You Had Me at Good-bye Read online

  I think it’s the whole Sex and the City syndrome. Everyone wants to live in Manhattan and buy six-hundred-dollar shoes. But I was “city” before “city” was cool. I am New York City. It’s my town.

  Norman the doorman (yes, my brother and I have always had a field day with that rhyme) smiles and opens the door as I step under the awning. “Good afternoon, Miss Ames.”

  “Hi, Norman. How are you?”

  “Fine, miss.”

  Norman doesn’t look like your typical doorman. He’s at least six-foot-five with orange red hair and a beard that is streaked with gray. He looks like a Viking. I have no idea how old he is. He could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five. I’d ask him, but I have a feeling he’d never tell me, so what’s the point?

  In all the years I’ve known him, Norman has never crossed the line of “place.” He knows his, and he knows mine, and no matter how curious I am about his life or how much I’d like to be buds, he’s having no part of it. A gold band encircles his ring finger, so that leads me to believe he either is married or wants everyone to think he is. I suspect my parents know his history, but they won’t budge either. So short of hiring an investigator to give me the scoop, I guess I’ll never know. Which is devastating to the curious-writer part of me. But the logical editor in me knows that sometimes you have to cut and move on.

  I push the button for the elevator, which always takes forever, and turn back to Norman. “Am I the first guest to arrive?”

  His red mustache twitches, so I’m guessing that if I could see his mouth, it would be turned up in a smile. His eyes are unmistakably twinkling. I love twinkle-eyed smiles. They feel so . . . real. And real is something I rarely get from anyone when I come to this apartment. “Your father arrived hours ago.”

  I stare at him, slack-jawed. For two reasons. One, because it’s typically futile to ask questions. Two, because when was the last time Dad showed up at Mother’s?

  “Hours ago? And the police haven’t been called?”

  He frowns. “Why would they?”

  “It was a joke.”

  He nods. “I see.”

  Boy, tough crowd. I literally thank God when the elevator bell dings and the doors open.

  “Well, see you later, Norman.”

  I travel up to the tenth floor, the slow elevator giving me plenty of time to wonder why in heaven’s name Dad is suddenly showing up at one of Mother’s unbearable dinner parties.

  I’m confused even further when Dad is the one who answers the door.

  “Princess!” he says rather jovially, and I suspect he’s been nipping into the Captain Morgan. The close proximity of his mouth, and therefore breath, as he kisses my forehead and both cheeks confirms my suspicion. “A little early, isn’t it, Daddy?”

  He swishes the amber contents of his glass. “Don’t be a party pooper. We’re celebrating.”

  “Funny, I didn’t realize Aunt Tilly’s birthday was so special to you.” As a matter of fact, the two have never gotten along, and I’ve heard my dad on more than one occasion refer to her as a pelican because she’s all legs below the waist and all breasts above. Even at eighty years old, those ladies are practically to her chin. Methinks she’s had some work done—not by my dad, of course. That would just be . . . odd.

  But I digress.

  Dad raises the glass in his hand and gives it a tip when it reaches his mouth. He completely ignores my attempt to bait him into telling me what he’s doing at my mother’s.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have brought my black-and-white cap and whistle,” I say with a grin.

  Still, he remains disturbingly cheerful. “You always did have my wit.”

  I hear the click-clack of Mother’s heels thirty seconds before she finally makes her appearance. She’s beautifully dressed in a silky white shirt, a black skirt, and a lovely red scarf.

  I do a double take. Isn’t that the scarf . . . I turn to Dad and he’s grinning like a doofy sixteen-year-old geek who just landed a date to the prom with the head cheerleader. That confirms my suspicion about the scarf. It’s the one Dad bought her the Christmas before he moved out. I was about seven.

  “Nice scarf, Mother,” I say ruefully.

  She reaches for me and gives me the socialite kiss-kiss, never getting even close to actually smudging her lipstick. “It’s vintage.”

  “Yes, I remember.” I frown, stare from Dad to Mother. “Is there something I should know about? Who’s dying?”

  “All in good time, princess,” Dad says with a chuckle. He winks at my mother. She touches the scarf ever so delicately and blushes. Something is definitely going on here.

  Mother looks me over as if she just realized I lack proper attire. She nibbles her lip. “Honey, why aren’t you dressed?”

  I lift the garment bag and show her the carrying case where I have my hair products and makeup—also new, and charged to Daddy’s Visa. I’m not proud of it, but, given my meager salary, it was a necessary evil, and I’ll pay him back. Not that he’d notice if I didn’t. But I will.

  “Well, do go on and change. People will be arriving soon.”

  “Okay, but after I come down looking fit to make an appearance at a social party, I expect to be let in on whatever this little secret is that the two of you have going on.”

  Mother’s eyes are twinkling suspiciously. “We’ll be making an announcement at dinner tonight. You’ll just have to wait until then to satisfy your curiosity.”

  I head for the stairs, filled with foreboding.

  “Oh, Dancy.” Mother’s voice whips me around. “I’m sorry to say that Floyd’s come down with an abominable sinus infection. He sends his apologies that he can’t attend tonight.”

  Finally, some real proof there is a God.

  “I think I’ll survive one night without a dinner partner, Mother. Truly, I don’t mind going stag.”

  “Really, Dancy. Such a vulgar term.” She clicks her tongue. “Besides, I’ve replaced him with another date for you.”

  “Mo-ther.”

  “Whining isn’t attractive, darling. And will you please trust me?”

  Need she ask?

  “Fine. What rock did this one crawl out from under?”

  “I’ve half a mind not to tell you, unless you stop being so sarcastic.”

  “Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to wait to find out.” I spin on my toe and head up the steps. What do I care who she’s roped into sitting beside me and boring me to tears all evening? It’s two hours out of my life, and besides, no one can be as bad as Floyd.

  I have a bigger problem on my hands, anyway. Dad’s sudden desire to be back in my mother’s life. I hate to even think it, but I suspect his interest has less to do with a sudden need for Mother’s arms (yuck) and more to do with the enormous check pending should she decide to sell the condo. And that makes me nervous. The woman who gave me birth is definitely a challenge from time to time, but she’s not all bad, and I love her. I don’t want to see Dad take her for a ride and then drop her off at the first sight of a sexy hitchhiker—metaphorically speaking.

  I enter the room where I slept every night from kindergarten until college. I’m filled with that sense of nostalgic dread. Like, I would love to have the good ol’ days back, but would rather not have to relive the bad days. Of which there were more than good.

  “Hi, Beemer.” Beemer is the forty-five-pound beagle that joined the family when my grandmother passed away five years ago. She’s a fat, moody dog with an affinity for pizza and pancakes. We all agree she needs Jenny Craig, but no one has the heart to look into those adorable puppy-dog eyes and refuse her a crust.

  She looks up at me and closes her eyes without one tail thump of acknowledgment. Beemer’s depressed. Mother’s considering therapy for her, but so far the first opening is something like three years away. And the dog is already ten. So is there really any point? “I know how you feel, girl,” I say, giving her ears a scratch as I pass by on my way to the sliding glass doors. I pus
h back the drapes and drink in the sight.

  My bedroom looks out across the glorious Manhattan skyline, from the George Washington Bridge to the awesome landmark buildings of Midtown. The terrace slings around two sides of the corner apartment. On the lower level, the living room overlooks Central Park. It’s truly an amazing place. If I could afford it, I’d buy it myself. But editors for New York publishing houses, even huge ones like Lane Publishing, don’t do well enough to afford much of anything, let alone fourteen-million-dollar condos. Even my trust fund would barely cover the down payment. Maybe if I’m really nice to Aunt Tilly tonight . . . No. Bad idea. I don’t beg, borrow, or steal. Well, I don’t beg or steal anyway, and I only borrow from Daddy—and only in an emergency. Besides, I love living with Laini and Tabby in our cute, if cramped, apartment.

  I step onto my terrace and sigh. Nothing compares to the view of the Manhattan skyline at dusk.

  What’s he doing here? At the sight of Jack Quinn, I stumble on the steps and nearly break my neck in these ridiculously high-heeled slingbacks. The guy shoots up the steps like he’s Clark Kent and grabs me—unnecessarily—as I steady myself.

  “Are you all right?” He’s on the step below me and is still several inches taller. I hate my reaction to this guy. Every time he gets close like this, my heart beats faster and I feel like an absolute idiot. Why does he have to look so great? And the smell . . . understated aftershave and scent of man. It’s especially embarrassing when he’s leaning over my desk at work and all I want to do is close my eyes and drink it in.

  “I’m fine.” His fingers are still wrapped around my bare arm and, quite frankly, he’s cutting off the blood flow. “Do you mind?”

  “Hmm?” He follows my gaze to his mammoth grip and turns loose instantly. “So sorry.”

  “So, Jack. What brings you here tonight? Did Kale invite you to Mother’s little soirée?”

  A frown mars his oh-so-perfect face. “Oh dear,” Jack says Britishly. No self-respecting, straight American guy would dare use a phrase like “oh dear.” But Jack can get away with it because of his accent.

  “You don’t know? I was told you wouldn’t mind. Your mother . . .”

  “Oh, did she invite you to dinner?” I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Jack has been charming my mother since the first time Kale brought him home for Thanksgiving during their freshman year at NYU. I was sixteen, so that was—oh, boy—fourteen years ago. He’s been yanking my hair and teasing me as mercilessly as Kale ever since. Only recently, since he’s come to work for Lane Publishing, has he started treating me differently. Not like a colleague. More like an employee. And not a very good one at that. But at least he’s stopped pulling my hair and poking me in the ribs.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  I give a shrug. “Oh well. She didn’t tell me, but she doesn’t typically discuss her guest lists with me.” I’m trying to be polite, but I’m nervous, and I feel sweat under my arms. So unladylike to perspire in polite company. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure we’re at opposite ends of the table, so you can’t be accused of fraternizing with the staff.” I give him a flippant smile and expect him to move so I can make my way down the steps.

  Instead he leans forward ever so slightly and whispers in my ear. “This is rather awkward, but I believe I’m your escort for the evening.”

  I swallow hard. “Wh-what?”

  “Your mum asked me for a little favor. How could I refuse?”

  “It’s easy. All it takes is one little two-letter word.”

  He gives me a rueful smile and moves aside, offering me his arm. “Yes, I’d be willing to wager you could give enthralling lessons on how to refuse your mum’s requests.” He is, of course, being sarcastic.

  Heat slides up my neck. Since Jack is Kale’s best friend, he knows the ins and outs of our family dysfunction and is fully aware that I can’t say no to my mother unless it’s through e-mail, and even then I usually give in. It’s disconcerting.

  “Come along,” he says, taking my hand and tucking it through his arm. “Don’t be difficult. Let me escort you to dinner and I promise to provide stimulating dinner conversation. Would you like to hear about the time I met the queen?”

  Okay, the word stimulating is probably extremely appropriate here, given the way my stomach has just dropped at his touch. I clear my throat. “I’m not worried about the conversation,” I say, freeing my hand from the comfortable warmth of his elbow. “Just refrain from slurping your soup, and I’ll be happy.” Why does he always reduce me to acting like a ditzy teenager?

  He gives a low chuckle and stays fixed to my side. The man is nothing if not persistent. “And you must refrain from cutting me with your barbed—not to mention extensive—vocabulary while I’m doing a good deed.”

  I stop. Will there be no end to my humiliation this evening? “Are you saying you agreed to this ‘date’ out of pity?”

  “Hardly pity.” His gray eyes pierce me. “Let’s call it a pleasant favor for my best chum’s mother. Why are you so offended, anyway? Would you prefer Floyd?”

  I’d love to have the nerve to slap that smug grin right off his gorgeous face. Why should he know how relieved I am that Mother replaced hideous Floyd with extraordinary Jack? I jerk my chin at him, feeling sick of the entire exchange. “Actually,” I say, “I do prefer Floyd. As a matter of fact, I was very sorry to hear he isn’t feeling well. I-I’d been rather looking forward to seeing him tonight.”

  “Indeed?”

  I give a jerky nod. “Indeed.”

  “Well then, you’re a very lucky young lady.” Jack motions over my shoulder and I turn, dread sinking into every pore. Floyd’s standing there, listening to every word and, judging from the look of rapture on his face, feeling secure in my love for him.

  “Hello, honey. Sorry I’m late.”

  Oh no. Oh no. How stupid am I? Okay, he’s not unattractive. I mean, he’s not gorgeous like J— well, you know. But he’s got that Greg Kinnear kind of appeal. If only he had the personality to go along with the looks. “Fl-Floyd? I thought you were sick.”

  He pulls out a hanky and makes disgusting noises as he clears his sinuses. “Don’t worry,” he says, stuffing the thing—and oh, it’s hard not to visualize—back into his jacket pocket. “I’m not contagious.”

  Well, that’s something, isn’t it?

  “B-but I thought you told my mother you weren’t coming. She—um—replaced you with another guest.”

  “Oh, I know. When I called her an hour ago, she said she could easily invite another girl for your other date.”

  I follow his hostile gaze to Jack’s face, and I swear, my own hostility rises at the British smirk lying there under the guise of thoughtful acceptance.

  “Who did Mother find at the last minute?” As if I don’t already know.

  “Someone named Sheri.”

  “Did I hear my name?” A sugared tone sets my teeth on edge and makes me cringe inside. It’s not that I don’t love my cousin. I do. Sheri is everything my mother wanted in a daughter. Painfully thin, poised. Your typical former cheerleader and class valedictorian. Beautiful, smart, and a classical pianist to boot. And she adores my mother. Genuine niceness is the only reason I don’t hate this woman. And I don’t mean my genuine niceness. I mean hers. Plus, guess what? She’s a senior editor for a rival publishing house. “Isn’t it lucky for me I showed up without a date for Grammy’s birthday party?”

  Aunt Tilly is, as Sheri mentioned, her grandmother, my great-aunt. My granny and Aunt Tilly were twin sisters, identical in all ways except on the inside. Granny was the sweet, spiritual one. Aunt Tilly worked in publishing for fifty years. She’s a salty character—smoked cigars in the fifties, burned her bra in the sixties, got a tattoo in the seventies, and finally married her lover of thirty years in the eighties, only because her grown children—all four of whom are Christians—begged her to stop living in sin, and she figured she might as well give in. She’s recently gone so far as to start atte
nding church with her oldest son. She’s a little softer, but still rough around the edges. And I adore her. I’d give anything to be just like her. Sheri, on the other hand, is more like my mother than I can stomach most of the time.

  I force a smile as I turn. “Sheri. So nice of you to come.” I can only pray I sound sincere as I’m drawn into a cozy embrace.

  “It’s wonderful to see you again, Dancy. You look beautiful.”

  Sheri calling me beautiful is like a Mercedes-Benz calling a VW Bus classy. You just can’t help but feel patronized.

  “Thanks,” I mumble. “You do, too.” I sound insincere, but it really is the truth. She does look amazing. But then, she could dress in a potato sack and not bother with makeup and she’d still be beautiful.

  “How are things at work?” I ask, because it’s the one thing we have in common.

  Her smile brightens and she gives me a wink. “Wonderful. I’m about to be promoted, but who can talk about work when I smell scallops and sea bass?”

  Jealousy is such an ugly trait, and I admit that I struggle with it from time to time. However, the way she moves right up the publishing ladder just irks me. I know she works for the same publishing house as Aunt Tilly did for all those years, so obviously they love her. And Sheri is great at her job. But you know, if she gets a promotion she’ll be two steps above me. Associate publisher is a huge step up from editor. Big big. But then, if she moves up to associate publisher, that would mean . . .

  “They’ll be looking for another senior editor?”

  Jack swings a quick glance my way, and I realize I blurted it out with him standing right there.

  Sheri laughs. “I suppose they will. But you would never leave Lane Publishing,” she says, as though it’s unthinkable that I’d rather have a promotion than stay in a place where I’m completely undervalued.

  I clear my throat. “I just know someone looking to move up.” Someone like me, for instance.

  I refuse to even look at Jack. I’m sure he doesn’t believe for one second that I’m asking about the job opening for any other reason than my desperate ambition to move up myself.