ANNIE
I duck past the line of paparazzi huddled near the Madison Avenue entrance, their long lenses looking like bayonets in the fading afternoon light. They aren’t here for me necessarily, but the Pavlovian urge to hide is so strong I nearly trip over my own feet. My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked a rib and there is a literal river of sweat carving a path between my boobs.
I’ll give her this—my mother always knew how to pick an amazing dress.
The dress she left at my front desk is a bias-cut, lavender slip dress by Marc Jacobs—one that looks like liquid moonlight. It’s simple, elegant, and entirely unforgiving. I’ve paired it with silver strappy heels that are already whispering threats to my ankles, and my hair is a voluminous, bouncy blowout. Cori spent an hour last night helping me wind my strands into rollers while we drank cheap wine and watchedMelrose Place, and I have to admit, the result is staggering.
I’ve got a light layer of makeup on and a swipe of sheer lip gloss, and when I caught my reflection in the lobby’s gold-leaf mirrors, I didn’t see “Annie the Nanny.” I saw Annemarie Collier.
The lobby is a symphony of quiet wealth. Gilt mirrors, thick carpets that swallow sound, the low tinkling of a piano from a nearby lounge. The air smells like old money, lemon polish, and gardenias from a huge floral arrangement. It’s 1994, but in here, it could be 1954.
A man in a suit that probably costs more than my last six months’ rent glides over. “May I help you, miss?”
“I’m meeting a party. Collier. I think there’s a reservation?”
“Of course. Right this way.”
We wind through the tables, past a woman who looks suspiciously like Diane von Furstenberg and a man who is definitely a senator I’ve seen on the news. The further back we go, the more I feel the urge to vomit. Leo had offered, again, to come with me just before I’d left. I’d said no, again. I wanted to be the hero of my own story for once.
Standing here, watching the back of the maître d’s head, I’m starting to think the hero of my story is an idiot. Leo is a rock; I am currently a very expensive, lavender-colored leaf in a hurricane.
We reach a secluded booth in the far corner, tucked away behind a large palm frond. I see them before they see me.
My father is sitting there, looking like he’s ready to annex a small country. My mother is sipping something clear and cold, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. And then there’s Daniel. My almost-husband. He’s wearing an Armani suit, looking perfectly, infuriatingly handsome. This is the first time I’ve seen him in three months.
I take a deep, shaky breath, pull my shoulders back, and lift my chin. I might be scared shitless, but I was raised by a man who taught me that the only thing worse than losing is looking like you’re losing.
I step out from behind the palm.
“I hope I’m not late,” I say, my voice cutting through the clink of silverware.
All three heads snap up. The effect is unnerving, like I’ve tripped a silent alarm. My father’s expression is carved from granite. My mother’s is a mask of cool appraisal. Daniel’s gray eyes—the color of a foggy San Francisco morning—travel slowly from my lavender pumps up to my face. It makes my skin crawl. He used to love me in pastels.
“Annemarie,” my father says. It’s not a greeting; it’s a summons. He gestures to the empty velvet chair beside my mother.
I slide in, the velvet cushion sighing under me, cool against the back of my thighs. I try to channel Eileen—cool, unflappable, legendary Eileen. I imagine her standing behind me, resting a steady hand on my shoulder.Chin up, darling. They can smell fear.I give a single, slight nod. “Dad.”
“We’ll order before we get into the theatrics,” he says, not looking at the menu in front of him. He already knows what he wants.
I glance down. Foie gras terrine with cherry compote. Butter-poached Maine lobster. Rack of lamb with a rosemary demi-glace. Items listed without prices, which is how you know they’re astronomical. There’s Turbot with Truffles and Beluga Caviar served on Mother of Pearl. I’ve always loathed caviar—salty, slimy little spheres of pretension—but Mom and Dad devour it, like it’s the pinnacle of sophistication.
The tension is a physical thing, a pressure against my eardrums. A waiter materializes a few minutes later with a crisp tux and polite smile, his notepad poised.
My father orders the lamb, his voice brooking no discussion. Daniel orders the steak, medium-rare, his voice quiet. When my mother speaks, it’s a serene ripple. “The poached salmon for me, with the steamed haricot vert, dressing on the side. And formy daughter,” she says, without glancing my way, “the seared scallop salad. Light on the oil.”
I open my mouth. “I’m perfectly capable of ordering my own—”
“Excellent choices,” the waiter says with a professional smile, whisking the menus away before the sentence is out.
I sigh, turning to my mother. “I am perfectly capable of ordering my own food.”
My father doesn’t miss a beat. “Lately, it seems you’re perfectly capable of a lot of things,” he says, his voice like gravel. He leans forward, steepling his large, tanned hands on the white linen. He’s a handsome man, my father. Even now, in his mid-fifties, his dark hair is only lightly threaded with silver near his temples, his jawline firm. He’s tall and solidly built, a former athlete whose presence has always commanded a room. Right now, that presence feels less like command and more like a containment field. His eyes, a bright silver, are currently frosted over, holding a cold, simmering anger. His mouth is a thin, bloodless line.
“So,” he begins, the single word dropping like a stone. “Let’s start with you running off from your own wedding.”
Daniel shifts slightly beside him. He’s staring fixedly at his own hands, a lock of his chestnut hair falling across his forehead. He looks younger like that. More like the boy I originally fell for.
He doesn’t wait for an answer, his voice dropping low and cold. “What in the goddamnhell—” His palm slams flat on the table, the thud making silverware jump, glasses rattle, and me flinch despite myself. Mom’s hand twitches toward her drink; Daniel shifts in his seat. “—would possess you to pull something so stupid, so monumentally idiotic?”
