Page 40 of The Better Sister

That was more than I had expected her to be able to guarantee, but I could tell that Nicky still wasn’t satisfied.

“And if that assessment ever changes,” Olivia continued, “IswearI’ll let you know. The second I don’t feel good about the case, I’ll tell you—no punches pulled.ThatI can promise.”

Nicky shook her head and wiped her nose.

“Good,” Olivia said. “When Ethan gets processed, he’s going to need you both. It’s going to be a while.”

“Let me guess,” Nicky said with a sad smirk. “It’s only the beginning?”

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “Down the road, when I hope this is all over with a good outcome, I give you permission to remind me how annoying that lecture is.”

When we left the room and Nicky broke away to clean up her face in the restroom, I asked Olivia one more question. “Did you mean what you said to the judge? That you believe Ethan is actually innocent? You sounded so convinced.” I had known she couldn’t guarantee Nicky a successful outcome, but I was looking for something different. I think I wanted to feel as certain as she appeared in court.

She looked around, as if she were making sure no one would hear us. “I’d like to think I always sound persuasive. But, yes, I do believe it. And I rarely do. And, as I said, I promise I’ll do everything I can to prove it.”

24

Six Weeks Later

I’ve always been a good student, and not only in school. If there’s a task to be done, I can figure out a way to do it. And, if it’s something I care about, I’ll learn how to do it well. It’s like Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule. If you want to be great, you’ve got to work at it.

But I had come to accept that no matter how many hours I put into it, I’d never be able to host a party the way Catherine Lancaster could host a party. Her Sag Harbor home was French country, but all chic, no shabby. The food was always perfect—the flavor, presentation, timing, all of it—yet you never saw her scrambling in the kitchen the way I did if I tried to cook more than one course. For years, I was convinced she had caterers hiding in the basement, sneaking upstairs to work like ninjas while we mingled, until I finally knew her well enough to ask her point-blank. Turns out the woman who had an assistant send out her emails and do her Christmas shopping actually did her own cooking. She even curated the guest list so the conversation never faltered. Five people you’d love to meet for a dinner party?That was Catherine’s dining room table every Saturday night.

Even the playlist was carefully planned to suit her guests’ desires. When “Walkin’ after Midnight” came on, Bill closed his eyes and gave us one line—Just like we used to do—while his shoulders swayed. He loved Patsy Cline so much that he had named his horse after her.

And now I was bringing Nicky to one of those perfectly curated gatherings.

Other than the occasional pop-in by friends and coworkers offering condolences and casseroles, this was the first time since Adam was murdered that I had accepted a social invitation. Nicky and I had decided it might be good for us to imitate normal human beings for an evening, but now that we were there, I was still numbed by the same shock and anxiety that hadn’t faded at all after six weeks, with an extra layer of resentment that I couldn’t wallow without an audience.

It was a small shindig by Catherine’s usual summer standards. Just me, her, Nicky, Bill Braddock, and two new-to-me friends of hers: Christof DeJong, a sixty-something-year-old Dutch artist whose large-scale steel sculptures were regular sightings on the East End, and Liam Ricci, who, I gathered, was a former model, now tattoo artist, hoodie designer, and general cool guy.

“Now, Chloe, I want to know everything about where you are on this book project of yours. You said it was two books, right?”

That’s what Catherine would do at these parties—throw out little questions like it was a cultural salon crossed with a talk show. She knew all the details of my publishing deal, but wanted to give me a chance to share some tidbits with the rest of the crowd. I finished swallowing the bite of quail that was in my mouth before I answered. “Things have changed a bit since I first signed the contract. It was the Them Too series that got me a book deal, and then the memoir was sort of an add-on. But, with recent events, I guess the demand for the memoir is pretty high.”

An awkward silence fell over the table, which never happens at a Catherine party. I should have known she’d ask me about the status of the books. I wished I’d had a better answer prepared, but I wasn’t feeling up to a conversation with strangers, and even a mention of the memoir was enough to make my stomach hurt. When I pitched the idea to publishers, I was picturing an up-with-career-girls, how-I-climbed-the-ladder story. Now the editor wanted to know about Adam, Ethan, Nicky—my actual personal life. I was tempted to walk away from the contract, but I had heard rumors that a few members of the board were discussing the possibility of “changes” atEvewhile I was “distracted” by my “family situation.”

Bill held up his wineglass in my direction. “More power to you. If I wrote a memoir, I’d have a long list of enemies lined up on Montauk Highway, waiting to exact their revenge. Your book—I am confident, Chloe—will be an inspiration to millions of young women who are struggling to find their voice.”

I was still forcing a smile when Catherine turned to Nicky. “Nicky, can I say how pleased I am to finally have a chance to meet you in person? Chloe talks so much about you”—I didn’t—“but she never told me what a great chef you are. Watch your back, Ina Garten.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Nicky said sheepishly. “But, ‘Yeah, bitch, watch your back!’”

I tried to hide my wince and was relieved when everyone laughed.

Nicky had insisted on bringing a giant Tupperware of gazpacho even though I told her that Catherine did not like other people’s food at her parties. Ever polite, Catherine had served it in cups as an amuse-bouche. At least it had been good.

Nicky had been dealing with our shared despair by cooking constantly. She was operating a full-time test kitchen, scouring my cookbooks, tinkering with recipes, and asking me which dishes I thought Ethan would enjoy most. She liked to say that when he came home, he was going to eat like a king.

“What do you do besides make delicious cold soup?” The question came from Christof the sculptor, who apparently assumed that anyone he met at a Catherine party would have an answer to the question “What do you do?”

I blurted out a nonresponse. “Nicky’s visiting from Cleveland.”

“I’m a jewelry designer,” she said.

“Excellent,” Liam the tattoo guy said. “What company?”

“Oh, just myself,” she said, waving a hand. “I sell stuff online. But I get to do my own designs. Work my own hours. Keep all fifty dollars to myself.”

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