PROLOGUE
THERE ARE THINGS a man shouldn’t say to his ex-wife immediately after signing the divorce papers. “By the way, I’ve tested positive for herpes,” for instance. So I should count my blessings. But still, with Brandon’s words, “Emma, I didn’t intend for it to come to this. Thank you for being such a good sport,” ringing in my ears, I hate both of us at the moment.
I exit the boardroom of my ex-husband’s media conglomerate office in downtown Manhattan, intent on letting his inane comment be the last thing he ever says to me. Our lawyers linger inside the boardroom, thumping stacks of papers against the tabletop before filing them away in their briefcases. A light snow dances outside the windows behind them.
“Emma, wait.” I hold my head high, refusing to acknowledge Brandon when he calls my name. But old habits are slow to die. I stop at his command and lower my gaze to my shoes. Mercilessly pointy and high, they lie to me, presenting me as a fierce warrior with a Louboutin budget.
“Emma, I’ve always appreciated how you never brought drama into our marriage. You’re kind and empathetic. And unfailingly elegant.” He pauses, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. Realigning them with mine, he says, “Maybe you made it easier for me to um, step out. I’m not saying I wish you had pushed back against me during our marriage, but...”
You’re blaming my goodness for your adultery? I hope you stumble into a hive of murder hornets! How’s that for elegant?
Rather than share my less-than-kind opinion of him, I stab the toe of my right shoe into the nap of the carpet. One would expect the forty-two-year-old head of a Fortune 500 corporation to behave more maturely than his thirty-year-old ex-wife. Five years since our wedding and five minutes after our divorce, it appears it’s still my job to make him look good.
The sweep of sandy hair threatening to cascade into Brandon’s face hasn’t changed. Nor has the velvety brown of his eyes. They trick you, his eyes. At first, you believe they’re inviting, warm, soft. But a few seconds into a staring contest, they become calculating and distant.
No, Brandon hasn’t changed because of our split. He still has his wealth and power. He won’t go home to an empty apartment tonight. My replacement, whoever she is, will probably clink a Champagne glass to his, her giggles marrying with the tinkling of crystal crashing against crystal. Unless she’s the sort of precious new mommy who reminds everyone she meets that she won’t drink while she’s nursing the spawn that destroyed my marriage.
Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I press my lips together. “I need to keep moving. I’m meeting with my realtors to list the apartment this afternoon. My lawyer will contact yours after the sale.”
“I’m not rushing you to vacate it. Wait for the right buyer. While you remain its legal resident, I will continue to pay the fees and taxes on it.”
“Yes. Thank you.” I tilt my head down and to the left, mentally following the silver stripe in the black carpet leading away from him.
His arms float from his sides, and he reaches for me. My heart skitters when I realize he’s in the early stages of initiating a hug. Awkwardly, I extend my right hand to his and shake it. Which feels like the weirdest, least comforting thing I’ve ever done. “Happy New Year, Brandon.”
CHAPTER ONE
IT STARTS WITH A BOTTLE OF EGO JUICE
I CRADLE THE bottle of Champagne as if it were a colicky infant who had just fallen asleep in my arms. “Brandon and I had planned to drink the Bollinger on our tenth anniversary,” I say.
Aunt Zara peers at the label. “Was 2002 a good year for Champagne?”
“So he said. He paid at least one thousand dollars for the bottle at auction.”
Troi wags his finger at me. “Emma, pour it into plastic cups. Anything he values doesn’t deserve the Baccarat.”
“But we’re drinking it; not him. Besides, the contents of the wine cellar and the crystal are mine now.”
“And so is forty-five point seven million dollars.” Aunt Zara’s eyebrows perform a celebratory dance. Her arms and legs should join the dance since she brought my apartment to contract today.
My cousin Lauren claps her hands, her eyes as wide as her smile. “Two million dollars of which is yours, Mom. I can’t believe you and Dad sold the apartment in only five months. But then again, you’re early for everything.”
“I don’t dawdle, you know,” my aunt says.
Lauren shakes her head. “Oh, I know, Mom. I know.”
Troi fixates on the unopened bottle of Champagne in my arms. He slaps a plastic travel mug onto the marble kitchen counter. “Fill’er up.”
I examine his cup, bemused. “If you insist. I’m sticking with the crystal. The last thing I need is to leave a foul taste in my mouth on purpose. I’m done with the bitterness.” My last sentence may not be the complete truth, but I’m willing to repeat it until it becomes true.
“Then let’s drink!” Troi grabs the bottle from me with the gentle touch of a sanitation worker flinging trash into a garbage truck. He removes the cage with equal haste.
I wince and reach for the bottle. “Allow me.”
A hologram of Brandon swaddling a bottle of Champagne shimmers in my mind. I can’t count the number of bottles he has opened for me or how many times I’ve laughed at his schtick.
With the towel wrapped around both the bottle and the cork, I follow each step of his pantomime, starting by mimicking the placid, almost distant expression in his face while I twist and push the cork. I coax it from the neck of the bottle with care to avoid a bubble-flattening explosion. Before I banish the hologram, I copy one last gesture of Brandon’s: the punch line. Without having heard the trademark pop, my guests laugh with surprise when I present the cork. I give my brow a haughty lift and adopt a French accent. “It is done.”
I lower my head, hovering my cheek a few inches above the cool marble countertop to compare the level of wine I pour into each glass. I hand glasses to my aunt and cousin and give Troi his sippy cup before claiming a glass for myself. “Let’s toast Aunt Zara and Uncle Richard! Without your tireless efforts, I’d be stuck in limbo, waiting for the apartment to sell. My life can’t begin until I move, and thanks to you and Uncle Richard, now I can.”
Lauren clinks her glass to ours. “Too bad Daddy couldn’t make it today. And Johnny, too. He sends his congratulations from the construction site in Brooklyn.” At her mention of her boyfriend’s name, Lauren floats away to her happy place.
Aunt Zara clucks her tongue. “Your father isn’t a fan of Champagne. But given the chance to raid Brandon’s whisky collection...”
I shake my head. “Like Brandon, the single malts have left the building. But we may have an unfinished bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I’ll definitely save it for Uncle Richard.”
Troi retracts his chin, a guilty grimace plastered across his face. “Um, we had a bottle. Sorry.”
I rub his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, sweetie. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Drink away. It will make packing easier. Not to mention that a dwindling supply of booze will reduce the square footage requirements of our next home.”