Chapter 23

23

FIA

C entral Park buzzed with activity as I picked my way through a Christmas market with my mom on a blustery, chilly morning. Mom sipped her peppermint mocha and fanned through a selection of hand-painted Christmas cards, pulling out her favorites and handing the seller her debit card. “For your aunts,” she told me with a shrug. Her eyes lingered on mine, searching, scanning, trying to unravel my foul mood.

She straightened, tucking the cards in her market bag, and turned to me. “What’s up with you, Fia?”

“Nothing, I’m just tired.”

“Tired from what?”

I rolled my eyes to the snowy sky and sent a prayer to whoever was listening that Mom couldn’t see the hurt and confusion behind my eyes. “I just haven’t been getting much sleep. I have a lot on my mind.”

“So, talk,” she replied, giving me a nudge with her shoulder. “Is this about Mason?”

God, I hoped Colin wasn’t still talking about the scheme with our parents. They thought it was real, of course. Hell, for a minute, I had myself convinced that it was real, too.

“No. I’m just feeling a little Christmas depression, that’s all.”

“Christmas depression?” She laughed, shaking her head. “What’s that?”

I sighed hugely, rolling my shoulders as we stopped at a booth selling the cookies Mom bought in droves every year. Going to this market together had been a tradition since I was a kid, but it didn’t have the same kind of magical feeling in the air today. The colors were stale. The air was too cold, and my eight-dollar peppermint mocha with whipped cream had been so hot it burnt my tongue. My toes were chilled and all I wanted to do was go home, throw the Christmas bouquet Mason had delivered out the window, and wallow in my own self-pity.

“I’m just sad Christmas will be over soon.”

“You’re being dramatic, Fia,” Mom said with a laugh, roping her arm around mine. She proceeded to order several dozen cookies and made me carry the increasingly heavy bag she always brought to the market. Arm in arm, we spent the next hour exploring, eating little snacks, and stopping to talk to everyone my mom knew who’d come into the city for the market.

“You’re not working today, are you?” she asked as we reached the end of the market. I bit into a cinnamon sugar soft pretzel, shaking my head. “Good, come back to Brooklyn with me, then. Stay the night. I’ll make you some soup.”

“I don’t want soup, Mom.”

“You’re obviously getting sick. You look ill, Fia. You need some soup.”

There was no arguing with her. In her defense, I did feel like I was getting sick. Laying on the couch and whimpering over my own stupid, breakable heart hadn’t done me any favors. My eyes were red and puffy and my cheeks were slightly chapped from crying, which I would never admit to, but I had cried.

Not because I felt like I was losing Mason, but because I let myself fall for something totally, completely unattainable. I’d read him wrong, and that was my own stupid fault. This had always been, and would always be, fake.

I’d been stuck in my own head for several seconds apparently because I looked at Mom and sighed. “Fine, I need some soup.”

She wrapped her arm around mine and led me to the subway, where I sat and watched people hurrying onto the train with glossy shopping bags, bundled in scarves and hats against the cold. Mom hummed to jazzy Christmas music playing over the speakers, and I zoned out, fighting the urge to pull out my phone and send the text that had been sitting in my drafts for two days. I’d written it the night Mason told me no when I’d asked if everything was okay. I invited him over. He never came. He said he’d call me in the morning but he never did. So, I had written him a novel like I was a lovestruck high schooler getting broken up with by her first boyfriend, who she thought was endgame, the love of her life.

I’d told him I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I apologized for choosing a dress worth more than most people spent on a car, paying it off over the course of four years in staggering increments. I told him I’d return the diamond cluster earrings. That I was sorry for whatever I did. That I was sorry for not being born rich, that I wasn’t a socialite, that I didn’t have a model’s body type and couldn’t wear designer clothes off the rack.

But the text turned angry as my heart spilled itself on my phone screen. Angry that he’d let me see a glimpse of who he really was, that he changed his mind after what we did, that he was using me for more than I bargained for.

That having these crushing feelings wasn’t part of our original deal.

I hadn’t sent it. I didn’t delete it, though. I couldn’t bring myself to, and I wasn’t sure why.

“I have to stop at the deli to pick up the baccala,” Mom said as I followed her off the train at a station pretty far from the family home. “Do you mind the walk? Fresh air will be good for you.”

“I don’t mind.” I was already numb anyway. I followed her up onto the street, walking down the streets I grew up on and past shops where everyone knew us. Mom stopped in a few places, handing out cookies, wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. Eventually we reached her favorite deli, where she proceeded to haggle over everything she bought every single year for my entire life, and left without the price she wanted, but that was just part of the game.

Finally, as the sun hung high overhead, we reached the house.

“Go change into something comfy and get on the couch. You’re spending the night.”

“I’m not that sick, Mom?—”

She shot me a look that immediately shut me up, and I did what I was told, quickly changing and curling up on the living-room couch in a fluffy blanket while Mom clattered away in the kitchen.

My phone rang. I answered it without even looking at the screen. “Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Fia Webster?” A vaguely familiar female voice rang through the line and I straightened up.

“Yes.”

There was a heavy sigh of relief. “This is Heather Schuyler. We met at Deck the Decks?”

I sat up, my heart leaping out of my chest. Heather Schuyler was about as old money as you could get in New York, her family going all the way back to pre-revolutionary times. She was a high-profile socialite and philanthropist, known for her parties and charities, and for some reason she was calling me. “Yes,” I managed to croak. “I remember. How are you?”

“Terrible, darling. I need your help.”

“My—my help?”

“I was so impressed by you when we met. My foundation covers the library, and I spoke with Shelly a few days ago about the event you helped her with off the books and I knew I had to give you a ring. You might be the only person who can help me now, in so short a time.”

I couldn’t find words. My head was spinning.

“Please tell me you’re not busy on the twenty-second.”

“I’m not,” I replied, even though I had no idea if I was in fact busy. I might have been, given my scheme with Mason, but I hadn’t heard from him in days, so what was the point?

“Perfect. I need you. I need your creative mind at my disposal. I’ve decided to throw my own version of a Christmas Gala, the day before Christmas Eve. It’s terribly last minute and my usual event organizer is in Bora Bora for the holidays, so you’re my only hope.”

“You want me to plan it for you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! Why do you think I’m calling, darling? I’ll send you the details. It’s being held at my house. My chefs are setting up their menu, and I have staff to manage the event, but the rest of the details, the decorations, that will be up to you. Is that something you’re up for?”

I gaped. “Yes.” The word slipped out before I could stop myself.

“Fabulous. I’ll have my secretary send you the details. Would you be able to come over tomorrow to tour the house?”

Touring Heather Schuyler’s New York City mansion on Fifth Avenue, which was likely protected by the Historical Society? “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Lovely, darling. Oh, I am just thrilled. See you tomorrow!” The line went silent.

I lowered my phone, shell shocked.

“Who was that?” Mom hollered from the kitchen.

Before I could respond, my eyes were locked on the TV, which was stuck on the local news. Mason’s face appeared, solemn, his eyes empty and dark. Frozen, I watched him explain the reason for recalling almost all of Heritage Spirits’ stock, putting a hold on new shipments. He explained that he was doing everything in his power to ensure the public was safe after a massive, disastrous contamination event in their holiday spirit line.

But I barely heard the words. I just stared at him, reading between the lines, noticing the way his fake, practiced smile betrayed the utter look of failure and exhaustion behind his eyes.

Had this been why I had barely heard from him this past week? Why didn’t he say anything about it to me?

Mom walked into the living room with a bowl of soup on a tray. Her eyes swept over the TV, and she clicked her tongue. “Colin told me about this.”

“Colin?” I croaked as she placed the tray on the coffee table. “What happened?”

“It sounds like the entire company is spiraling. Something about barrels being contaminated with menthol or something.” She waved a hand. “Colin barely explained. He’s been at the office at all hours since Monday trying to salvage things.”

And so had Mason. Guilt washed over me, choking me. I was so incredibly thankful I hadn’t sent that text.

“Eat, get some rest,” Mom said, glancing at the TV once more before fluttering back to the kitchen.

I took a few spoonfuls of soup, enough to appease her, and then rushed back upstairs to change back into my jeans. When I rushed to a stop in the kitchen, Mom made a face, shaking her head and pointing toward the living room.

I cut her off before she could say anything. “I have to go back to the city. I’ll call you later, okay? I’m fine, really!”

“Fia!”

I was already shrugging on my coat and rushing out the door before her voice could reach me.

The street was icy, slick with fresh, powdery snow, but I didn’t slow to a walk. I ran all the way to the subway, catching the train back to the city seconds before the doors shut.

But I wasn’t going back to my apartment. I had something more important to do.