The Dirty Truth, page 5
“You realize there are only two weeks left of the school year . . .”
“I’m aware,” I lie. I hadn’t realized it. I’d been too busy chasing after the City Gent merger to pay attention to the school calendar.
A vision of Scarlett wandering the city unsupervised for an entire summer sends a cold sweat down my neck—yet another worry to add to the list of things that keep me up at night.
“Come on.” I hook my hand into her elbow and steer her toward the office with long, brisk strides.
Stopping outside the school secretary’s door, she jerks away from me. “Why do you care so much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Until this year, I’d only met you five times in my life, and I don’t even remember half of those. I just have pictures,” she says. “I don’t get why you care.”
If she only knew . . .
Someday I’ll tell her. But not here. And certainly not now. She isn’t in the right frame of mind to comprehend the depth or seriousness of this situation.
“You’re not my dad.” Her voice breaks, but her expression is impressively ironclad—delivering the words like a true Maxwell.
“Thank you, Scarlett, for that much-needed reminder. I’d almost forgotten.” I get the door and escort my wayward niece inside. “Kill the attitude and get ready to apologize profusely for your actions.”
When the shit show’s over, I walk the five blocks to my corporate office, where yet another shit show awaits me. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I work from a private office in my home. My reasons have always been comfort, privacy, and convenience. Also, I’ve found that being absent from the main office as much as possible serves to make my presence that much more impactful.
Besides, my time is priceless, and I reserve none of it for brownnosers, time-wasting chitchatters, watercooler gossip, and office politics.
While I’d normally hand the “little things” off to Miranda, what happened this morning with the staff writer is something I plan to deal with myself.
Sliding out my phone, I dial Tom’s number.
“Mr. Maxwell, hi,” he answers in the middle of the first ring.
“Expected to hear from you before now.” I cut to the chase. “What’s the latest with Ms. Napier?”
I called him from the cab on my way to find Scarlett and informed him I’d like a face-to-face meeting with our audacious little staffer immediately.
“Right, so unfortunately she hasn’t been answering her phone all morning,” he says. “I’ve called her sixteen times and sent twenty texts, but they’re not even showing as read. I think her phone might be off . . .”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale and stride ahead, passing a slow-walking tourist type and a woman in head-to-toe lime-green Dior.
“I’ll keep trying,” Tom says. “But I can’t make any promises. Let’s face it: Elle resigned. I can’t force her back here, you know? Unless . . . are you offering her job back? Maybe I could try to talk her into coming back. I will say it’s not like her to be this impulsive. Then again, she hasn’t really been the same since her little incident a couple months back.”
Ah yes.
Her brain aneurysm.
I’m well aware of it—mostly because it was all anyone would talk about at staff meetings for a while, but also because someone forwarded a GoFundMe campaign to the entire company, and it was then I found myself becoming somewhat invested in her story.
But only for a short while—I had a business to run.
“I’m not offering her job back,” I say. I would never allow an employee to quit with a slap in the face and then offer them the moon and stars to return.
Tom’s end goes quiet.
“I’d simply like to have a conversation with her,” I say.
“I . . . I can send you her phone number?” he stammers. “I just don’t think you’re going to get her to come in for a good old-fashioned ass chewing, pardon my French.”
“I’m not going to chew her ass.” I sniff, approaching the gleaming platinum rotunda of my corporate headquarters. “I’d just like to talk to her. That’s all.”
“Oh . . . okay,” Tom says. “Um, I’ll make sure to convey . . . all of that.”
“I’d like to speak to her today. This afternoon ideally.” I check my watch before entering the elevator. In the seconds before the doors close, I catch a glimpse of a wide-eyed main-floor receptionist making a quick call, warning them off like she always does.
As if I didn’t know . . .
“Thank you, Tom,” I say. “I trust you’ll make this happen.”
Ending the call, I press the button for the fortieth floor and darken my phone screen, silently running through all the choice words I’m saving for one Miss Elle Napier.
If she wants the dirty truth . . . I’ll give her the dirty truth.
And then some.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ELLE
The afternoon sun blinds me as I step out of the matinee production of Unconditional Splendor. Just as I’d hoped, it was magnificent—and it wasn’t just the acting. Granted, the performance was superb. But minus three other theatergoers, I had the entire place to myself, prompting one of the ushers to graciously offer me a front-row seat. I was so close to the stage I could smell the pan makeup that caked their faces and the spray paint they’d used on the backdrops. So close I could see the tears rolling down the heroine’s face as she professed her undying devotion to her long-lost love.
With my phone off and my never-ending to-do list wiped clean, I found myself present and in the moment for the first time in recent memory. My heart ached for the characters as I watched their love story unfold in the midst of tragedy, and for two straight hours their pain was my pain, their triumph was my triumph, and their joy was my joy.
Had I not quit my job, I’d have missed out on all of that.
Hitting the pavement, I dig my phone from my bag and power it on—only to find dozens of missed calls from Tom with a side of frantic text messages peppered with emojis, expletives, and exclamation marks.
“Hey,” I say when I call him back. “What’s going on?”
“My God, Elle. I thought something happened to you again.” He exhales his words in one long breath. The morning of my aneurysm, he was the first to realize I hadn’t shown up to the office, and he spent his entire day calling every hospital and precinct in Manhattan, trying to track me down. “I’ve been running around my office like a damn lunatic. Was about to start calling hospitals again.”
“I went for a walk this morning, and then I caught a show.” I suppress a yawn—the all-nighter is finally catching up with me. “Didn’t realize you were still keeping tabs.”
“West wants to talk to you,” he says, monotone.
My smile fades. “What? Why?”
“No clue. He wouldn’t say.”
Of course he wouldn’t say—the man gets his rocks off on being as cryptic as humanly possible.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait next to a couple engaged in a heated argument over whether they should go to the Hamptons for their anniversary in June.
“We go every year.” The woman tosses her hands up in drama queen fashion.
“That’s the point—it’s tradition.” Her partner grips fistfuls of air, bending at the knees as if he’s going to drop to the pavement in frustration.
In eighteen months together, Matt and I never once fought. Looking back, I realize it’s because he was too busy pretending to be Mr. Wonderful and I was too busy playing the part of some cool, modern girlfriend. We were both being the person we thought the other one wanted.
But none of it was real.
Because real couples fight.
Real couples aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.
Real couples don’t hide their true feelings—or in Matt’s case, their true identities.
“Tell him there’s nothing to discuss,” I say when I cross the street. “His ego’s probably bruised, and he just wants the last word.”
Tom sighs. “He says he’s not going to berate you, Elle. But he would really like to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” I say. Another call beeps in. “Tom, hold on . . . it’s my mom . . . I should take this . . . again, I’m so sorry.”
Ever since my aneurysm, my mother has full-blown anxiety fits every time I don’t answer her call. If she gets my voice mail, she’ll leave a rambling message before firing off a handful of texts asking if I’m okay and demanding I get back to her as soon as possible. And if I don’t respond within precisely three minutes, she has my father and sisters blow up my phone, and always in the same order: Dad, then Emma, then Eden, then Evie.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer.
“Elle, sweetheart. My goodness, your phone’s been off all day, and I called your office, and they said you weren’t there. Is everything all right? How are you feeling?”
“Everything’s more than all right,” I say. “And I’m feeling amazing, actually. Having a pretty incredible day so far. What’s up?”
“Well, thank the good Lord for that. Had me worried half to death.” Her drawl is sweet and patient. “Anyway, I was just calling to see if you’d received your bridesmaid dress yet? Evie said she mailed it Priority last week. I know you’d had some stolen packages earlier this year, so I thought I’d check . . .”
I picture her strutting along the wraparound porch of our Louisiana colonial, her tea-length dress flouncing in the breeze as she twirls her pearl necklace around one finger.
“I got it Thursday,” I say.
“And have you tried it on?”
“I did.” I smile and nod at a green-haired teenager in passing, who stares back at me with dead eyes smudged with black eyeliner. “Needs to be let out about an inch in the bust and hemmed a couple of inches, but it’s beautiful.”
“Are you sure that’s all it needs? Did you get a second opinion? Maybe have Indie take a look. The mirror can distort things, you know.” Her voice pitches higher with each remark. Bless her micromanaging heart. “You know, if you need, you can send it home, and I can take it to my guy.”
“The city has some of the best tailors in the world,” I remind her. “I’ll find someone amazing, I promise.”
“Well, just make sure it’ll be done in time for the wedding.” My mother lives to plan things, and my baby sister’s nuptials are no exception.
Beyond the pictures of cakes and flowers and venues and centerpieces Evie sends in our family group chat, I’ve yet to get involved in the planning of this lavish affair aside from liking pictures and sharing occasional excitement.
“June twenty-fourth,” Mom reminds me, as if she hadn’t already given me the date a dozen times before. “You’re coming out the week before that, yes?”
“Already booked my tickets.”
“Have you sent me your itinerary yet? I’d love to print it off and add it to my file . . .”
“I’ll forward it the second we hang up.”
“I’ll have your father pick you up from the airport that day so you won’t have to worry about driving. I know you don’t like to drive anymore now that you’re a big ol’ city girl.” She offers a chuckle, though we all know it kills her that I shied away from the Napier-woman tradition of marrying your high school sweetheart, buying a starter home, and popping out your first baby by twenty-four. “So anyway, what’s new? How was your first full week back at the office?”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “It was . . . interesting.”
“Please tell me you’re not putting in those ridiculous twelve-hour days. Remember, the doctor said you needed to ease into everything.”
The day of my aneurysm, my mother boarded the first flight out of Baton Rouge and spent every night for two weeks sleeping on the pull-out sofa in my hospital room. When the doctors would come, she’d take notes. When the nurses would make their rounds, she’d tell them every single minute thing they missed between visits. I finally made her go home after a couple of weeks—not because I didn’t appreciate her diligence and dedication to my health and safety but because the woman needed a break for her own good.
She was home a mere five days before she boarded a plane back to New York and stayed another two weeks by my side.
Whoever said no one will ever love you as much as your mother was clearly well versed in the Mona Napier school of motherhood.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” I begin, “but I quit my job this morning.”
The other end falls silent for an endless moment, and I check my phone to make sure the call didn’t drop.
“Mom?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, you must have cut out. I don’t think I heard you correctly,” she says. “Can you repeat that?”
“I quit my job.”
She gasps into the receiver. I imagine her bent over the porch railing, fanning herself in true Mona Napier theatrics.
“What happened?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”
Up ahead a man spins a NOW OPEN sign and points to a corner ice cream parlor when he catches my eye.
“Long story. I’ll fill you in another time, okay?” I head toward the parlor and scan the menu before immediately settling on two scoops of strawberry Oreo on a sugar cone. For years, I’ve punished my body with spin classes and fad diets, all so I could squeeze into a coveted New York size 2 wardrobe, when all my body wanted to be was a comfortable 8.
I’m not denying myself life’s simplest pleasures just to please everyone around me.
Not anymore.
“Elle, I’m worried you may have made a rash decision,” she says. “It’s not like you to up and quit. Are you—”
“The world’s not going to fall apart if you stop worrying about things,” I remind her. “I promise, it’s all good.”
She clucks her tongue. “Worrying is what I do. It’s a mother’s job.”
Over the generations, worrying has turned into an inheritable trait on my mother’s side. Her mother was a worrier, and so was my grandmother and her mother before her. They were all overthinking perfectionists who were absolutely positive everything would fall apart if they relaxed for a minute.
“Do you have another job lined up?” my mother asks. “Or a plan of some sort?”
“No. I don’t. But I don’t need one,” I say.
For the first time in my life, I don’t have a plan—nor do I want one.
“Just taking things one day at a time,” I add, licking a melty stream of pink ice cream before it reaches the cone.
“Well, you know if you need anything, your father and I are here to help,” she offers. “We’ve helped your sisters out quite a bit over the years, and you’ve never once asked for anything.”
It’s true.
They’ve probably dumped hundreds of thousands of dollars into Emma’s and Eden’s respective weddings as well as ponied up for the down payments on their first homes. No doubt they’re doing the same for Evie. But I’ve never been the type to ask for anything I haven’t worked for, and I never want to feel indebted to anyone.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “I really do. But I’ll figure it out.”
She marinates in that uncertain thought for a moment. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“Mom.” I snort a chuckle. “One hundred percent. I know I made the right decision, and everything’s going to work out exactly the way it should. It always does.”
We end the call, and I imagine my mother running inside to find my father, hands on her hips as she asks, Guess what your daughter just did?
My father will probably laugh, sip his sweet tea as he rocks in his favorite chair, and let her vent until her worries and frustrations absorb into the sunroom’s floral wallpaper. He’s the opposite of her in every way, and thank goodness for that. Everyone should have someone who balances them out, someone who adores them despite being their polar opposite.
A minute later, I pay for my double scoop in a sugar cone and head for the sidewalk again, ambling home the long way with every intention of taking the most delicious of afternoon naps.
I’m four blocks from my apartment when I pass an empty City Gent magazine stand at a corner bodega. It’s stark orange and impossible to miss, and it won’t be long until those become powerhouse-red Made Man racks and West Maxwell leaves his mark all over this city.
Funny how a man can be everywhere and nowhere to be found at the same time.
I think of his niece again. And the mixture of anger and relief on his face when he spotted her. It’s strange to imagine someone so cruel caring about someone else in any capacity.
Perhaps he has a heart after all.
Laughing to myself, I shake my head.
Not a chance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WEST
“I’m sorry, sir, but her mind is made up,” Tom says over the phone that afternoon. “And with all due respect, I can’t continue to harass her.”
I sink into my office chair, cradling the phone on my ear as I tap out a text to Scarlett asking for proof that she’s home from school.
A second later she sends me a mean-mugged selfie standing in front of the fridge.
“Did you assure her I wasn’t going to berate her?” I ask Tom.
Since this morning, I’ve read Elle’s articles more times than I can count, each time scrutinizing them from all angles. One minute I’m nodding in agreement, and the next I’m stewing at the audacity of her blatant disrespect.
I can’t decide if she’s brilliant or out of her fucking mind.
Regardless, she doesn’t get to kick the hornet’s nest and walk away without so much as a sting. She said her piece—now it’s my turn to say mine.
“Does she want money?” I ask. “I’ll pay her a goddamned consulting fee if she wants. I just want a moment of her time.”
“I don’t think it’s about money, sir,” Tom says. “I think she just wants to move on.”
“She’ll need to come back and collect her things,” I say. “Have her assistant box them up for me and send me her address.”
He pauses. “A-are you sure? Because I’m sure I can courier them there or send an intern that way. You don’t have to—”
