Page 3 of Final Cost

I discreetly check the clock on the range. It’s seven thirty-two. Exactly two minutes later than I normally appear in the mornings. I exchange a wearyit’s too early for thisglance with her cute but satanic Yorkie, Juniper, in her little four poster dog bed on the floor under the table. Juniper pauses gnawing her latest stuffed animal into extinction long enough to bare her teeth and growl at me.

“I slept great,” I tell Mrs. Hooper, my bright smile firmly in place once I shoot a veiled glare at Juniper. It’s a total lie. I didn’t sleep. At all. But since I’m firmly in myfake it till I make itphase, I’m determined to lie my ass off. Whatever it takes to power through this heartbroken season of my life. And itisjust a season. I have complete confidence that if I repeat this mantra, it will become true.

Besides, Mrs. Hooper is nosy enough already. I don’t plan to add more leafy branches to her ladies who lunch grapevine by admitting that I had another bad night and that it took me longer than usual to hoist myI’m okay, nothing to see herefacade into place this morning. If nothing else, my pride won’t allow it.

“I see.” She’s cheery as usual today, her pink and green Lilly Pulitzer summer florals firmly in place and her short silver fox hair coiffed to perfection. But she eyes me with dubious concern, her expression sharper than usual. Difficult to believe she took a hard fall several short days ago and had me and her niece Penny concerned about possible dementia. She’s good as new now, thank God. Following a thorough workup and a simple tweak of her medications, she’s now got the brain of young Nancy Drew and is determined to ferret out every personal detail she can about my failed relationship with Lucien Winter.

I’m just as determined to keep the details to myself.

“If you say so,” she adds, absently tearing off a piece of smoked salmon and slipping it under the counter to Juniper, who snaps it up with gusto. “Those bags under your eyes aren’t getting any lighter though, honey. Let me know if you want me to put you in touch with my plastic surgeon.”

Right. Because I, as a newly graduated RN in her early twenties and whose full-time job as an oncology nurse at one of the local cancer centers doesn’t start until the fall, have an unlimited budget for cosmetic procedures.

“Will do,” I say, my pleasant smile already feeling signs of strain. I grab a plate and load it up with breakfast as though I plan to eat it. Everything tastes like moldy sawdust to me, these days, but I’ve discovered that it’s easier to pretend to eat rather than give her something else to comment on. “Where’s Penny?”

“Oh, she’s already off to Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. One of the fancy markets. She said something about having a taste for pomegranates.”

“Pomegranatesareimportant,” I murmur, keeping a close eye on Juniper as he comes over to give me an experimental sniff. As a long-time enemy of mine from when I was Mrs. Hooper’s personal nurse, I never know when he might decide to nip one of my unsuspecting ankles for kicks.

“Going for another jog in the park, are you?” She says, her swift gaze encompassing my baseball cap, ponytail, tank top and runner’s shorts. “You’ll be ready for the Olympics with all this training. You won’t catchmerunning in this heat.”

“It’s not that bad,” I say, sliding onto one of the stools and helping myself to some coffee. “It’s good for me.”

This is another lie. I hate jogging with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns. But you know what I hate worse than jogging? Being so hyped up on adrenaline that all I see is the cruel set of Lucien’s mouth when he ripped out my foolish little heart by telling me — what was it? — that he’s already bored with me and doesn’t love me despite previously claiming that hedid. So if enduring forty-five minutes or so of burning thighs and blinding sweat dripping in my eyes gives me a little bit of a respite from hearing the harshness of his voice the last time we were together, I’ll take it.

“Oh, and Cynthia Johnson called a little while ago.” Mrs. Johnson is one of Mrs. Hooper’s friends who joined us on the cruise. “She asked about you, of course.”

“Did she?” I say, now slathering cream cheese on my unwanted bagel with relentless focus. I know it’s coming. This is one of Mrs. Hooper’s periodic attempts to gather information from me. You really gotta hand it to her. She’s like one of the velociraptors systematically testing the electronic fence for weakness in Jurassic Park. She’s got endless focus and endless angles for trying to break through my resistance. My only job is to see the attempts coming and continue deflecting. “And how is she doing? Is she still talking about you ladies going to Atlantic City for a girl’s night out soon?”

“We’re just all so worried about you,” she says as though I haven’t spoken. “All this business about Lucien’s wife coming back from the dead. I mean, the timing couldn’t be worse, could it? Just as you went off to Ackerley to spend the rest of the summer with him. And now it’s all ended in tears.” A delicate pause. “As I thought it would with a young girl like you and an older andmuchmore sophisticated man like that.”

I continue slathering, deciding not to mention that I’ve never cried in front of her. It would be a waste of time and breath. There’s no stopping her when she gets like this.

“Far be it for me to ever tell anyoneI told you so. That’s not me, honey. You know it’s not.”

I repress a snort with difficulty.

“But Ididdo my best to warn you that a man like Lucien Winter is not for you, Tam. Resurrected wife or not. As painful as this all seems right now, it’s for the best that he’s out of your life now. And I’m here. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need —”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hooper,” I say, grateful for her generosity. Even if it does seem to entitle her to a bird’s eye view of my dumpster fire of a personal life.

“— As long as it isn’t more than another week or so. You know the folks are coming to put some of my things in storage and stage the house so I can get it on the market. And we’ll need to fumigate just to make sure we don’t have any critter issues. That would be a nightmare.”

My heart sinks at this reminder. “Of course. I understand. My plan is to be gone before then,” I say, leaving off the part about not having any idea of where I plan to go or how I plan to pay for it. I just spent a large chunk of my savings on securing a new apartment for when I start working in the fall. But it’s not available for weeks yet. Plus, I don’t exactly have the funds for a nice temporary rental or hotel room in the meantime. But I’m smart. I’ll figure it out. That’s an issue for another day.

“Meanwhile, if you ever want to talk about, you know, what happened with Lucien at Ackerley, I’m here for you. It’s none of my business, of course, but I assume that he and Ravenna reconciled…?”

She waits and watches hopefully, but there’s no way I can respond to her, much less disabuse her of the notion that they reconciled. I just don’t have the energy for it. Plus, she’s right. It’s absolutely none of her business. Meanwhile, a new batch of roiling emotions crowds into my throat and smolders there at the mention of Lucien’s name.

Talk about it? And what would I say, exactly? That he swooped into my world like the most beautiful summer dream imaginable, then left just as quickly with the force and brutality of an F5 tornado? Should I tell her that he took my sun with him and I now have no sun at all now—just this cratering black anger and bitterness?

And the funny thing is, I’m not angry athim. I’m angry atmyself. Because I didn’t listen to my gut when it came to him. I belong somewhere between Taylor Swift and Carrie Bradshaw as she beat Mr. Big about the head and shoulders with her wedding bouquet. Why? Because I knew both that Lucien Winter was trouble when he walked in and Iknewhe would do this to me before it was all over.

Oh, I enjoyed the adventure, sure. God knows I enjoyed the sex. I couldn’t hand him my V-card fast enough, could I? My cheeks heat and my pussy throbs as I remember some of the things we did together and to each other. Delicious, illicit things. I let myself be swept away with the passion and the romance of it all. The laughter and the whispers and the tenderness. I allowed myself to pretend that an inexperienced twenty-something Brooklynite like me could catch the eye of a sophisticated, adventure-loving and easily bored billionaire like him. But it was all a girlish fantasy and part of me always knew it. A man like him isn’t for me. He’s got knowledge I’ll never possess. He’s full of secrets and lies. He’s got an appetite for playing games with people’s lives and the fortune to fund the games.

And I was the foolish and lovestruck idiot who allowed myself to think that I was getting to know him. That he was letting me in. Opening up and showing me his vulnerable side. My heart squeezes again, solidifying into a rock deep inside my chest. Like he said when he dumped me, I never knew him at all. I never had any idea what he was capable of. The manipulations.

Like what?

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