Great Big Beautiful Life(43)

“You always wear pants,” I manage to breathe out. “I’m worried you’ll have heatstroke.”

His laugh is gravelly at my ear, the sound sending as much of a thrill through me as his careful touch. I move against him, and he slides his hand down me more fully. A jumble of voices and footsteps approach us from around the corner, and he steps back abruptly, smoothing my skirt down my thighs again.

“You can come over, if you want,” I say thickly.

“Stop inviting me,” he says.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because eventually I’m going to say yes,” he replies.

“That’s the general idea,” I say.

“I’m obviously attracted to you,” he says.

“Obviously,” I agree.

“This can’t go well, Alice,” he says.

“Which part?” I ask, doubtful. There’s at least one thing I’m very nearly certain could go well.

“We both want this job too much,” he says. “Even more than we might want…”

“You’re worried I’ll get too attached,” I guess.

“I’m worried about the work,” he says. “Neither of us can afford to be pulling punches here. If either of us doesn’t give this our all, we’ll regret it. And then we’ll resent each other for it. And I don’t know if I can handle being the one person on the planet Alice Scott doesn’t like.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could,” I tell him.

His smile—wide enough to reveal teeth—dazzles me for a moment. I want to climb inside of it.

The group that came from around the corner staggers tipsily past. When they’ve moved off, he steps in close again, our waists connecting, the infinitesimal amount of pressure flooding me with want. “Maybe some other time,” he says, the rest of the sentence hanging in the air, unspoken. “After all of this.”

“Maybe,” I agree.

“Would you be able to forgive me?” he asks, looking up at me through his lashes.

Of course I wouldn’t hold it against him if he got the job, but would I be able to handle the way his presence would remind me of my failure?

“Would you?” I ask him, rather than answering.

He frowns, and I can see it in his face. For all of our differences, we’re both proud. This spark between us is fun and surprising right now. In three more weeks, it could settle into something bitter.

“Okay.” My nod feels strangely final, like a handshake agreement: May the best writer win, and may it be enough to make up for the orgasms we forsake.

He steps back from the curb, and I straighten, pulling my keys free from the outside pocket of my bag.

He gives me the same kind of nod. “Get home safe.”

The formality of it makes my heart twinge. “You too.” I turn and round my car, unlocking it.

“Alice?” he calls over the top of it.

“Hmm?”

“She lies to me too,” he says. “For whatever it’s worth, Margaret Ives isn’t telling me the truth.”





14




On Monday, I’m working over dinner at Rum Room when I find something strange.

I’m prepping for tomorrow’s interview with Margaret, to continue her grandfather’s story after his affair with the actress Nina Gill ended, and I come across a news item, in Vanity Fair, covering the opulent 1949 wedding of Gerald’s niece, Ruth Allen. The little princess he’d raised more devotedly than his own children.

Ruth was twenty-one years old when she married the actor turned decorated World War II pilot turned talent manager James Oller, and their wedding was the event of the summer.

Starlets, politicians, famous artists of all stripes descended on the grounds of the House of Ives to celebrate the union. Margaret and her sister, Laura, eleven and eight years old at the time, acted as flower girls for their first cousin once removed, wearing crowns of vibrant yellow sunflowers to match Ruth’s bouquet.

Even Nina Gill, accompanied by her husband, had attended, sitting on the same expansive lawn as Gerald for the first time since their affair ended twenty-two years earlier.

The wedding festivities lasted three days, and were completely devoid of photography, which made every society journalist covering the affair that much more committed to making the reader feel as though she were there.

It’s effective. I’ve read four articles about the wedding back-to-back, my food going cold on the table at Rum Room, when I hit on the thing that jolts me back to the present.

To my reality.

It’s a line that contains Ruth’s middle name. Not legal middle name—a quick search tells me she doesn’t have one, officially. But apparently, among close family, her full name was Ruth Nicollet Ives Allen.

A sizzle of recognition goes down my spine. Where do I know that name from?

It only takes a second to hit me. I scroll back through my notes, double-checking.

The very first inn that Lawrence Richard Ives purchased, to capitalize on other prospectors once he’d struck silver ore. Margaret had called it the Ebner. When Lawrence had first bought it, it was called the Arledge. And then, for a chunk of time in between that, just like I thought: the Nicollet. Same spelling and everything.

Coincidence? Or is Nicollet a family name?