The girl was talking to her. First pointing to the brownstone, where Liv intimated she’d been waiting, then saying something about being sorry for your loss. She was slathered in so much makeup she looked like a frosted cake. Through layers of lip gloss, she spoke the slippery syllables of her name. With a Southern lilt.
The realization of who this person was cut into Liv’s mind so fast she almost dropped the groceries. It was like realizing that the dark shape in the water wasn’t a rock. It was a shark.
Liv’s heart started beating fast, roaring blood into her ears.
Now she was saying something about emails: “… didn’t reply to my emails or voice mails. I’ve already come by twice.”
Between them, a thick white envelope. The girl’s hand was steady as she offered it. Her fingernails were painted translucent pink.
Liv let the groceries fall to the sidewalk. Her fingers felt as thick as sausages as she ripped open the envelope and unfolded a sheaf of good linen paper.
It was a copy of Eliot’s will. They’d both written wills after their son was born; Liv hadn’t returned her lawyer’s recent calls because she knew Eliot had left everything important to her, and Ben. But this will appeared to have been updated. Three weeks ago. Liv tried to scan the tight black font. She recognized her name. Eliot’s name. And, another name with slippery syllables.
She refocused on the girl. There was a pimple near the corner of her mouth, expertly concealed with foundation.
“What,” Liv said, “does all this mean?”
Savannah Shipley’s glossy lips pulled into a smile. “It means that… well, Mrs. Goldenhorn, I guess you’re looking at your new business partner.”
It was such a ludicrous statement, Liv couldn’t get her head around it. The girl’s smile turned hopeful. She appeared poreless, like a balloon. Liv imagined popping her. The way she’d whip around midair, deflating, before landing in a soft, spent heap on the concrete.
“That is impossible.” Liv handed back the will. “There is no more In Love in New York.”
The girl’s eyes widened. Of course they were the color of the Mediterranean. Of course they were. “But the will says—”
Liv grabbed the groceries and slammed the trunk, obliterating her words. She hurried across the street and up the brownstone’s steps, retreating into the safety of her house and its locked front door.
Liv’s hands were shaking as she glugged white wine into a glass, hoping to erase the last few minutes from her memory. Praying she’d never see or hear from that girl ever again.
PART ONE IN LOVE IN THE CATSKILLS
1
THREE MONTHS LATER
The first day of Savannah Shipley’s new life dawned cloudless, as if there was absolutely nothing standing in her way. The scrubbed-clean March sun that blasted the cold streets of Brooklyn seemed bold and ready to work.
At first, Savannah was stunned that Eliot Goldenhorn had left her half his business. Yes, she’d interned at An Event to Remember, Lexington’s most popular event-planning company, for two whole years. She’d met Eliot six months before he died, when she volunteered to give the consultant from New York City a tour. Knowing his line of work, she’d gushed about how much she adored weddings—the way they brought people together, the beauty of tradition. Eliot wasn’t the most attractive man she’d ever met, but he hummed with magical, big-city energy. Their conversations started in the office, graduated to dinner, and culminated in bed. The sex felt experimental on both their parts. He, “newly separated” (which she now knew to be a lie), and her, newly adult and curious. The way a deliberate moment of eye contact could transmute a relationship was a thrilling, frightening power.
When the shock of his death wore off, it started to feel like kismet. Eliot was a smart guy: he must’ve had his reasons, even if they weren’t clear. And Savannah had an unwavering faith in the universe and the God who created it. This was all obviously meant to be.
She arrived at Liv’s brownstone in Prospect Heights a full forty-five minutes early. The New York that Savannah had grown up seeing in movies conjured rows of the classic houses that were all exactly the same, standing to attention like a well-dressed marching band. But actually, the brownstones on Liv’s street were all slightly different shades of brown. This one bold mahogany, that one nostalgic sepia, the one next door a chichi caramel. The Goldenhorns’ had a weathered, washed-out facade. In the small front garden, a faded LOVE WON poster was stuck at an angle in the last island of dirty snow. Most people in Savannah’s small hometown voted against love winning. Savannah didn’t consider herself political, but maybe privately disagreeing with the status quo had set her on the path here, to New York, a city that was the same and different from her imagination.
She snapped a selfie in front of Liv’s house, swiped for a filter that bettered the color of the brownstone, and added it to her Instagram, @Savannah_Ships. She’d read in a travel magazine that the last American quarry to mine brownstone closed years ago, in Portland. It was actually a mediocre stone—just brown sandstone. Its softness made it vulnerable. An odd choice to clad a city where it appeared resilience was key. But New York also traded in beauty, Savannah thought, smiling at a woman walking two fuzzy Pomeranians. The woman smiled back, and why wouldn’t she? Beauty could be powerful, too.
At 10:00 a.m., Savannah picked up the potted orchid she’d purchased as a gift and marched up the wide front steps. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. She knew, by some measure, this was completely insane. But she had the moral high ground (she’d really had no idea Eliot was still with Liv), she had the legal grounds (Eliot’s will), and most important, she had the unwavering belief that this was the right thing to do. Not just for her, but for Liv. According to her online sleuthing, In Love in New York was currently nonoperational, following a scathing review entitled PIGEONS AND BEES RUINED MY WEDDING! that went mildly viral and now lived on every wedding planner review website. The diatribe was from a wedding last November. The day Eliot died.
Savannah could guess what Liv thought of her: a gold-digging airhead, a midlife crisis, a few mean words inked on a bathroom stall door. And that was just plain wrong. Savannah was determined to prove herself to Eliot’s wife and help resurrect a business that did the most noble thing of all: celebrate people’s love for each other.
Because Savannah Shipley was always up for a challenge.
She summoned the biggest smile she could muster and rang the doorbell.
Nothing. Her cheeks started to hurt.
She rang the doorbell again. And again.
A voice sounded from inside. “Jesus Christ, coming!” The front door cracked. Liv was in an old dressing gown. A cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Her tangled black bob looked like the aftermath of a fire. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Three months had passed since they’d met across the street from the brownstone. Savannah had assumed three months would be enough time to fall apart, mourn, and begin rebuilding. Clearly, Savannah was wrong. But to be fair, she had emailed about all this, many times.
“Good morning, Mrs. Goldenhorn. I’m here for our first meeting. With our new clients.”
“What are you doing in New York?”