I walk out. I can’t look at them. I can’t let them see that I am bleeding out.
The next thirtyhours dissolve into a grey haze of contract reviews and lukewarm coffee.
I barricade myself in the library. I answer emails. I finalize the press release. I do everything except think about the woman who is currently somewhere in Manhattan, probably depositing the check and relieved to be done pretending.
Outside the window, the world keeps turning. The massive white tent rises on the lawn like a sail. The caterers arrive. The sound of hammers and shouting drifts through the glass, a constant reminder of the celebration I am now dreading.
By late Sunday afternoon, I am numb. The Holloway deal is signed, sealed, and delivered. I have won.
There is absolutely nothing.
At 4:00 PM, the library doors open.
“Mother, I don’t care about the flowers,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“It’s not Betty.”
I look up.
Penelope Vanderbilt is standing there. She looks like a vision of Hamptons perfection in a white tennis dress. She is holding a heavy, leather-bound book in her arms.
“Penelope,” I say, leaning back in my chair. My patience is non-existent. “What do you want?”
“I was looking for Betty,” she says, her voice smooth. “I wanted to return this album. She asked me to pick it up on Friday.”
She walks over and places the album on the desk with a heavy thud.
“I heard the news, Brooks. I’m so sorry.”
“Save it,” I say.
“No, really,” she says, moving closer. She rests a hip against the desk, encroaching on my space. “News travels fastin the Hamptons. The florist told the caterer, who told my housekeeper. It must be humiliating.”
“It’s a private matter,” I say, looking back at my screen.
“Is it?” She gives a small, pitying laugh. “Frankly, Brooks, it’s for the best. Ivy was… sweet. But she was unstable. I mean, she looked absolutely manic on Friday night when I saw her sprinting across the lawn.”
I stop typing. My fingers hover over the keys.
“You saw her running?” I ask slowly.
Penelope blinks. “I… well, yes.”
I look up at her.
“I thought you said you heard the news from the florist,” I say, my voice drop-dead calm.
Penelope shifts her weight. Her composure fractures for a second.
“I did hear she left from the florist,” she says, then corrects herself quickly. “But I saw Ivy running from the main house Friday night. I assumed she was upset. I didn’t realize she was leaving for good.”
I say nothing.
Penelope gestures with the photo album. “Betty asked me to grab this for her,” she adds, too casually. “She wanted to look at it after dinner.”
My gaze drifts to the built-in shelves lining the wall.
Right behind her.
