“What do you mean, your father will be there?”
Emily’s pause had a weight and a presence all its own. Her slow inhale was too audible over the phone clutched so tightly in Tove’s hand. “Yeah. I got the RSVP today.”
Tove drew in a deep breath of her own. She’d been so sure her ex-husband would steer clear of their daughter’s wedding. After all, it wasn’t about him. An involuntary gust of laughter escaped her lips. And will he be bringing the supermodel? Tove didn’t voice the unnecessary thought to her daughter. Last she knew—and she really, really wasn’t keeping track—her ex-husband had been ensconced in his newest wife’s family villa on Lake Como.
In truth, she didn’t have to keep track. It felt like she couldn’t go to the grocery store without seeing the man’s face on the cover of a tabloid. Her ex-husband, despite having sold out of his wildly successful dot-com business over two decades ago, remained in the popular media, the result of having married a string of glamorous, ever-younger women, culminating in the latest: a literal supermodel who was also the daughter of old Italian money and, at thirty, a mere five years older than their daughter.
It was enough of a cliché that Tove wanted to vomit.
“Mom? You still there?” Emily’s worried tone made Tove realize her eyes had been squeezed tightly shut. She opened them, staring out at the building across L Street from her office and took a careful breath, making sure the tremor in her body was inaudible to her daughter.
“Yes, sweetheart. I’m here,” she said, pouring every ounce of boardroom calm into her voice. Who knew her skills as one of the foremost political image consultants in Washington would be needed in a conversation with her only child? “If your father feels the need to make an appearance I’ll just…deal with it.” Anthony had already done his level best to ruin Emily’s childhood with his selfish behavior. Tove was going to make sure he didn’t ruin her wedding. Damn sure.
Emily sighed. “Mom, you really don’t have to protect me anymore. It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Just thinking about Anthony being within five feet of her daughter made Tove want to scream and hit things. Or people. Or just Anthony.
The idea of a baseball bat connecting with his smug smile had been soothing at one point. Now the fantasy was worn and tattered from overuse, faded like an old photograph that had been handled too often.
“I sent the final guest count to the wedding planner,” Emily continued, drawing Tove back into the present. “One hundred and eighty-three. You sure you’re okay with this?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tove replied instantly. “Hayley’s parents and I have it covered.” Emily’s future in-laws had been a delight from the start, stepping up to split the costs of the wedding, coordinating logistics with ease and good cheer. Though neither Emily nor Hayley were extravagant, both young women had dozens of friends. The mere size of the guest list was enough to push the wedding into big dollar territory, even though they weren’t holding it in the city. The resort on Deep Creek Lake in Maryland was beautiful, and while the cost wasn’t exorbitant by Tove’s standards, it was still going to be expensive.
There was no question as to whether or not Anthony would step up to help. Despite his wealth, he never had and he wouldn’t start now.
“You know, I could tell the planner to round it up to one hundred and eighty-four,” Emily said, interrupting Tove’s reverie.
Tove snapped back into the present. “What? Why?”
“Well, in case you wanted to bring a plus-one…” Tove recognized that wheedling tone. It hadn’t changed since the child learned to speak.
“Em, who would I bring?” Tove stifled an exasperated laugh.
“You tell me.” Emily’s voice was bright with mischief.
“No. Don’t start this. Don’t be that person who has found love and immediately wants everyone else to couple up. It’s not happening.” Never again. She shuddered.
“Okay, but since Dad and Sofia are going to be there…”
Tove’s back teeth clicked together. This was just something else she’d have to deal with. Alone.
“You just keep your attention on your own relationship,” she told her daughter. “That’s what’s important.”
Emily laughed. “Okay. But I’m telling the planner the final count is one-eighty-four.”
“Emily…”
“Bye Mom!” Tove shut her eyes and laughed in spite of herself. Damn, she had a good kid. Misguided, but good.
“I fucking hate my ex-husband,” Tove muttered, tossing back a slug of the most perfect after-work dirty martini D.C. had to offer.
Parvati snickered into her whiskey. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Tove groaned, her elbow on the bar, her fingers rubbing her eyelids, careful to not disturb her makeup. It was a skill she’d learned from her own mother, this subtle self-care while still maintaining her outer armor. Katrin Nilsen had been a world-famous model in her own right. And that was probably why Anthony had pursued Tove all those years ago. His marital track record since then certainly pointed in that direction: a ladder of cascading trophy wives in descending order of age.
Lovely.
“Vati, how am I going to deal with him without losing my entire shit?” Tove removed her fingers from her eyelids and glared at her business partner and best friend.
Vati shrugged and sipped her drink. “Do him one better.”
Tove snorted. “Sound in theory but how do I do that in reality? Because we live in the real world, in case you hadn’t noticed. The real world where my dirtbag sixty year old ex-husband is married to an Italian supermodel half his age and the fact that men like him always win. How on earth do I do that one better?”
Vati’s brown eyes gleamed and her grin was wicked. “What does anyone do when they want something done right? Hire a professional.”
Tove snorted. “Right.”
“I’m serious.” Vati took a long pull of her drink. “You have a leaky pipe, you call a master plumber. You want to bait your ex-husband into looking like the dumpster fire he is, you—”
“Hire a master…baiter?” Tove broke in, laughing in spite of herself. “What, like a boy toy? Do Anthony one better by bringing someone even younger than Emily?” She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Even if I wanted to do something like that, Anthony would see straight through it. It’s absolutely not my style. Also utterly hypocritical, considering how I’ve been rolling my eyes at his increasingly younger wives for years.”
Vati’s mouth, painted in her signature deep red Lisa Eldridge lipstick, curled. “Yeah. No. Not a youngster. Even if it wasn’t hypocritical, women get judged for being with younger men in a way that men never do. So that wouldn’t work.”
“So, all I need to do is to magically come up with a man who’s age-appropriate, gorgeous, successful, and who will pretend that I’m the air he breathes. No big deal. Why didn’t I think of that myself?” Tove gave her friend a look that said what she thought of that idea.
Vati groaned. “Can you manage to not be self-sabotaging for a single second over here? You’re successful, rich, incredibly gorgeous—”
“I’m fifty-two. Nobody’s incredibly gorgeous at fifty-two.”
“Incredibly. Gorgeous.” Vati repeated, her eyes narrowing. “At any age. You’re a fucking catch, Tove Nilsen, and Anthony should have his nose rubbed in the pile of poo he left on the family carpet like the dirty dog he is.”
“Well.” Tove tipped back the last of her martini and dragged an olive off the toothpick with her teeth. “I’m afraid that unless Mr. Gorgeous Age-Appropriate shows up in the next month or so, Anthony’s nose will remain un-rubbed with shit or anything else.”
“So.” A few days later, Vati’s voice startled Tove out of thoughts that were supposed to be about a senior congressman’s potential for scandal and strategies for dealing with it. In truth, her mind contained all too many thoughts about spousal murder—was it still spousal murder if you’d been divorced for twenty years? She lifted her eyes to find Vati in her office doorway.
“If it’s about that governor, I don’t want to hear it,” Tove said, raising a hand. “You were the one who wanted to branch out into state politicians. You keep it.”
“No…” Vati drew the single syllable out in a way that was, frankly, disturbing. Then she closed the door behind her with a soft click. Even more disturbing. She lifted her hand, a thin sheaf of papers fluttering from her fingertips. “I have some interesting intel.”
Tove groaned and shook her head. “I won’t touch the former vice president with a ten-foot pole. Even if he would take a meeting alone with us. Which he won’t.”
Vati rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking about business. I’m talking about your single mother of the bride issue.”
Tove’s spine went rigid. “My being single is not an issue.”
Vati arched an expressive eyebrow. “It certainly was on Friday.”
“That was Friday. I was caught off guard. Today’s Tuesday. Totally different thing.”
Vati sank into one of Tove’s leather guest chairs. “No, just a different day of the week. Same problem, different day.”
“Are you going to get to the point some time in this century?” Tove’s voice was nearly a groan.
“Sure. I was talking to Constance Rodaway-Murphy—”
Tove held up a finger. “Do not tell me you told that gossip about my life. Not a detail. Not a syllable.”
Vati shook her head, her expression souring. “It’s almost like you think I’m an amateur at this. I’m going to remember that you’re feeling fragile, vulnerable, and a bit paranoid at the moment and let that go.”
Tove’s eyes slid shut. Vati was right. Her partner wasn’t a fool. She might affect a dishy, gossipy persona between the two of them, but that was just her sense of humor. Everywhere else, Vati was a consummate public relations professional.
“Fine. What do you have for me?”
“What I have is a single gentleman of fifty-five. He’s a consultant. Mostly.”
Tove eyed her friend over the expanse of her teak desk. “And what is he when he isn’t ‘mostly’ a consultant?”
Vati pursed her crimson lips. “Well, it’s what he used to do that’s the important thing.”
Tove’s back teeth ground together. “I swear I have never seen you get to the point slower. Could you cut to the chase?”
Vati’s eyes glittered. “He was an exceptionally high-end male escort for about two decades. Retired, but I hear he has been known to come out of retirement for a special case.” She slid the packet of papers across the desk. It was clearly put together in the same format as they did for client dossiers, but instead of a recognizable politician’s name as the header, it read Patrick Mercer.
Tove pushed the dossier back at Vati. “Nope. Not going to go there.”
Vati wagged a red-tipped finger. “You need to at least look. Don’t tell me you aren’t the slightest bit curious.”
“Nope. Not curious at all.” Tove ignored the prickling feeling at the back of her neck and looked pointedly at her computer screen, tapping the keyboard, entering gibberish into an email that was addressed to nobody, hoping Vati would think she was actually busy and go away.
“No? Not even to see what he looks like?” Vati took the dossier, flipped a page, then turned it back to Tove, showing her a photo of a man with dark hair shot with silver at the temples. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and suit jacket of obvious quality and excellent tailoring.
But it was his eyes that arrested Tove’s attention. Huge and dark brown with hooded lids, they made his expression appear solemn until you took in the lines that fanned from the corners and the slight tilt to his mouth. Not quite a smile, but not quite not one either, with a small scar on one side of his upper lip that made the expression appealingly lopsided and rakish.
“I knew that would get you,” Vati said, her voice soft and smug.
Tove blinked and her eyes narrowed as she refocused on Vati. “Yes, he’s attractive. The answer is still no.”
Vati slapped the dossier back on the desk as she got to her feet. “Well, I’ll just leave this here in case you change your mind.” Then she was out of the office before Tove could recall her.
“Damn.” Tove eyed the photograph again, then reached for the dossier to toss it. No, if it went in the trash, some dumpster-diver might get hold of it. She flipped it closed and slid it into a desk drawer. She’d shred it later.
A week later, Tove was finishing an email to a Senate aide outlining her plan for rehabilitating his boss’ image. “Billionaires are never good news,” she muttered under her breath. “Especially when they’re giving you money. They always want something in return.” Campaign finance was all too tricky these days and just about nobody came off looking good. And yet, nobody won anything without an astronomic advertising spend, especially a senator.
As in her life, her job was all about no-win situations.
Her desk phone rang and she answered it without looking. “Tove Nilsen,” she said, simultaneously tucking the receiver into the cradle of her neck and shoulder without stopping her typing.
“Mom, he didn’t make a hotel reservation.” Emily, normally calm and level as a tightrope walker, sounded as tense as Tove had ever heard her, her voice veering close to a wail.
Tove hit send on autopilot and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tell me you aren’t talking about your father.”
Emily’s sigh was a gust of pure frustration. “I am.”
“Did he just try to make that reservation?” Tove demanded. “The room block expired a week ago.” The instructions in the invitation were explicit. Even with his late RSVP, Anthony should have had plenty of time to book a room.
“Yeah.” The defeated tone in Emily’s voice brought back every homicidal impulse Tove had ever had about her ex-husband. It hauled her straight back to his no-show weekends, Emily’s backpack stuffed with clothes, toys, and books, her eyes glued to the front window of their house, waiting for a father who was a relentless disappointment spiced with just enough treats and un-cancelled plans for every new paternal ghosting to be a fresh blow.
What the hell does he want Emily to do about his piss-poor planning? Tove left the thought unvoiced, sour dread coating her stomach. “Does he expect you to fix his issue for him?” Tove asked, trying to gentle her tone, getting ready to tell Emily it wasn’t her job to solve her father’s self-created problem.
Emily laughed, but the catch in her voice sounded suspiciously like a sob. “He wanted to know if you could double up with someone else. I told him no, of course, but…”
Cold fury coursed through Tove. “Because I’m single, you mean? I can just bunk with your great-aunt Marie or something?”
“Funny how well you can predict what he’ll say, even after all these years,” Emily said, her voice dry and cynical in a way that broke Tove’s heart. Her girl was usually all open smiles, sunshine, and rainbows. Tove’s loathing for Anthony redoubled itself at the same time as she felt a measure of self-hatred. If she hadn’t married the man…
She came up hard against reality. Without Anthony, she wouldn’t have Emily. And the idea of no Emily…no.
“I told him absolutely not, that it wasn’t fair to you, but he insisted that I call you. Please tell me you’ve changed your mind and you’re bringing someone. I’d love to rub his nose in it.”
Tove’s spine prickled at Emily’s unconscious echo of Vati’s words. She swallowed and nodded, a reckless feeling giving her a head-rush as she opened her desk drawer and drew out the dossier. “Well actually, I am.”
This time, Emily’s breath was an indrawn gust of pure joy. “Mom! You are? Have I met him? Who is he? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tove prayed the man was free on her daughter’s wedding weekend.
“His name is Patrick and no, you haven’t met him.” Because I haven’t met him myself. “I was going to surprise you.”
“Well, mission accomplished, Mom. I’m surprised! And ecstatic. I’ll call Dad and tell him to book off-property. Or maybe he can get on the waiting list. Whatever. I don’t care! I’m just happy for you!”
“Great.” Tove’s voice was arid as she began to page through the dossier, really looking at it for the first time.
“I’m so looking forward to meeting him!” Emily enthused before she rang off.
You and me both, kid.