“Lessi?” Saylor asks, his tone dropping to soft and warm, a dangerous pairing with his slight Australian accent.
“Her nickname for me, since our freshman year as roommates.” I smile. “It makes me sound like a mythical lake creature, and I hated it. Except when she used it.”
“Ah. I would’ve thought maybe Cici or something,” Saylor says.
“Cici is my mother. My grandma, my mom, and me—all Celeste. Most people don’t know this but technically mycompany is named for my grandmother. She’s the one who inspired me to be an entrepreneur.”
“I see. That’s a sweet sentiment.” He pulls up the GPS, punches in the address I give him, and studies the route for a moment. “About two and a half hours with traffic. Could be closer to three. So Whit lived in the Hamptons?”
My throat tightens. “No. She lived in Jersey.”
“So why is the service in the Hamptons?”
Air leaves my lungs in a slow, controlled leak, like I just dislodged a nail from a tire. I reach for the glove box. Inside, nestled in a matte-black presentation case, is the watch. I pull it out and set it on the center console between us.
Saylor looks down at it. Then at me. “What’s this?”
“A Rolex Datejust. Silver dial.” I keep my voice even, businesslike, the voice I use in boardrooms and with fabric suppliers and with anyone I don’t want to see me trembling. “Would you mind putting it on?”
After taking his hands off the wheel, he opens the case carefully. The watch catches the morning light through the windshield, and I watch his face cycle through several things—surprise, appreciation, the quiet resistance of a man who isn’t accustomed to receiving things that cost this much. Maybe he’s not used to receiving anything at all.
“Celeste, this is?—”
“Necessary.” I stare forward through the windshield, at the brownstones across the street, at someone’s fire escape holding a dead plant that nobody’s bothered to throw away. “I have to warn you, we’re about to walk into the lion’s den.”
I can feel him looking at me. Waiting.
“Whitney’s mother arranged the funeral,” I say, and I hear my own voice go flat, the way it does when I’m holding something toxic at arm’s length. “Eleanor Montgomery-Tracefrom Scarsdale Traces. That’s why the service is all the way in the Hamptons.”
“I don’t understand.”
I let out another breath, one that tastes bitter. “Whit came from a world where everything is a performance of wealth. Even grief.Especiallygrief. Eleanor and Whit were estranged, but that’s not going to stop her from throwing the most beautiful funeral East End has ever seen. Every person there will know exactly how much it cost.” I pause. “That’s the point. Everyone in attendance is going to talk money without words. Without that watch, you look like an escort I hired to accompany me because I’m too alone, and too much of a coward to let these people know just how alone I am. It’s the first time I’m seeing them since my divorce.”
Saylor is quiet, processing. He puts on the watch. It looks good on him—the silver face against his wrist, the weight of it settling naturally, like he was always supposed to be wearing something that expensive. I file that observation away in the part of my brain markedabsolutely notand keep going.
“The Rolex isn’t a gift. It’s armor. Everyone at this funeral will be wearing armor.” I jazz-hands at my own expensive shields—the Cartier Love bracelet stacked against my grandmother’s vintage Tiffany diamonds, the Van Cleef & Arpels earrings that are disturbingly expensive. “This isn’t an outfit. It’s a costume. We’re going to a performance, and you need to look the part.”
“For a funeral, shouldn’t looking the part be looking…sad?” he asks mildly.
“Yeah, Saylor. To people with a soul.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to go to this? If this isn’t the way you want to remember your friend, maybe we mourn in a different way.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I plead. “But Ihaveto attend. I wrote a speech for Whitney.” I tap my pocket because this dress is from Target and it haspockets. The beautiful irony of fashion is the cheaper the dress, the more functional it is. Not one of the dresses from my favorite Celeste line has pockets. Probably because the women who can afford to buy them can also afford an entourage to follow behind, bearing the responsibility of her belongings.
His mouth twitches, but he lets it go. “Fair enough. So these people. What should I expect?”
“Old money. Or people who’ve spent thirty years pretending they have old money, which is somehow worse. They’re going to look at me and calculate. What I lost in the divorce. Whether I’ve aged. Whether the rumors about the company are true.” I curl my fingers into my palms. “I haven’t seen most of them since Greg and I split. To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen Whitney since before Greg and I split.” My voice cracks. A hairline fracture. I try to keep going because stopping feels more dangerous than breaking, but no words come out.
“Oh, hey now.” Saylor reaches over the middle compartment, and cradles my shoulder with his palm—warm through the thin fabric of my dress. It’s not a squeeze or a pat. It’s gentle and firm, his fingers curving around the ridge of my collarbone, thumb pressing lightly into the hollow beneath it. Like he’s trying to hold that one piece of me in place while he watches the rest of me concave, my spine wilting forward, my chest collapsing inward around the vacuum where my composure used to be. “People lose touch, Celeste. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.”
I shake my head, desperately trying to convince him of my culpability. “You don’t understand. We had a fight. It was my fault.” I wave him off. “Sorry, it’s too much to dump on someone for one weekend. I only want you to understand where thejudgmental glares will be coming from. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“Celeste.” The way Saylor says my name summons my gaze. I turn my head, meeting him eye-to-eye. “It’s not too much to dump on me. This is my job. Grabbing your makeup bag for you, driving, giving you an escape plan—it’s part of the package. I’ve been hired for a few funerals and in my experience you need a boyfriend, a partner. Not a nervous first date. So don’t worry about how I’m feeling. Just focus on how I’m making you feel.”
And good at his job, he is. The sentiment sinks deep into me and I speak before thinking. “You’re making me a little too comfortable. Loose-lipped.”
“Good. Say what you need to. I’ll listen.”
