Page 38 of Guilty as Sin

We aren’t close. But if Serena says we are, it’s good for me, so all I do is agree with her and apologize again. I’m about to steer the conversation in the direction I need when she does it for me.

“We absolutely must get lunch together sometime, darling.”

“I know,” I say, my tone apologetic despite my excitement. “I’m absolutely terrible for putting you off so many times.” When she says she forgives me for being so busy, I add, “Why not today? Would one o’clock work for you?”

There’s a surprised pause, and I cross my fingers in my lap.

“Oh how fabulous!” she says after a beat. “Yes, that’s perfect!”

We hang up with plans to meet at her club. Nerves buzzing, I change into my frilliest sundress and least-pilled cardigan. Then I’m on my way to glean information about this Seven Vanleusen.

* * *

Serena’s club is only a few blocks from the eye clinic. It’s one of the reasons she’s been pressuring me to meet her there, as if I could just duck out for a two-hour lunch. When I get off the L, I take the long way around to avoid the clinic. I’ve been checking in with Lucy, but things with Jennifer are still tense enough that I don’t want her to see me through the waiting room window, walking on by all happily married.

At least, ostensibly happily married.

The late summer sun is so hot I’m carrying my sweater. Stepping into the club’s air-conditioned lobby is like stepping into an oak-paneled freezer. It’s not practical for the chill, but I tie my sweater around my shoulders, the way Serena always wears hers.

Up on the swanky top floor, I give the host Serena’s name, and his smile turns stiff. Having worked for years as a server, I know what that means. It’s unsurprising that Serena’s a difficult patron.

The host leads me back to the dining room. It’s a posh, antique space, with art deco panels and rippled glass windows. I thank him as Serena leaps out of her chair to greet me. She gives me two air kisses on each cheek, and I nearly gag on the amount of French perfume she’s wearing.

As soon as I’m seated, our server comes over to provide me with a champagne flute. Serena doesn’t acknowledge him, apart from sliding her own empty flute toward him. The champagne is in a crystal ice bucket on the table in front of her, but she’s not the type to refill a glass herself.

Serena talks at me for an hour nonstop. She doesn’t order any food, so I follow her lead. Some lunch. The server, bless him, does an excellent job of keeping our flutes replenished. He seems familiar enough with Serena that he not only anticipates her refills, but offers me sympathetic smiles while she keeps talking at me.

Just sitting and listening wouldn’t be so bad, but I also have to feign the attitude of a cheerful new bride, which chafes like a too-tight shirt collar. I smile and nod as I listen to Serena’s plans to winter in Bali, which she peppers with unrelated remarks about not being invited to the wedding. I do a decent job of evading her comments, as well as swatting away her probing questions about cosmetic eyelid lifts.

“Not that you need it, darling,” I always make sure to add.

As she drones on, the sunlight moves across our table, casting rainbows through the crystal ice bucket, which I’m guessing is Waterford. The fact that this club is old money Chicago has me on my guard. It’s easily accessible to Seven, and anyone he might’ve hired to keep tabs on Serena. Our table is conveniently tucked away, but I keep my eyes open for potential eavesdroppers. Even if the listener didn’t recognize my face, it’d be all too easy for them to identify me.

Serena’s the type of person to overuse her audience’s names for emphasis. Every time she calls me Samantha, she simpers before correcting herself. It’s less accidental each time. She makes a point of never just calling me Cora, but always Cora O’Sullivan.

“And how do you like being an O’Sullivan?” she asks, catching me off guard.

I fucking hate being an O’Sullivan, thanks so much for asking.

“I love it,” I lie easily, and the champagne helps my false enthusiasm. “It’s like a fairytale.”

In the way Bluebeard is a fairytale, I add mentally. A story full of dead bodies and dark secrets, complete with a villainous husband in possession of way too many keys.

“You know, I recently dated a guy who hated the O’Sullivans.” Serena leans forward conspiratorially, her fake boobs skimming the tablecloth. I’m not sure if she expects me to be offended, but I choose to let my intrigue show. For the first time this afternoon, I want her to keep talking.

“Really?” I ask. “Did he say why?”

“Oh, just that they’re upstarts and social climbers. He had a thing against the nouveau riche, especially the grubby South Side kind. His words, not mine. Honestly, if he saw me here having lunch with you, he’d be disgusted.”

I feel my cheeks go hot, but it must be all the champagne. I don’t care if someone thinks ill of the O’Sullivans. I have no real attachment to their name, legally or emotionally.

“Oh honey, don’t let it bother you.” Serena flaps her hand. “I’m here with you anyway, aren’t I? His opinions don’t mean anything to me anymore, and he had a lot of weird takes, honestly. Not just about the O’Sullivans, but like stuff in general, his whole preference situation, you know? The things he was into were so…” She shudders dramatically.

“What do you mean?” I ask, all innocence. I resist the urge to nudge her champagne flute closer to her.

“Forget I said anything.” She’s about to dismiss this whole conversation, which means I need to appeal to her gossipy side. She is, at heart, a member of the snarky society crowd. She gives me an elegant shrug. “I mean, the guy seriously hates the O’Sullivans so much, I really shouldn’t tell you.”

“Isn’t that why you should tell me?” I sip my champagne like it’s tea, and Serena bursts into chimes of mean laughter.