The Heiresses

  Aster squinted at her mom, then Corinne, Dixon, and Edith, but all four of them looked away. The moment felt fraught, as though everyone was in on a joke Aster didn’t get. Only Poppy was looking at her encouragingly, nodding in the direction of the office.

  Aster got up from her chair, suddenly shaky in her strappy leather pumps. Esme appeared from the kitchen to whisk away her uneaten food. The classical music Aster’s family always played during dinner faded as she followed her father from the dining room to his office at the back of the town house.

  The room smelled like cigar smoke and cedar, just the way Aster remembered it. She hadn’t set foot here in years, not since she and her father fell out. There was the same bearskin rug on the floor, the same cutting tools and old loupes on the desk, and the various vintage rifles from the Civil War through World War II mounted on the walls. On one shelf was a line of old photographs, including one of Papa Alfred in his World War II uniform. Standing next to him was Harold Browne, a friend he’d made during his time there. Next to that was a picture Aster hadn’t noticed before, of Mason and other Saybrook’s execs on a golf outing. Steven Barnett stood off to the side, his handsome smile broad.

  Aster looked away. It seemed strange that her father would have a picture of Steven in his office after everything that had happened. But then, her father always did have a way of compartmentalizing things.

  Lined up on another wall were the taxidermied animal heads from his favorite hunts. An enormous elk, a long-horned ram, even an African elephant, with fanned ears and an extended trunk. There were glass marbles where its eyes had been. As a child, Aster had been afraid of that elephant; but Mason had brought her into his study and asked her to look at it. “It’s like the elephant at the Museum of Natural History,” he said, holding her up to face it. “What if I let you name him?”

  “His name is Dumbo,” Aster announced. “But I still don’t like him.” To Aster, Dumbo was completely different from the elephants at the museum—or the cartoon. The elephant was dead because her father had killed it.

  Aster glared at Mason, then plopped onto the overstuffed leather couch. “So what’s up?” she asked stonily.

  Mason lit a cigar. “I’m ending your allowance.”

  “Excuse me?” Aster barked a laugh.

  “I guess you haven’t seen this.” He set the cigar in an ashtray and tilted his computer screen toward her. The Blessed and the Cursed was front and center. Aster almost burst out laughing—she would never have guessed her dad read the gossip site.

  Then she saw the pictures. The first shot was of Poppy ushering her from Corinne’s dress fitting, her makeup smeared and her hair a tangled mess. The second was of her dancing at Badawi later that night. The strap of her dress had fallen off her shoulder, showing what little cleavage she had as she stared into the camera vacantly. She looked as wasted as she’d felt.

  “Aster Saybrook Is Out of Control,” read the headline.

  Aster felt the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t the first time that she’d been featured on that stupid website, but this was the first time her father had called her out on it. She felt for her phone. Had Clarissa sent the Badawi picture? Backstabbing bitch.

  Her father sighed. “You ruined your sister’s fitting. For her wedding dress. And this business at the club—come on, Aster. You’re better than that.”

  Aster blinked hard. “Better than what?”

  Her father just stared at her. She searched his face for a sign of her dad there, of the man who used to carry her on his shoulders and tell her that everything would be okay. All she saw reflected there was disappointment.

  “Deanna can handle it. She can get those photos taken down,” Aster tried next. Deanna was the family’s publicist; she could make almost anything go away.

  Mason shook his head. “I don’t want Deanna to handle it—that’s not the point. You need to learn some responsibility.” He had another puff. “It’s time you got a job. I’ve talked to HR, and they’re finding an assistant position for you in one of the departments.”

  “A job?” Aster sputtered.

  Mason stared at her. “You start next Wednesday.”

  “As in a week from now?” Aster shrieked. “You had no right to do that!”

  “I have every right. I’m the one who pays your bills.” Mason stood, the discussion clearly over. “You’ve got to grow up sometime, Aster. And that time is now.”

  Spots formed in front of Aster’s eyes. “What department am I working in?” she asked. Not Corinne’s; please don’t let me be working for Corinne.

  “I don’t know—HR is handling it,” Mason replied. “And frankly, I don’t care.”

  Aster headed toward the door, feeling tears in her eyes. She turned back so that her father could see her crying, but he just stared at her stonily. That trick didn’t work on him anymore.

  She envisioned going to work at Saybrook’s, getting bossed around and gossiped about because of her last name. For a moment, Aster thought of revealing her father for the liar he really was—running back into that dining room and announcing what she’d discovered about him five years ago. But then the anger deflated from her like air leaving a balloon. Telling the truth about Mason wouldn’t solve anything.

  “Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll take your stupid job. But I’m warning you, I’m going to suck at it.”

  She walked out of the office, down the hall, and to the front door without even saying good-bye to anyone. Why should she? They were probably snickering about her in the dining room. Or doing the proper-person alternative to snickering, whatever the hell that was. Tut-tutting. Tongue-clucking. God, she hated all of them.

  A job. Jesus. She hailed a cab and gave the driver her downtown address, then leaned against the window and closed her eyes. For the first time, it felt as if the family curse was real. Because starting next week, Aster would be living it.

  5

  The following evening after work, Corinne got out of a cab on the corner of West Tenth and Bleecker in the West Village. Spring had sprung all over the city. The trees were fragrant with new cherry blossoms, everyone had pots of flowers on their stoops, an old Gwen Stefani song, which always reminded her of cruising around Meriweather in the vintage Jaguar convertible they kept there, wafted out of an open window a few stories above. As she stepped daintily onto the curb, careful not to scuff her python and suede pumps, she tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder.

  “I don’t think Aster knows what hit her,” Poppy said on the other end of the line. “I mean, Corinne, she is really freaking out.”

  Corinne waited at the curb for the light to change, absently watching the crowd across the street. A couple of guys in cutoff jean shorts chatted with a woman in a neon maxidress, pretending not to notice a famous actor who lived nearby. People in the Village looked so different from everyone on the Upper East Side, and she always felt like a tourist here. Her gaze focused on an old lady in a bright pink trench coat on the corner. She was wheeling a small portable cart full of groceries from D’Agostino’s, a toothy smile on her face.

  She sighed into the phone. “I think Aster will be okay,” she told Poppy, though she wasn’t sure if she believed that. She had an unexpected wave of sympathy for Aster: she’d wanted her parents to stop enabling Aster’s ridiculous life, but now that they had, her father’s ultimatum seemed so dramatic. Corinne was hurt too that Aster had called Poppy instead of her. Then again, her sister still hadn’t apologized for wrecking the dress fitting—or for the Blessed and the Cursed post about the behind-the-scenes drama in her perfect wedding. Corinne had had to give a short, fluffy interview to New York magazine’s online editor this morning, saying how helpful her cousins and sister had been in the planning process. “My sister really knows how to do a party,” she’d tittered. Problem solved, without Aster’s help. As usual.

  But that was how Corinne sailed through life; the waters were choppy, but she was steady, never veering off course. She wondered somet
imes how she and Aster had wound up so different, how much was a reaction to the other and how much was built into their DNA. From the time she was a kid, Corinne had been goal-oriented—to make a best friend, to get an A, to meet the right kind of people. The only time she’d strayed was at boarding school, when a group of older girls in her hall had enlisted her to help steal a bronze horse statue from the headmaster’s desk. It was something students attempted every year, and even though getting caught could mean disciplinary action, those girls were the right ones to get in with. In fact, when her parents had moved her in, her mother had pointed out some of these very girls, saying Corinne should introduce herself. But when she’d gotten caught, her mother also told her how disappointed she was in Corinne. “I expect more from you,” she’d said. Corinne still carried that memory in her mind, even now. It was a small thing, but it encapsulated so much more. Sometimes it was hard to make the right choices especially when everyone was watching.

  Now Corinne spied the awning she was looking for, a restaurant called Coxswain. “Hey, Poppy, I have to go,” she said, picking up the pace. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Sure,” Poppy answered. “But listen, maybe you should talk to Aster. She probably needs you right now.”

  “Talk to you soon.” Corinne dropped her phone back into her bag and walked past the potted plants and wrought-iron figurines on Coxswain’s doorstep. The inside of the restaurant was dark and cool, the vibe like someone’s living room. The chairs didn’t match, nor did the tables—some were round tile-tops, others were wood, and the bar was made of chipped marble. Hundreds of oars made a latticework on the ceiling. Every table and stool was full, but then she spied Dixon waiting at the bar with a beer. His suit jacket was off, his tie was loosened, and his floppy brown hair had been pushed off his head. Sitting next to him was another oxford-shirted Wall Street type, whom she recognized as Avery Dunbar, one of Dixon’s fraternity brothers.

  She sighed inwardly. It seemed like they always had company when they went out.

  When Dixon saw Corinne, he gave her an enthusiastic wave, his gray-green eyes crinkling at the corners. He leaped off his stool and kissed her cheek, then gestured to Avery. “He was in the neighborhood. Loves this place. It’s cool, right?”

  “Sure,” Corinne said; she was too tired to care. She’d called Dixon out on his dinner-crashing friends before, but he’d just seemed confused. “The more the merrier, right?” he’d said once. And then, “Wait, that bothers you?”

  She looked at Avery. “So you suggested this place?”

  “Actually, Evan Pierce told me to try it,” Dixon said, signaling to the bartender. A chardonnay for Corinne appeared in seconds. “Gourmet says it’s a restaurant to watch. Or maybe it was Bon Appétit. One of those.”

  Avery, who had a square jaw and a thick platinum wedding ring on his fat finger, laughed. “Look at you. Quoting Gourmet magazine.”

  A waitress in a gingham shirt and tight dark-wash jeans appeared and told the trio their table was ready. Dixon laid down a few twenties—Corinne wondered how long they’d been drinking—and both of the men loped behind the girl to a corner seat. She sipped her wine as she followed behind, listening to them chatter about a major IPO that had happened during trading that day, and then about whether they’d get a house in the Hamptons in August. As they slid into the chairs at a small, round corner table, Dixon smiled. “Could be fun—nice to get away for the weekends? After the honeymoon, I mean?”

  Corinne shrugged. “I still prefer the Vineyard.”

  Then she looked up at Dixon, who had just been given another beer. “Wait. Why were you talking to Evan Pierce about restaurants?” Corinne had handled every wedding detail thus far, aside from Dixon’s upcoming bachelor’s golf weekend.

  Dixon cut his gaze to the right. “Oh. Uh, I had a question about the accommodations for the guests. For my parents, I mean.”

  Corinne squinted at him. “I had a long conversation with them about that last week.” She’d invited Herman and Gwendolyn Shackelford to stay at the estate in Meriweather, where the rehearsal dinner and wedding would take place, but they’d decided to stay in Edgartown instead.

  Dixon tugged at his collar. He looked like he was about to say something, but he was interrupted by the return of the waitress, this time bearing three plates of food. “Lobster soufflé,” she said as she set them down.

  Corinne frowned. “We didn’t order these.” The waitress smiled mysteriously. Corinne peered at Dixon and Avery. “You guys ordered without me?”

  Avery just shrugged. Dixon’s throat bobbed. “Try it.”

  Corinne shrugged and took a bite. The consistency was creamy, and the lobster was fresh and perfectly seasoned. It reminded her immediately of something she’d eaten in Meriweather. “Amazing,” she murmured, scooping up another bite.

  Dixon glanced at Avery, and his friend gave him a knowing nod. “I’m happy to hear you say that, because the chef is going to do our wedding.”

  Corinne set down her fork. “But we already have a caterer. The chef from L’Auberge.” Everyone wanted the new French chef on the Manhattan culinary scene. His three unmarked restaurants around the city had already been awarded Michelin stars. Evan had secured him more than a year ago.

  Dixon cleared his throat. “Don’t freak out, okay? But there was an issue. That’s why Evan called me today. He had to back out.”

  “Back out?” Corinne’s heart sped up. “But our wedding is in less than a month!” Her fingers sought out the hem of the tablecloth. Slowly she began to pick at a loose thread.

  “I know,” Dixon said calmly. “Evan knows too. Like I said, she sent us here. Everyone who’s been to this place loves it. And get this: the chef used to work on the Vineyard—he knows the local fishermen, he knows all the good spots for produce, and he’s free the weekend of the wedding. He and I have already talked, and everything’s set as long as you’re cool with it too.”

  “Seems like a decent guy,” Avery piped up, and then had the good sense to stand and excuse himself for the bathroom.

  Once Avery was gone, Dixon peered into Corinne’s eyes. “Problem solved, right? Right?”

  “I don’t know,” Corinne said, feeling scattered.

  “Well, I do. This is going to be great.” Dixon handed Corinne her fork. “Now, take another bite of soufflé.”

  Corinne did as she was told, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing. “You and Evan have known about this all day, and you didn’t tell me?” she asked, hurt. She looked at Avery’s empty chair. Even he’d known. She imagined Dixon prepping him beforehand. Man, she’s going to panic. Help me talk her down.

  “Hey.” Dixon reached out and caught Corinne’s hand. She looked down. Unconsciously, she’d unraveled a whole line of the tablecloth’s stitching; a long red thread dangled to the floor. “Evan didn’t want to worry you,” Dixon said gently. “And neither did I. You’ve been working so hard. And really, the chef here is going to kill it—in fact, there he is now.” His gaze moved past Corinne, toward the back of the restaurant. “He wanted to introduce himself.”

  Corinne turned toward the bar and watched as a figure in chef’s whites walked toward them. At first his face was in shadow, but then he walked into the light, offering them a mild smile. Corinne took in his broad frame, his chiseled face, his slender nose and deep-set eyes. He had dark, wavy hair, some stubble on his face, and the kind of smile that seemed slightly teasing, like he knew something you didn’t.

  Corinne’s jaw dropped. She actually felt herself shrink down in her chair. It was a man she hadn’t seen in years but had never forgotten. His face was less tanned, his hair longer, his body a little more toned, if that was even possible.

  For a second she was transported back to that summer in Meriweather, when Dixon had broken up with her and she’d felt so lost, realizing for the first time that no matter how much she planned, no matter how right they were together, she couldn’t force him to want her back.

 
She’d gone out with Poppy in town one evening, drinking too much rosé at a bar overlooking the water. When they finished a bottle, another appeared, then another, all gratis; Poppy had that effect on people. The hours went on in a blur of silly conversations with guys who stopped by to meet her cousin, a blend of laughter and inside jokes that would never be as funny again. But whenever she looked up, there was someone watching her. Will Coolidge, he finally introduced himself. But it wasn’t until he was leading her under the dock, the Atlantic lapping at the sand, that she realized he had been waiting for her the whole night.

  She kicked off her loafers; the sand was cool and grainy under her feet. Dizzy with wine, they leaned toward each other and kissed. It felt strange for Corinne to kiss someone new after only being with Dixon for so long. And the kiss was so different from Dixon’s. She wanted more, but she restrained herself, breathing hard and staring at him. “I don’t do things like this,” she’d announced.

  “Neither do I,” Will said.

  Corinne laughed. “You seem like exactly the type who does.”

  Will shook his head. “You don’t know who I am.”

  “You don’t know who I am,” she challenged.

  Will had stared at her. “Yes, I do. Everyone does.” And then he’d kissed her again.

  “Hello, Miss Saybrook.”

  Corinne blinked, suddenly back in the dim light of the restaurant. She unthinkingly spun her wedding ring around so that the yellow diamond faced the inside of her hand. “H-hi.”

  After so many years together, Corinne sometimes thought Dixon could read her mind. But when she looked across the table, he was only smiling bemusedly, oblivious to her discomfort. “You know each other?”

  Will glanced at Corinne, then looked away sharply, angling his body more toward Dixon. “Yes. We do.”

  “Well, that’s even better.” Dixon extended his hand to Will. “Thanks so much for helping us out, man. You’re all for this, right, Corinne?”