His gaze lingers long on mine before he shoots me that dazzling smile that wows investors. “That’s my girl.”
I force a grin, patting him on the back. “Maybe you and Jack should think about taking some time though.”
My father chuckles. “Haven’t taken a day off in years and don’t plan on starting now.”
I smile. “Well, I should get to it then.”
“Sounds good, sweetheart. Shoot me a text if you need anything. I’m headed across town for a meeting with Jack at the downtown office—you know he’s the best attorney in this city—you’re a lucky girl.”
I nod, waving him off. “I know, Dad. See ya later.”
“Love you, El,” he waves back, and then moves in the direction of the elevator bank. I smile, thinking how lucky I really am to have such a strong father figure in my life—even if he struggled to raise an emotional daughter. He did the best he could, especially with the fear weighing on him that maybe I’m going to turn into my mother. That maybe madness is hereditary.
I finally walk through my office door, closing it behind me and dropping my computer bag on the desk before shrugging off my coat and sinking into the office chair. I sigh, thinking that a beach getaway really wouldn’t be half bad. Then again, spending a week alone might be even worse than the solitudeI’m forced to handle in the city with my husband at work all the time and my father’s refusal to take a day off. Dad and Jack are the only family I have—and because my natural tendency is to be a homebody, I’ve lost touch with the few friends I had in college. I threw myself into work and spending time with Jack after I graduated from Columbia—that life doesn’t leave much room for things like socializing. Jack even suggested I go to one of those speed-dating-like groups that’s meant to connect people with new friends, but that just feels more pathetic than anything else.
A soft knock pulls me from my thoughts and the door cracks open. “Delivery.”
“Come in, Stacy,” I call to my assistant.
“Hand-delivered. Must be important.” She sets a sealed envelope on my desk, then leaves as quickly as she arrived.
I frown when I notice my full name written in elegant golden script.Elyse Valentinja Taylor.
I slip my engraved letter opener under the flap and open the invitation.
You are cordially invited to the Spring Women’s Weekend hosted by The Society. Bedford, Westchester County April 23–25. Business Professional Attire Requested.
Car Service Provided Promptly at 5:30 p.m. on the 23rd.
I run my fingertips along the raised lettering. Is this invitation meant for someone else? I’m not familiar with The Society, so I do a quick internet search. My results are too broad though, and even after putting in more details like Bedford and SpringWeekend, I come up empty-handed. I flip the invitation in my hand in search of any other details. There is no postmark, so I go back to the internet and try a few more search terms. The only result that’s returned is a short article inThe New York Timesabout a charity gala to support a children’s literacy program. I scan the article to find a few familiar names of prominent New York families mentioned as members in the exclusive all-women’s group. Accompanying the article is a small photograph of a group of a half-dozen women dressed in elegant power-suits in shades of cream and pastel. These women are clearly well-connected and poised, with perfectly veneered smiles and designer heels that cost more than my monthly rent. They embody everything that I lack, and maybe just what I’m searching for.
Perhaps this is something Jack arranged and forgot to mention to me. I think how sparse my closet is, but going on a shopping trip before the weekend sounds like torture. I’ll have to make do with the few basic pantsuits and pencil skirts I have.
I scan the words once more, glancing again at the front of the invitation to confirm it’s really my name printed on it. I make a mental note to ask Jack when he comes home tonight if he knows anything about The Society—ifhe comes home, that is—and then I tuck the invitation in my bag and open my laptop to work on the quarterlies for Northrup Thomas.
Two
Ellie
“Sorry I’m late, babe.” Jack slides into the corner booth at our favorite restaurant that evening. “How was your day?” He leans over and plants a quick kiss on my cheek before spreading the cloth napkin in his lap and then sending me a tense smile.
“My day was okay—I’m glad tax season is done and dusted.”
“I’m glad too, I think all that stress is exacerbating your...” he trails off, unwilling to say the words I know he’s thinking: mental illness.“Have you thought anymore about going part-time? With that raise your dad gave me in January you don’t even need to work.”
“Iliketo work,” I say, softly. Jack has been pressing this issue. I know he thinks the nightmares and sleepwalking are made worse by my busy work schedule, but I have a feeling my anxiety would get worse if Ididn’thave work to distract me.
“I know, baby, I know.” He pats my knee under the table and gives me a condescending smile. “You are your father’s daughter, through and through.” He’s being kind, but I sense something unspoken simmering beneath his words.
I think back on the first time Jack and I met at Columbia, warmth curling through me at the sweet memory.
Books go flying.
One minute I’m rounding the corner of the library’s philosophy section, nose deep in a copy ofNietzsche for Beginners, and the next I’m tumbling into the stacks surrounded by a ridiculous explosion of notebooks and index cards.
“Oh—shit—I’m so sorry,” a voice says, deep and smooth and unmistakably male.
His hand at my elbow, the only thing preventing me from falling face first on the marble tile.
