“Go ahead, you know where it is. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”
My chest swells at the cuteness of the little girl hurrying away, her curls and little tutu bouncing as she goes. I love kids and I have the perfect group of five-year-olds ever. Dancing and teaching dance has always given me purpose. There’s not much identity in ‘rich kid’ or being a Barclay. Everyone knows you for what you can offer them—money, connections, political incentives—and not for your personal dreams, hopes, and passions. Dance is my passion, and being able to one day open studios for kids of all abilities and economic backgrounds is my dream.
Maybe it’s not so far-fetched that I can manage to snag a rich husband myself and make my dreams come true. There are several single fathers who bring their kids to the dance school, not just in my class but in the class of seven- and eight-year-olds after mine, which I sometimes help with. It could happen.
As the class continues, a plan comes together in mymind, and by the time class is over and I lock myself in the office, my nerves are in overdrive. Flipping through the client roster, I make note of all the single fathers on the list and their phone numbers.
I teach my students to grow their self-confidence and use it to their advantage. The same doesn’t always come easily for me, but it’s my time now. My time to flip my hair back, put on a flirty smile, and pick up the phone. I’ll go down the list under the guise of talking about the fundraiser, but really, I’m going to see who might offer to take me to coffee or something more.
These are all men who have openly flirted with me in the past. Who let their eyes linger when they walk into the studio. Who look my way while they’re talking to each other.
I’m killing two birds with one stone. Solicit fundraiser help and find a potential husband.
Taking a breath, I dial the first number. Scott Rosennot is a commercial land developer, divorced, father of two. He answers on the fourth ring.
“Mr. Rosennot, Piper Barclay from NY Stars Dance School. Do you have a moment?”
There’s silence on the other end and I think that I’ve lost him. My heart is beating so hard that I feel slightly dizzy. Being assertive isn’t my forte, and it’s taking all my willpower not to hang up.
“Sure,” he finally says.
“Wonderful. The school is having a fundraiser to raise money for a much-needed new roof and I was wondering if you’re available to discuss how you can get involved?”
Another pause. Then a clipped, “I’ll send a check. I’m sorry; I have to go.”
Click.
Staring at the phone in frustration for a moment, I try the next number. And the next. The conversations all go similarly. By the seventh call, I get the memo that none of these men want to talk to me, let alone ask me out for coffee or a date, though I did get one entirely improper offer to meet up in a hotel room later to “discuss this further,” which I immediately declined.
Swallowing hard, I sink low into the desk chair and stare at the ceiling. Nate’s intense brown eyes appear in my mind again. He’s offering me salvation, but I’m afraid he’s going to destroy me.
Maybe I’m setting my sights in the wrong places. Older rich men might not want me, but they have sons my age with trust funds…sons who might not care so much about my family’s soiled reputation, who might even enjoy the thought of dating me as an act of rebellion against their parents or merely for bragging rights amidst their buttoned-up, by-the-books social circles.
It’s not a terrible idea, and I start thinking of everyone I know who falls into that category. Soon, I have a new roster of names and I’m feeling optimistic again.
At this point, I’ll consider anything that pushes Nate Windemere’s proposition to the bottom of the list.
6
PIPER-LILY
“There’sa lot of douchebags here tonight.”
My best friend gives me a sassy, pointed look and sips on the bright pink straw sticking out of her oversized glass.
The club is packed, and Cleo and I have the perfect vantage point from the upstairs balcony to see who’s on the dance floor below. Apollo 6 is definitely the place to go to see who’s who.
I smile and nudge her. “I was actually just about to say that it should be easy to find someone to marry for money in this club. This is where all the young rich ones come.”
Cleo rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head.
She’s been my BFF since the first day we met at Horace Mann in fifth grade, and she’s not exactly on board with my plan to snag a wealthy man, young or old. She thinks I’m setting myself up for disappointment and disaster. But she is sympathetic to Nana’s plight and has offered a lot of ideas for trying to earn the one-hundred-fifty thousand that doesn’t involve marrying a rich douchebag.
Cleo’s mother is wealthy, but she married for love—to aman who works in the non-profit sector (environmental conservation). They raised their kids to respect what they have and the privilege it brings, so the Ford-Whitley clan are none of them snobs. Maybe that’s why Cleo and I hit it off right away; I also grew up knowing full well that I was fortunate but didn’t go out of my way to let everyone know. Cleo’s mom loves me, too. She was always understated about the fact that neither she nor her children (nor her grandkids, eventually) would ever have to work a day in their lives.
I tug the hem of my form-fitting light blue dress down a little and lean a little further over the balcony railing, sipping my non-alcoholic drink with what I hope is a come-hither stare. My dress tonight is modest by clubbing standards. It’s Cleo’s, but she bought it off the rack at Saks. The heels are some niche Italian designer stilettos that she’s had forever. Instead of tossing shoes and outfits each season, we often share and swap. That came in handy for tonight’s outing.
She actually offered to take me shopping to buy a few new things for my wardrobe, but of course I couldn’t accept. She’s also tried to slip wads of cash into my purse on multiple occasions since my father’s downfall, but I catch her every time and scold her for trying. Still, I appreciate the thought. So far, Cleo is the only person I know who understands that my mother and I are innocent in my father’s crimes. We’re victims of his lies and deceit, too.
