Monarch Beach (28 page)

“The store manager just went upstairs. I can try to find another salesperson for you; they’re all busy taking returns. Post-Christmas hazard.” Cassie smiled, seeing the girl’s face fall. She clutched her shopping bag tighter. Her nails were painted neon pink and she wore a macramé bracelet around her wrist.

“Crap. My roommate gave me a ride. She’s double-parked outside, probably going to get a ticket. The meter maids were circling like vultures around a Thanksgiving turkey. I don’t know when I’ll make it down here again. I never shop in Union Square, let alone Fenton’s.” The girl drawled the name of the department store as if it were a foreign language.

“We don’t work here, but Cassie owns the place. I bet she can process a return for you,” Alexis said, nodding at Cassie.

“My mother owns it.” Cassie blushed. She felt like people had been saying that since she was seven years old, when her mother would dress her up in a Chanel suit and black patent Mary Janes and guide her through the departments, introducing her to her best customers.

“Please, my roommate will kill me if she gets a ticket. It’s her mother’s car and she doesn’t even know we borrowed it.” The girl opened the bag and took out a red satin box imprinted with the trademark Fenton’s signature.

“Oooh, one of these lovely pendants.” Alexis picked up the box. “Why would you want to return it? These are going to be a must-have.”

“To be honest, I could use the money. It was a present and I figured anything in a Fenton’s box must be pricey. No offense.” The girl looked at Cassie and clapped her hand over her mouth. “It’s really nice, but I’m a student. I could use a bit of cash.”

“Do you have a receipt?” Cassie asked awkwardly. She pulled her long bangs over her ears the way she did when she was nervous. She had tried manning different counters in the afternoons during high school—cosmetics, handbags, Godiva chocolates—but she had never felt comfortable taking other people’s money. “You’re giving them a bit of their dreams,” her mother would coach her, but Cassie always felt the dreams came with a high price tag. She wondered how women could justify paying so much for elaborate gold boxes holding four pieces of chocolate.

“It was a present,” the girl repeated. “But maybe you have the credit card on file. The name was Blake, Aidan Blake.” The girl kept glancing around, as if one of the uniformed meter maids was going to appear and arrest her for double-parking.

“Excuse me,” Cassie said.

“Aidan Blake, Professor Aidan Blake, actually, but I doubt it says that on the credit card. I guess physicians put ‘doctor’ in front of their names, but it would seem a bit silly for a professor to, wouldn’t it?” The girl looked from Cassie to Alexis as if she was very interested in their opinion.

“Where did you get this?” Cassie held the box at arm’s length as if it were a stick of dynamite.

“I told you it was a present. Do you think I stole it or something?” The girl stepped back from the counter. “I may not look like a Fenton’s customer, but I’m not a thief. It was a Christmas present, from a friend,” she finished, her round cheeks turning a light shade of pink.

“How do you know this friend?” Alexis demanded, glancing at Cassie, whose face had turned white.

“We don’t give cash refunds, only store credit,” Cassie said automatically. She gripped the side of the display case, pressing her knuckles against the glass. Every nerve in her body tingled, as if someone had set off a fire alarm only she could hear.

“You two treat customers pretty funny,” the girl said, frowning. “I thought Fenton’s was all about customer service. I’ve seen the ads online: ‘Don’t just walk the red carpet; take it home with you. At Fenton’s every customer is a star.’ Hardly.” The girl pushed the box into the shopping bag. “Store credit isn’t going to do much; what am I going to buy? A two-hundred-dollar pair of seamless stockings? A Marc Jacobs hairbrush? I’ll probably never come to Union Square again, I’m obviously not welcome.”

“Wait.” Cassie exhaled, feeling like something heavy was sitting on her chest. “I’ll give you cash. Here, give me the box.”

“Okay.” The girl stopped, eyeing Cassie suspiciously. “I want a full refund, I bet it was expensive.”

Cassie opened the cash register and extracted three fifty-dollar bills. “Take these.” She slid them over the counter.

The girl’s eyes opened wide. She picked up the bills and crinkled the edges with her fingers. “I don’t think it was that much. I mean, shouldn’t you look up the credit card or look at the price tags on the other necklaces?”

“Take the money and leave.” Alexis walked to the front of the case. She was almost six feet tall in her four-inch Prada heels and her body was muscled and lean from hours in the pool and on her bicycle. She stood so close to the girl she could see the brown roots at the top of her head.

“I’m leaving,” the girl said, stuffing the money in her jeans pocket and moving away from Alexis. “You’re lucky I don’t go on Yelp or something. But thanks for the refund, I hope it doesn’t all go to the meter maid.”

Alexis walked back to Cassie and put her hand on her shoulder. “Breathe,” she said quietly.

“I can’t.” Cassie’s voice was like a robot. “I need some fresh air.”

“You’re not following her.” Alexis grabbed Cassie’s sleeve. “We need to sit down in private. Let’s go to your mother’s office.”

Cassie followed Alexis to the private elevator in the back of the store, clutching the red Fenton’s box that held the pendant. She felt any moment her knees would buckle and she’d crumple to the floor like an anorexic Victoria’s Secret model. She closed her eyes as the elevator doors shut, wishing everything would stay black and the elevator would just keep going up and up and up.

“Cassie.” Alexis poked her with one long fingernail. “Get a grip. It can’t be that bad. You’ve been married for almost ten years. There has to be an explanation.”

“Maybe Aidan gave each student jewelry, instead of grades. Maybe he gave his whole lecture class gifts: polo shirts for the boys and necklaces and earrings for the girls. That would be so like him, don’t you think? That sounds just like my husband, who believes material things have no relationship to one’s happiness, and makes me do his family’s birthday gift shopping. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still buy Isabel My Little Pony every year, even though she’s sixteen and lives with us half the time.” Cassie was almost shouting.

“Cassie, stop.” Alexis pushed the elevator button so the doors stayed open. “We need to think this through calmly, and we need a drink. I hope your mother still has that bottle of scotch under her desk.”

Cassie nodded, biting her lip and pulling her bangs down till they reached her chin. She looked at herself in the smoky elevator mirror. Her mother always said she had the face of an angel: almond-shaped blue eyes, long dark lashes, a small nose dusted with freckles, and God’s imprint, a dimple on the side of her mouth. The reflection staring back at her looked more like Snow White just after she realized she’d eaten the poisoned apple.

Cassie opened the door to her mother’s office, smelling a mix of lemon Pledge and Chanel No. 5. The walls were papered in beige linen, and the wood floor was covered with a thick oriental rug. Vases holding bunches of lilies graced the coffee table, the end tables, and the fireplace mantel. There was a cherry desk, a Louis XIV chair, and a cream-colored sofa with throw pillows shaped like seashells.

“Your mother has the best taste, even where no one can see it,” Alexis said as she admired the silk pillows.

“I’m not in the mood to discuss interior design.” Cassie lay facedown on the sofa.

“Maybe she’s Aidan’s TA and he bought her the pendant to thank her for grading papers.” Alexis opened the drawer under the desk and extracted a crystal decanter and two shot glasses.

“That would be such an ethical thing for a professor of ethics to do,” Cassie moaned into the cushions.

“Cassie, sit up.” Alexis dropped onto the sofa, holding a shot glass in each hand. She kicked off her heels and tucked her stocking feet under her legs. “Drink this, quickly,” she said as she put the glass under Cassie’s nose.

Cassie drank the scotch in one gulp. She felt the alcohol burn the back of her throat, and her eyes stung. She blinked and held her glass out for another shot, promising herself she would not cry.

“That’s the girl who wrote love notes to Father Chatham senior year, and signed Sister Agnes’s name.” Alexis nodded approvingly, refilling Cassie’s glass.

“Sister Agnes was in love with him”—Cassie threw back the second shot—“the whole school knew. Every song in chapel was a love song.”

“I think those were called hymns to God.” Alexis grinned. “Honestly, Cassie, I know Aidan looks like a lion, king of the jungle, and all those sophomoric undergrads hang on his every word, but has he ever given you a reason to doubt him?”

“No,” Cassie said, and shook her head, choking back a hiccup, “but he’s never given anyone a red Fenton’s box. The only thing he buys for me at Fenton’s are scarves, because my skin is so sensitive I break out if it’s not true cashmere.”

“Fenton’s does carry the best scarves; I should get more. Maybe on the way down we can check and see if they have any new colors.” Alexis rubbed her finger along the edge of her glass.

“You can have the ones Aidan bought me for Christmas, if I don’t use them to strangle him.”

“I know you’ve been married much longer than me,” Alexis said, pouring herself another shot, “but it could be completely harmless. A silly misunderstanding.”

“This isn’t one of those old black-and-white movies where the hero gives the heroine a gift and it’s intercepted by the wicked stepsister.” Cassie leaned back on the pillows.

“A few weeks ago I found a cigar in Carter’s blazer pocket. Not that I snoop, of course, I’m not that sort of wife.” Alexis put her glass on the rug. “But I felt this long, hard thing in his pocket, like a small penis.”

“How is this relevant?” Cassie interrupted.

“I was really angry; I hate the smell of cigars, it stays in the sheets forever.” Alexis plumped the pillow with one hand. “He said he didn’t know how it got there and I didn’t believe him. I withheld sex,” she said, sucking in her breath, “until he told the truth.”

“Carter without his nightly pillaging? He must have climbed the walls.” Cassie tried to smile.

“It turned out one of the guys at work put a cigar in everyone’s blazer. Invitation to a bachelor party.”

“I hope you gave Carter some sex before he went to the bachelor party. Who knows what might have happened.”

“I’m serious, Cassie. All you have is circumstantial evidence. Don’t you watch
Law & Order
or
The Good Wife
? Circumstantial evidence is never going to carry a conviction.”

Cassie opened the red Fenton’s box and stared at the offending pendant. The stone was light brown on a thin gold chain. She turned it over to see if there was a card or a note enclosed.

“How many times have you told me Aidan gets a dozen Facebook friend requests a day from students and deletes them all, unread,” Alexis pressed on. “And what about the fresh pizza that showed up at your front door with a note written in haiku? Aidan threw it away even though it was from Guido’s.”

“You’re turning things around. Aidan gave this to that girl.” Cassie waved the box in the air like a red flag.

“It might have ended up in her hands a number of ways.”

“Like how?” Cassie sat up straight. The shots had made her brain sharper, instead of numbing the pain.

“That’s my point. You have to find out how, and you can’t jump to conclusions until you do.”

“Do you want me to hire a detective, like that guy on
CSI: Miami
?”

“David Caruso? I don’t know what all the fuss is about, how can anyone with red hair be sexy? Do you believe in your marriage?” Alexis asked.

“Yes.” Cassie nodded, blinking to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

“Then take the box and show it to Aidan, let him explain it.”

“What if he can’t?”

About the Author

Anita Hughes was born in Sydney, Australia. At the age of eight, she won first prize in a nationwide writing contest sponsored by
The Australian,
Australia’s most prestigious newspaper. Her family moved to the United States when she was a teenager, and Hughes graduated from Bard College with a B.A. in English literature and a minor in creative writing. She also attended UC Berkeley’s masters in creative writing program, and has taught creative writing at The Branson School in Ross, California. Hughes has lived at the St. Regis Monarch Beach for six years, and she is at work there on her next novel.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

MONARCH BEACH.
Copyright © 2012 by Anita Hughes. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

ISBN 978-0-312-64304-1 (pbk.)

e-ISBN 9781250015846

First Edition: June 2012