room. He was a research fellow at the University of Kansas. According to a recent faculty news sidebar, he would be speaking at NYU the next day about monetary policy.
So maybe he was a helpful stranger after all. Given Nicky’s history, I felt no guilt about checking.
I closed my browser when I heard a tap on the office door. It was Nicky and Ethan. Seeing the two of them together, I realized how much Ethan was beginning to resemble her as his face matured. He had his father’s dark hair and eyes, while Nicky was still a dark blond with only minimal help from L’Oréal. But like his mother, Ethan was long and lanky, with a thin nose and angular features.
“Kiddo here says you made a reservation at some swank hotel for me.”
“The Marlton, right down Fifth Avenue.” It was relatively new and nicer than the Washington Square hotel where we usually put her, but the real reason Ethan liked it was for the pastries they sold at their coffee bar. They had some fancy French name we always forgot, but they were known in our family as crack croissants.
“Thanks for the offer, but if it’s okay with you, I’m fine on the couch. If I’m going to be here, I want to spend actual time with you guys.” Nicky had never balked about staying in a hotel before, but apparently that was because we were living with Adam. She did a double take at the far wall of my office. “Is that a Murphy bed? I don’t think I knew you had that. In fact, I don’t even think I’ve been in here before.”
“It’s really uncomfortable. And the bathroom’s all the way down the hall.” I knew I was being obvious, but didn’t care. I did not want Nicky underfoot twenty-four hours a day for however long she was planning to stay with those giant suitcases.
Before I could stop her, she had pulled the bed open. “This is perfect,” she said, plopping down on the neatly tucked-in white coverlet. I noticed Ethan slip out of the room while he had the chance. “And I promise I’ll stay out of your way. This room is huge. Quite a step up from your original middle-school home office.”
My father had made Nicky switch bedrooms with me when I was in the eighth grade so I could have the room that was large enough to house a desk. By then, it was clear that I was the one who would actually use it, but Nicky always saw it as punishment for dropping out of college after the first semester.
I tried one more time as Nicky was rolling the first of her suitcases into the office. “Seriously, don’t you want a whole room to yourself where you can unpack and spread out? Have a little privacy? And really, I don’t mind paying for it at all.”
“I know. You’re always so generous, but really, I don’t want to go to the hotel. You won’t even know I’m here, I promise.” She swallowed hard and then added, “Please, Chloe.”
I nodded, averting my gaze. “Of course. Whatever’s best for you.”
“And I’m sorry again about offering your bathroom to Jeremy. I should’ve texted you first, but my battery was dying. And for what it’s worth, I’ve been seeing someone anyway, so I wasn’t cruising him, if that’s what you thought.”
“Really, Nicky, it’s okay. And I’m happy for you about seeing someone.” Nicky’s habit of unloading the personal details of her relationships had ended once Adam left her. I had no idea whether it meant that there were no details to be had, or that she had simply figured out that I could no longer be the person with whom she shared them.
“We’ll see. He’s fifty-two. Divorced with two kids. I haven’t even told him about Ethan yet, so—” She stopped abruptly at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hallway.
Ethan was lugging Nicky’s second suitcase into my office when my cell phone rang. It was a 631 area code. Long Island. I decided to answer.
“Ms. Taylor, this is Detective Guidry. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few more things I’d like to go over. I have to come into the city for a district attorney thing anyway. Is it okay if we talk in person? I could come to your place, if that’s okay.”
I was suspicious about whether Guidry was actually planning to be in the area, but if I couldn’t find a way to stop Nicky from occupying my office, I didn’t know how to refuse a police officer’s request to see me in person. I wondered if I had made a mistake asking Guidry to be the one to call Nicky with the news about Adam. I had no way of knowing what she might have said about me.
Because as much as Nicky said she loved me and was grateful for the life I had given her son, I knew she had never forgiven me for marrying her husband.