And When I Die, page 12
His hesitancy stimulated her determination and after a series of dead-end office jobs, she got her license at the suggestion of a former co-worker from one of those nowhere office jobs. It took a little while, but in due time, the money was gushing into her bank account like a tsunami, effectively obliterating his objections. Getting pregnant with Whitney bolstered her cause and off they went to Lake Forest. There’d been times she’d made more money than him, but it didn’t bother her—it wasn’t like he sat on his ass all day while she hustled for the bacon. And it certainly didn’t seem to irritate him to have a wife who out-earned him on occasion. They were both workaholics, reflected in every aspect of their luxurious, nothing-off-limits lifestyle. As far as the money was concerned, it was theirs, not his, not hers. Not that she didn’t do what she damn well pleased with hers when she wanted to.
Lauren’s phone vibrated inside her purse with an incoming call. She ignored it as she answered the husband’s question about commuting downtown via the Metra, then fielded the wife’s query about schools, as the phone rang four more times in quick succession. She apologized as she dug into her purse, agitated to see Steve’s face. She encouraged them to explore the upstairs further while she took the call.
“Steve, I’m busy—”
“Jay Mitchell just called me. He’s having one of his last-minute dinner parties tonight and wants us to come. And you know, when Jay says come, you come.”
Lauren’s hand smacked against the counter in frustration. The absolute last place on Earth she wanted to be was trapped with Jay and Erica at their house. For one, she was exhausted. Spending an evening with him and Erica was as tempting to Lauren as peeling off her fingernails with pliers, one by agonizing one. Especially after last week’s fiasco with Whitney’s birthday party, her stomach still churning at the memory. However, as Steve said, when Jay Mitchell said come to dinner, dropped however casually, however jovially, however last-minute, you went to dinner.
She rubbed a hand over her eyes, everything humming inside her to say no, but knowing she had to agree to it.
“All right,” she finally said. “Fine. Fine.”
They coordinated a few details and Lauren rushed to get off the phone, taking a few deep breaths and plastering on a smile to get back into the right headspace. Just as she started to feel centered, her feet pointed in the direction of the stairs so she could find the couple, her phone buzzed again, alternating with a series of pinging texts. This time, her son Parker’s name flashed urgently across her screen.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” she asked.
“Whitney’s not home to take me to Matt’s,” he said.
“Well, did you call her or text her?”
“Like ten times. It keeps going to voicemail.” He paused. “Her car’s here, though.”
“Oh, for—” Lauren sighed, plunking her hand down onto the granite countertop in exasperation. “All right, I—I’ll come home and take you to Matt’s. I’ll text you when I’m a few minutes away, so be packed, downstairs, and ready to go when I pull up, all right?”
“Okay, Mom. See ya,” he said, before ending the call.
Fury at everyone named Mitchell and irritation with her daughter burned beneath Lauren’s skin as she dropped her phone on the counter and took another round of deep breaths to calm her jangled nerves. She’d explicitly told the girl this morning she was in showings all day and wouldn’t have time to take Parker to his sleepover. Her snotty attitude was particularly galling after Lauren spent almost two hundred thousand dollars for both a brand-new Range Rover and the Sweet Sixteen to end all Sweet Sixteens. Granted, everything had gone south, but wasn’t it the effort that counted? A modicum of gratitude and honoring the occasional errand wasn’t too much to ask.
Lauren snatched up her phone to fire off a terse text, which Whitney was far more likely to respond to than a phone call.
You need to call me. Now.
Silence.
“Damn it,” Lauren muttered to herself as she ascended the stairs to find the prospective buyers, as she thought about how she’d like to wring Whitney’s neck.
24
AVA
Ava stood in front of the dry cleaners, watching through the brick archway as the ferocious wind rippled across the slanted sheets of the early October rain, the plastic bags containing her husband’s suits battering her legs. Her SUV waited for her at the far end of the jammed parking lot, but it may as well have been across a moat, perched on a mountaintop, teetering on the head of a pin. Her umbrella was, of course, on the floor behind the driver’s side seat. Of course.
Fucking Kyle. He was always doing this: waiting until the last minute to beg her to help him with some domestic crisis that only she could solve. Today was please, please, please, pick up his suits, because he didn’t have any more and they closed at five and he was stuck in Lisle with a client and he owed her one.
Then again, she was always saving his bacon, so she was as much to blame as he was.
At least she had her book club to look forward to later that evening, even if they had to endure discussing Sami Benson’s pick, the latest in her long line of pseudo-intellectual selections that allowed her to parrot moronic talking points she found on the Internet, thinking she was fooling everyone with her superior grasp of the material. Rolling their eyes at Sami and taking a drink every time she uttered some variation of, “The intellectual prowess of the book really spoke to me,” had become sport.
Carly intruded on her thoughts, their conversation earlier that morning flickering across her mind like a broken film reel. Ava had stopped the girl as she rushed to leave the house, impatiently insisting she had to spend the day volunteering at the animal shelter, and that the volunteer coordinator had insisted Carly absolutely had to be the one to work the two four-hour shifts. The anxious jumble of words surging from Carly’s mouth had made Ava feel … unsettled. She didn’t think the girl was lying to her necessarily, but it also felt as though she was doing a bit of a tap dance. Up to something. Maybe that was more apt. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was off with the girl. Dodgy, as Kyle would say.
Not to mention, she’d been beyond pissed that Kyle let her stay home from school all week while Ava had been first in New York, then routed to Denver the rest of the week at the last minute. And had gifted her with the birthday BMW to cheer her up, as he’d so feebly put it. Had she been home, there definitely would have been no car and she would have marched the girl to school every day herself. Of course, he was such a pushover, all Carly had to do was whimper about cramps and Kyle would melt like a popsicle in the sun.
She’d deal with Carly tomorrow. Right now, she wanted to get out of this rain and finish reading the last few pages for book club. Ava squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and darted toward her car, rain pelting her like hot needles as she cursed the puddles of water seeping into her loafers.
However, it was the one pothole heaving with rainwater, just steps from her car, that she would curse the longest and the loudest for years to come. The one that conspired with gravity to reach up and slam her to the ground with the force of a two-ton house, directly onto the delicate bones of her left wrist.
As she wailed in pain, howling even louder at her first glance at the mangled mess dangling from the end of her arm, Ava saved her most ferocious ire for Kyle, a part of her secretly glad the suits had flown out of her hand and landed in a puddle of their own.
25
LAUREN
“We really should have made up an excuse not to go tonight.”
“You think anybody ever tells Jay Mitchell ‘No’?”
“Just because he’s the richest guy in town doesn’t mean he’s got the biggest dick and that we all have to come running every time he swings it around,” Lauren said as she pulled up to a stop light.
Steve side-eyed her. “Babe, I think you know who has the biggest dick in Lake Forest.”
“You’re such a jackass.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” He winked.
“That might be what I’m saying in a few hours.” She glanced out the driver’s side window. “Did Jay say who these people are?”
“Something about somebody I should meet, great opportunity, blah, blah, blah. You know, the usual with Jay.”
“Well, the last three pieces of business he threw your way worked out all right, so I guess for you I can put on a happy face and ignore how fucking exhausted I am.” Lauren sighed. “And deal with Erica to boot.”
“Just drink a lot.”
“You know she’s going to be gushing all over me with all that fake, phony … tears and all that shit, and the next thing you know, I’ll be apologizing to her.” Lauren shook her head. “Fucking ridiculous.”
Steve scratched his scalp through the close-cropped waves of his low-cut fade, the outline of his still rippling football player muscles straining against his button-down shirt. “You can suck it up for a few hours.”
“And what if Jordan is there? I have to deal with her now too?” Lauren rolled her eyes. “Yeah, this is the fun Saturday night I had planned.”
“Listen, babe, like you said, I may walk out of here with some business. Hell, knowing Jay, you might, too, so just roll with it.”
Lauren groaned because he was right, of course. “I know, I know.”
“That’s a good wife,” Steve said.
“You’re not funny.”
“You sure about that?”
“What do you want to bet Jay was the president of his frat in college?”
“I was thinking Beer Chair,” Steve said as she turned down the Mitchell’s street.
They looked at each other and laughed as Lauren focused her attention back to the dark, winding road, illuminated with only the bouncing white beams of her headlights and shadows of tree branches crawling across the pavement. When she’d left that morning, she’d anticipated crawling into a bubble bath, a few edibles, and a bottle of wine at the end of the night. Not being summoned to the Mitchells for one of Jay’s infamous last-minute dinner parties. The dread of having to make nice with Jay and Erica wasn’t her only concern. Whitney still hadn’t answered any of her texts, a stunt she sometimes liked to pull when she was being pissy about something. Lauren would need to pull rank in order to elicit a change in attitude.
Her SUV wailed as it came to a stop behind a silver Porsche parked in the circular driveway of the Mitchell’s. Lauren gathered up the bottle of wine from the backseat, a sparkly red bow tied around its neck. She shivered a little in the damp, cool air, the day’s pounding rain having stopped only briefly.
“Here we go,” Steve murmured as they linked hands, her tiny hand lost in his paw, and made their way up the front walk.
As soon as Steve rang the bell, the door swung open to reveal a hulking Jay, as big and jovial as ever. Jay, the bulky, red-faced giant, bird legs holding up the barrel of his body. Who told stories at the volume of loud and louder, dominating conversations with blaring opinions, tasteless jokes, and adolescent pontifications. Who’d turned rumpled khakis, Chuck Taylors, and untucked dress shirts into his own version of the black turtleneck and jeans. He’d always struck Lauren as more of an overgrown frat boy than a wunderkind who’d built and sold three multibillion-dollar software firms in the last twenty-five years.
“Deans!” Jay bellowed through the bullhorn of his mouth, as he swallowed them both into bear hugs before ushering them inside and offering them drinks.
Erica was in the living room talking to a slightly older couple, both with silver hair and tanned, well-etched faces, who Jay introduced as Lance and Gabby Adams as Erica came over to offer Steve and Lauren double cheek kisses.
“Wonderful to see you,” Erica said as she took their coats and handed them to a server hired for the evening, who whisked them away to some unseen corner of the house. “So glad you could make it tonight, especially on such short notice.”
“Our pleasure,” Lauren said with as much stiff graciousness as she could muster, as she handed Erica the bottle of red she’d skidded into the wine shop for twenty minutes ago just as they were closing. “Everything smells lovely.”
“Oh, yes, well, thank goodness for catering companies. I wasn’t even home when Jay called wanting to do this so last-minute.” She laughed. “I barely got here ahead of the caterers.”
“Hey, Lance, this is the man you want to talk to about your project,” Jay said, slapping Steve on the shoulder. “Best architect in the city.” Lauren and Steve snuck a knowing smile at each other. Jay could always be counted on to be Jay.
The three men immediately fell into conversation, the wife, Gabby, joining in their small talk as Erica tapped Lauren on the shoulder.
“Can we speak for a few minutes?” she asked.
Lauren nodded, her realtor smile sliding across her face, freezing into place. “Sure.” She steeled herself to brace for impact as Erica signaled for her to join her in a dimly lit corner removed from the excited chatter happening across the room.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am for what happened at Whitney’s party last weekend,” she said, her voice hushed and plaintive as she planted a bony hand against her equally bony collarbone, the ubiquitous gold Tiffany bracelet sliding the length of her bony wrist. “I am absolutely … mortified.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” Lauren said, her heart speeding up a little, her eyes searching over the woman’s shoulder for Steve to rescue her, he instead seemingly mesmerized by whatever Lance was saying.
“I truly thought if Jordan came, she and Whitney would kiss and make up and get back to being friends. I had no idea it would fall apart the way it did.”
“I understand, Erica,” Lauren said, her skin itching with heat, threatening to ignite with an army of fiery red hives that tended to rear their scratchy, angry little heads when she was nervous.
“I grounded Jordan,” Erica continued, her voice a whisper. “I mean, I let her go babysitting tonight, so she’s not home, so you don’t have to worry about her or Kennedy either, because I sent her to a sleepover—well, anyway, as Jay would say, the point of departure is, she has to understand that actions have consequences. In fact, we’d like to take both of you to lunch so that Jordan can apologize properly to you and Whitney.”
“It’s really not necessary.” Lauren swallowed. Her thigh burned, an indication at least one hive had made its entrance. “But I do appreciate the sentiment.”
Erica placed a hand on Lauren’s arm. “Really. I want to. We want to.”
Lauren forced yet another tight smile. Saying yes was easier. “Okay. Thank you.”
Erica lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. “Wonderful. We can figure out all the details on getting together later. Come. Let’s have a good time tonight.”
Like the flick of a switch, Lauren’s temperature receded, the itch of her thigh settling down to sleep. She’d expected a ten-minute drone, mild histrionics, haughty disbelief. Even a tear or two. This was surprisingly brief. Restrained. This was getting off easy.
Mostly. There was still an uncomfortable lunch to get through.
She quickly checked her phone, perturbed to see there was still no word from Whitney. She tried to catch Steve’s eye as the men broke off to continue their business discussion and a server appeared to freshen Gabby’s wine.
“So, how do you and Erica know each other?” Gabby asked, her silver arrow earrings batting against her neck as she turned toward Lauren.
“Our girls are in the same class,” Lauren said.
Erica sipped her wine. “They’ve been best friends since ballet class, what twelve, thirteen years?”
“Right,” Lauren said. “LoMastro. Jordan was the star of the class.”
“You’re so sweet to say that,” Erica said. “Whitney, though—she’s a phenomenal dancer. Then and now.”
“It’s wonderful you all have this history,” Gabby said. “That your girls are still friends after all these years.”
Lauren let the comment slide, Jordan and Whitney’s friendship beyond repair in her eyes. Instead, she smiled. “It has been a long time.”
“Hard to believe how long ago that was.” Erica shook her head. “I honestly don’t know where the time has gone.”
“Well, you really do blink and miss it, don’t you?” Gabby said. “Both my girls are in their late twenties now and I swear just yesterday they were twelve with braces and pimples.”
“I’d rather deal with zits and crooked teeth,” Erica said, about to set her glass down when a server appeared with a fresh drink. “Now they have to deal with social media and the Internet and all of that. We had it so much easier.”
“God, I’d never want to do sixteen again. Twenty-two maybe, but not sixteen,” Gabby said, laughing.
“Oh, I would.” Erica smiled. “Parties every weekend, cheering at football games, dances, class ski trips. It was a blast.”
Lauren took a sip of wine, remembering Erica’s forty-fifth birthday party from a few years ago, and the blown-up yearbook pictures plastered around the room featuring Erica in all her high school glory. She hadn’t quite been able to reconcile the image of Erica as a queen bee that all the girls in school buzzed around with the haughty people pleaser who used her status as the wife of one of the richest men in the world as a cudgel to beat people into submission. Then again, those same arrogant tendencies were probably why she’d been so popular in high school.
“No wonder you loved high school,” was all Lauren said.
Jay smacked his hands together loudly and announced dinner was ready. Lauren checked her phone again and saw Whitney was still playing hide and seek. She fired off another terse message commanding the girl to call her immediately before checking her doorbell video, only to see it was still out because of the storm. She signaled to Steve as they all moved toward the dining room.
