If only they had really talked about what the ring meant when he put it on her finger. If only she had told him then what she had been truly feeling instead of being too scared to hurt him. Maybe if she’d just laughed and told him he was being silly, he would have put the ring away and they would have waited to talk about marriage again when they were ready, years down the line. Instead, she’d hurt him in the deepest way possible.
Lucky Yap chanced by and, seeing Eliza and Midas together, promptly snapped a photo. “It’ll be in Hamptons next week,” he told them gaily. “Elidas,” he added to himself with a grin.
Eliza flashed a smile at Midas but shuddered to think what Jeremy would feel when the picture was published, seeing her on a date with someone else so soon after they had broken up. It hurt just to think about it.
Gotcha.
“chick lit” is not a
four-letter word
LATE AUGUST IN NEW YORK CITY MEANT HEAT compounded by sweltering humidity, but the day Mara and David returned to Manhattan was one of the rare, extremely pleasant late-summer days. A breeze blew across the Central Park trees, the air was cool and refreshing, and everyone on the street was in a good mood, from the Wall Street types with their folded-up sleeves, to the girls in billowy white sundresses and flip-flops who hurried between shops, to the hot dog vendors and the falafel guys.
They spent a wonderful day together, stopping at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see the new Rembrandt exhibit, watching Shakespeare in the Park in the afternoon, and grabbing coffee at David’s favorite bookstore on Madison Avenue. Mara’s head was dizzy from all the cultural activities and deep conversations. After a summer spent changing diapers and stopping by the occasional Hamptons glitz fest, she’d forgotten what a day with David in New York was like—stimulating and full.
His childhood bedroom at the Dakota was wall-to-wall bookshelves, and she was gratified to see that they owned a lot of the same books. She fixed her makeup in the tiny mirror on his desk, making sure not to get lipstick on her teeth. They had fifteen minutes before they had to meet his mother at Daniel.
“You look great—don’t stress,” David assured her from the bathroom, where he was fixing his tie.
Mara nodded and smoothed down the folds of her skirt. She’d chosen a pretty Diane von Furstenberg shirtwaist, a crisp black cotton dress that she hoped said “serious writer.” “So, how many pages of the blog should I bring?” she asked, kneeling down and unzipping her suitcase to show him the printout of all the posts she’d done. It was a hefty stack of paper. “Do you think the first fifty are enough?”
“Don’t worry about that; you can just leave it here.” David waved his hand as if it were a silly suggestion as he pulled his tie into a knot with a definitive tug.
“I shouldn’t bring it?” Mara asked, surprised. She put on her best heels—the silver Manolo Blahnik rhinestone sandals she’d gotten for free one summer. If the dress was meant to communicate her serious ambitions, the shoes were to remind everyone she had glamorous aspirations as well. “But what will your mom look at?”
“You’re so cute.” He came back into the room to kiss her on the head. He stroked her hair, petting her like a puppy. “She’ll look at you.” He shook his head as he moved over to the dresser, slipping into his navy blazer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what I mean…. It’s all about fitting a marketing profile.” He buttoned his gold cuff links and shrugged. “Young, cute, perky blogger girl writes a chick-lit book; publishers will salivate at the sight of your author shot alone,” he finished, putting on his horn-rimmed glasses and smiling at her. “I’d drool at your author shot,” he added huskily, with a wink.
Her author shot? Mara’s face fell. “But you said it was funny….”
“You are funny,” David assured her. “You’re a very entertaining writer.” She knew he meant it as a compliment, but “entertaining” sounded a lot like “dumb” to Mara’s ears.
He grabbed a pair of argyle socks from his drawer and slipped them on his feet. “It’s the reality of the market these days. It never matters what the writing is like anymore; it’s the concept of the thing. My mom just sold some memoir from twin seven-year-olds. I’m sure it’s awful, but who can resist precocious young kids writing a book?” He shrugged and grabbed his wallet from his desk, sticking it in his pants pocket.
Mara stopped putting on her shoes and sat down on the bed, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy. “So what exactly is my hook?”
“You know, cute au pair lit. Chick lit with the nanny angle. From the cutest au pair of all.” He came and sat down beside her on the bed, smiling. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”
Okay, so maybe she wasn’t writing Remembrance of Things Past here, but she’d worked hard on that blog. She slaved over every sentence. It was very difficult to make writing look effortless.
“Seriously, are you okay?” David asked, leaning over and putting a hand on her face to check her temperature.
Mara couldn’t look at him. All this time, she’d thought David was interested in her writing, but he was really just being condescending.
“So you don’t think my writing’s any good.”
“Mara, I just told you,” he said, looking exasperated. “It’s not about that. Your writing isn’t what’s going to sell your book.”
Something in Mara snapped. She didn’t need him or his mother. There were other agents in the city. Besides, she had a lot of readers now—who were interested in what she had to say, not just what she looked like. She did not have a webcam, thank you very much, and she wasn’t about to whore herself out to an agent who simply wanted a sexy author photo.
“You know what? I’m not okay.” She stood up and began stuffing her clothes back into her suitcase haphazardly. She grabbed her cosmetics from the bathroom and threw them in, not caring if the shampoo spilled on her new Eliza Thompson tunics.
“What are you doing?” David asked, aghast. “My mother is waiting for us.”
“I’m not going to dinner. I’m leaving,” Mara said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m not your little squirrel,” she added icily.
“Squirrel?” he asked, confused.
“Ibsen. A Doll’s House,” she snapped, just to show that she too could make hoity-toity literary references if she wanted to.
“But why? I don’t understand.” He looked truly distressed, and for a moment she felt bad for him. He really didn’t get it. “Just because I said you couldn’t bring your blog? For God’s sake, bring it if you’d like. It doesn’t make a difference to me.”
It didn’t make a difference to him? She didn’t feel so bad anymore. Mara stuffed her manuscript into her laptop bag and it bulged a little. “It’s not just that, David. And if you can’t figure it out, then I can’t help you.”
“Mara, don’t be an idiot. You clearly have no clue what a huge opportunity this is,” he warned. His voice suddenly had a frightening edge, one she’d never heard before.
“Oh, I don’t, don’t I?” She hoisted her suitcase upright and marched for the door, wobbling on her heels a little. It was a little difficult to make a graceful exit in a tight dress and spindly high heels.
“No. You’re being ridiculous,” David said angrily, throwing up his hands. “You’re going to embarrass me in front of my mother and her friends. Now put that suitcase down and let’s go to dinner. All right?”
“No.” She turned as she reached the door, trembling slightly. She looked at David, in his expensive-looking blazer, his trendy horn-rimmed glasses, and his shiny monogrammed cuff links and couldn’t remember what she had found so attractive about him anymore. Ryan was right. David was an impossible snob. Worse, he was kind of a jerk.
Suddenly she thought back to last summer, when she was living with Ryan on the yacht and writing her column for Hamptons. Ryan never understood the writing thing the way David had—it just wasn’t one of his interests. But there was a huge difference betw
een her two ex-boyfriends. Ryan would never, ever look down on her.
“What am I going to tell my mother?” David asked, his angry expression crumbling into doubt. Suddenly he looked like a whiny little mama’s boy.
“I don’t know, David. Why don’t you make up a story? That’s what writers do, isn’t it?”
She slammed the door in his face and raced out of the Dakota and onto West Seventy-second Street, hailing a cab. She hoped she could still catch the last Jitney and make it to the big Vogue party. Maybe it wasn’t too late to make everything right.
jacqui doesn’t seem to
like surprises either
“IS IT EVERYTHING YOU EVER WISHED FOR?” MARCUS asked with a grand wave of the arm, gesturing at the scene before him.
“More,” Jacqui said breathlessly.
She had expected the usual Hamptons blowout for the Vogue party celebrating Eliza’s collection: a cadre of security at the front gates, bedlam at the door, valets hustling guests out of their shiny new Porsches. But the fete at the Calvin Klein mansion was a far cry from the extravagant, over-the-top, anything-goes bacchanalian parties that put the Hamptons on the map.
Instead, the spare, modern spaces of the large and airy home were as artfully decorated and well edited as any Vogue spread. The pristinely white walls were adorned with enormous, elegant black-and-white blowups from the shoot, and classical music was piped in from the invisible overhead speakers. The magazine had invited only an intimate handful of the most powerful, influential, and well-known style arbiters who had passed muster with the publication’s exacting editor in chief. It was a chic and stylish crowd, comprised of old-money scions and blue-chip heiresses like the Lauders and the Hearsts. Needless to say, Chauncey Raven wasn’t on the guest list.
Jacqui couldn’t stop looking at the humongous life-size photographs of her. She was inescapable. She was no longer Jacqui Velasco, pretty girl from Brazil, but the one-named wonder “Jacarei.” She couldn’t cross the room without being accosted by several different people—editors, modeling agents, PR reps, reporters, designers, photographers, who all wanted a piece of her. The attention was almost overwhelming.
“I’m … everywhere,” she said as she took it all in.
“My dear, that’s how Jacarei was meant to be experienced,” Marcus drawled, nodding in pleasure at the enormous wall-high photographs.
Whether or not that was true, the sight gave her a bit of a headache. She wished she hadn’t left her purse in the coat check, since she always kept a few Tylenol pills stashed away. She excused herself and made her way to the grand staircase and the coat check beyond.
As she walked up the stairs, she adjusted the front of her dress, making sure her bra straps weren’t peeking out of the neckline. Knowing that most would expect her to show off “the Body,” Jacqui had decided to trump expectations by choosing a loose, poufy baby-doll dress from Eliza’s fall line. She’d worn it with sky-scraping six-inch Pierre Hardy wedges that made her tanned legs look endless. The effect was stunning and subversively sexy and showed that Jacqui could command a room without having to show off her figure. See? She didn’t need Eliza to style her after all.
From the top of the landing, she could see the main hall below, where Eliza was holding court in the great room, looking poised to take over the global fashion market. She wore a smashing red dress with flamenco ruffles—for her resort collection, she’d decided to channel 1950s Cuba. Not that Eliza had told Jacqui that. She’d had to hear about it from Marcus, since she and Eliza still weren’t speaking, despite the fact that it had been an entire week since their argument.
Eliza had come up to her when she’d first arrived at the party and hissed in her ear that she needed to talk to her about Marcus. But Jacqui had angrily waved Eliza away. She didn’t want to hear another warning about Marcus and the evils of modeling, and she was sick of Eliza thinking she needed to be taken care of. She’d made up her mind, and there was no going back: she’d signed up with the Chrysler agency and was leaving for Paris the next morning. She would have to let NYU know she wouldn’t be enrolling in the fall at some point—after all, they’d probably notice when she wasn’t at orientation tomorrow—and the thought brought a little sadness. But she was determined, and nothing was going to stop her.
She was feeling a little dizzy from all the cocktails she’d drunk. They’d created a special drink in her honor—the Passionate Jac, made from Jack Daniels and Brazilian passion fruit juice. She looked for an empty bathroom where she could at least clear her head. As she stumbled around a corner, trying to find her way, she crashed into something. Make that someone.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said. She looked up, feeling a bit disoriented. “Don’t I know you …?”
“Jacqui Velasco.” The person in front of her was six-foot three, blond, and beaming, in a tailored shirt with nice wool pants.
“Pete? Pete Rockwood?” Jacqui asked in disbelief. “Am I dreaming?”
“Nope. Not at all.” Pete broke into a wide grin. “It’s me.”
“What are you doing here?” she blurted, too shocked to have any manners. Was this really the guy she’d met at the duck pond? He almost looked like a sophisticated Hamptonite and not the sweet tourist she’d met back in June.
“It’s a long story,” he said, smiling at her so widely that she couldn’t help but smile back. “Are you going downstairs?”
She nodded, unable to remember what she’d been doing before she bumped into him, and he led the way.
“I think there’s an elevator around here somewhere—I took it on the way up.” They walked down the length of the hallway to a small elevator next to the library that was almost hidden in the wall.
“So, would you like to tell me the long story?” she prodded, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“Well, it all started at the dentist’s office,” he said in a practical tone as he punched button to call the elevator.
“The dentist’s office?” Jacqui burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it; it was all too surreal. Where could this story be going?
“Yeah,” he said with a grin, letting her step inside the car first. He pushed the elevator button and the doors closed behind them. “Anyway, there I was, waiting for Dr. Finklemore, when I pick up a magazine and there you are. Your picture, that is. The article said you were spending the summer in the Hamptons, modeling for some store. So I stole the magazine and called up the boutique—Eliza Thompson? Anyway, the girl there said she knew where you were. So here I am.”
Jacqui stood there looking at him, totally stunned. All that effort just to track her down? But then, hadn’t she spent the first weeks of the summer madly Googling him?
“So basically, I came here looking for you. Does that make me a stalker?” His blue eyes twinkled and perfect dimples formed in either cheek. For a moment, all Jacqui could think about was that any girl would be happy to have Pete Rockwood for a stalker.
She suddenly remembered herself and shook her head, as if shaking water out of her ears. “But how—how’d you even get into this party? I thought you were from Indiana,” Jacqui said as they arrived at the first floor with a ding. How did a small-town boy end up at an exclusive fashion event?
“I am.” He smiled as he ushered her out of the elevator. “I’ve got my methods,” he said with a crafty grin.
She raised an eyebrow, more curious than ever.
“C’mon, a guy’s gotta have a few secrets, right? All that matters is that I’m here now and you’re here.”
They stepped out of the elevator and into the main hall. “You’re everywhere, in fact,” he added with a laugh, gesturing to the enormous photographs of Jacqui plastered as far as the eye could see. “Anyway, I was thinking … maybe I could take you out? Tomorrow night?”
“Take me out—”
“On, like, a date?” he asked, his face hopeful. “Dinner. Movie. Awkward conversation. You know, that sort of thing.”
“A date … tomorrow,” Ja
cqui repeated. She shook her head, reality suddenly coming back to her in a rush. “I can’t.”
Pete exhaled, looking crestfallen. They stopped in an empty alcove where they could hear the murmur of the party in the adjacent room.
“It’s not what you think,” Jacqui said gently. “I like you. It’s just I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow.” And I have a boyfriend now, she thought but didn’t say.
“So how about when you get back?” he asked. “Tell me if I’m trying too hard,” he added, still managing a ghost of a smile.
She shook her head, more slowly this time. “No, it’s not a vacation—I’m going to Paris to model. I’m staying there.”
Now it was his turn to look shocked. “But what about NYU? Didn’t you need that down payment for tuition earlier this summer?”
“I’m not going to NYU,” she said softly. She felt confident about the decision, but it still sounded foreign to say it out loud.
“I see.” Pete frowned, biting his lip. He opened his mouth and then hesitated, shaking his head. “But at the duck pond, you said …” He trailed off.
“What?” Jacqui asked.
A white-jacketed server came out of the kitchen and looked curiously at the two of them. They waited until he was out of earshot to resume their conversation.
Pete sighed. “Look, I know I don’t know you at all, but I think you’re making a mistake. When you were talking about what you really want to do in life, you never mentioned anything about modeling. It was all about NYU, your future. Are you sure modeling is what you want to do?”
Jacqui felt her face burning with annoyance. This was just like the lecture Mara and Eliza had given her. “You don’t know me at all. I mean, seriously. You met me once, for like five minutes, and that was months ago,” she spat. She knew she was being totally unfair, but why couldn’t anyone trust her to make her own decisions anymore? Why was everyone treating her like a child or, worse, like some airhead model, when that clearly wasn’t what she was going to be?