The Daughters (2 page)

Lizzie swiped her MetroCard in the turnstile and dashed down the steps to the waiting train. As the doors closed, she found
a seat and pulled
The Great Gatsby
from her bag. She wanted to finish it before tomorrow, even though
Gatsby
was summer reading for the tenth grade, not the ninth, at the Chadwick School. But her taste in books had always been a little
advanced. She’d learned to read at three, tackled the first two Harry Potters by six, and begun writing stories at eight.
She’d been writing ever since and this summer she’d attended the exclusive Barnstable Writer’s Workshop out on Cape Cod for
six weeks. There a writer had kept talking about Fitzgerald, and Lizzie had been embarrassed that she’d never read him before.
Now she didn’t want the book to end. There were paragraphs that were so beautiful that she read them over and over. One day,
she hoped, she would be able to write a quarter as good as Fitzgerald. Or maybe a tenth.

At Bleecker Street, she got off the subway and limped up the steps to the sidewalk. Her aching feet wobbled in the Louboutins,
and it was all she could do not to fall on her face as she walked past sienna-colored brownstones with flowerboxes in the
windows, and plate-glass storefronts of bakeries and coffee shops. She loved the West Village—it always reminded her of an
earlier New York, when the city was filled with artists and writers and before that, horses and carriages. Now the streets
were dotted with fancy clothing boutiques and sushi joints, and filled with NYU students back from summer break, carrying
shopping bags from Bed, Bath & Beyond. One day, when she was a famous writer she’d live down here, she thought, just as she
turned the corner and saw the blue and green facade of the Promised Land. Otherwise known as Pinkberry.

She threw the glass door open and rushed inside, toward the table in the corner where two girls, one petite and blond, one
taller and black-haired, sat waiting for her.

“Lizzie!” shrieked the blond girl as she leaped out of her chair. Carina Jurgensen threw her tan arms around Lizzie as if
she hadn’t seen her in years. “Oh my God,
hi!
” she said, jumping up and down on her flip-flops, as her blond ponytail swung back and forth. “I missed you, Lizbutt!”

“I missed you, too, C,” she said, returning Carina’s frantic hug as best she could. “And you’re so tan.”

“And you’re so
tall
,” Carina said admiringly, letting her go. “Pretty soon I’m gonna feel like a midget around you, I swear.” Her cocoa-brown
eyes were wide and electrically alive. Sometimes Lizzie thought Carina was more alive than anyone she’d ever met.

“Oh my God, that dress is to die for,” said Lizzie’s other best friend, Hudson Jones, as she stood up and hugged her, too.
Wavy black curls framed her heart-shaped face, and her green eyes sparkled. “Is that Margiela?” she asked in her soft, gentle
voice, looking at Lizzie’s dress.

“It’s my mom’s,” Lizzie said. “And it barely fits.”

“Then have some Pinkberry,” Carina said as they sat down. She pushed a tub of pomegranate yogurt with mochi across the table.
“Here, got you your favorite.”

Carina Jurgensen had lived her entire life in New York, but at first glance she looked like a surfer girl from the north shore
of Oahu. Petite but athletic, with sunstreaked hair that never faded and a sprinkling of freckles on her button nose, Carina
actually did surf, and snowboard, and climb mountains, and anything else that allowed her to be outdoors. She was fearless.
Ever since they’d been little, Carina had been the first of them to do anything scary—whether it was Rollerblading straight
down a hill in Central Park on a crowded Sunday, or flirting with the guys at St. Brendan’s. Because she was unable to sit
still for longer than a few minutes, Carina didn’t like to spend a lot of time in front of the mirror, and she was so pretty
she didn’t need to. Her favorite season was summer, and her favorite summer look was what she wore today: shorts, a T-shirt
with cut-off sleeves, and camouflage-patterned flip-flops. Guys tended to find Carina Jurgensen completely adorable, though
she usually didn’t notice.

“I so need this,” Lizzie said, digging into her yogurt. “It’s a gazillion degrees outside.”

“Yeah, but Hudson’s still cold,” Carina joked, nodding at their friend.

“No I’m not,” Hudson argued, pulling her deconstructed fringed wrap closer around herself. “I’m just being sun-savvy.”

If Carina was the beach-blond surfer girl, then Hudson Jones was the sophisticated urban hippie-chick. She was beautiful,
with French toast–colored skin and dazzling green eyes, courtesy of her mom’s Afro-Caribbean heritage and her dad’s French-Irish
background, and she had the slender build and perfect posture of a girl who’d studied dance all of her life. Hudson was also
incredibly stylish. Under her wrap, she wore a silk coral-colored tunic dotted with sequins, gladiator sandals with crisscross
straps that traveled up to her knees, gigantic silver hoops, and a one-of-a-kind multicolored woven bag that she’d picked
up in Buenos Aires. On Hudson, it all managed to look perfect.

“How was your mom’s thing?” Hudson asked, taking a small bite of her green tea yogurt with blueberries. Hudson was always
going for the healthy option.

“Good, but she roped me into a photo op again. When is she gonna get that nobody—
nobody
—wants to take my picture?”

“Lizzie, stop,” Hudson said in a cautious voice. Lizzie’s looks were well-covered territory among the three of them and she
knew that her friends were tired of talking about it.

“No, you guys know I don’t care, I just wish
she
saw it,” Lizzie said. “Anyway, Carina. How was Outward Bound?”

“So, so,
so
incredible,” Carina said, shaking her head as she wolfed down her yogurt. “Colorado is the most perfect place on earth. But
I didn’t take a shower for almost a month. You guys shoulda seen me. I was covered in dirt. It was awesome.”

“What’d your dad say when he saw you covered in dirt?” Hudson asked.

Carina grinned. “That I’d wasted a summer. What’d you think?”

Carina’s father, Karl Jurgensen, was a workaholic. He was also one of the richest men in the world. Metronome Media, his empire
of fat glossy lifestyle and fashion magazines, newspapers, cable news channels, and social-networking sites spanned continents
and employed thousands of people. He was building what he hoped would be the biggest streamed-entertainment site in the world,
with every television series, reality show, or movie available on one user-friendly website. Karl had so much money that he’d
also become one of the country’s biggest philanthropists, donating millions to fight poverty and world hunger. With his charismatic
personality and dashing looks, Karl was one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, if not the world. He’d divorced Carina’s
mother when Carina was in the fifth grade and since then Carina had lived alone with him in a palatial penthouse on Fifty-Seventh
Street.

Most of the time the two of them managed to get along. But Karl’s impatience with his free-spirited daughter could set off
a violent explosion between the two of them, and by the end of the school year, Carina and the Jurg, as she called her dad,
usually weren’t speaking. Which was why she spent every summer as far from him and New York as possible, climbing mountains
in Colorado or learning how to scuba dive.

“How was your dad’s party this year?” Hudson asked.

Carina shrugged. “Pretty good, I guess,” she said. “He thinks he raised two million.” Every year around Labor Day, Karl, or
the Jurg, turned his Montauk estate into an amusement park to raise money for charity. There were roller coasters, spinning
teacups, fireworks displays, and even an underwater submarine ride in one of his lakes. A ticket to “Jurgensenland” cost a
thousand dollars and a dinner table for the ball at the end of the evening cost ten thousand.

“And how was the end of the tour?” Lizzie asked Hudson.

“Crazy,” Hudson sighed. “Thirty cities in forty-five days. I don’t know how my mom does it. By the ninth day I was exhausted.”

“Any Holla drama?” Carina asked, getting right to the point.

Hudson rolled her eyes. “There was this guy from
Rolling Stone
on the tour with us, doing the usual article on ‘Holla Jones and her Unstoppable Career,’ and he asked me how old my mom
was. I was so jet-lagged, I told him the truth: thirty-seven. And when it got back to my mom, she
freaked
out. As if three extra years were that big a deal.” Hudson stood up and placed her half-empty carton into the trash can.
“Moral of the story? Don’t ever talk to the press. Even when they’re, like, living with you day and night.”

Hudson’s mother, Holla Jones, was a pop star. Her multi-octave voice and radio-friendly hits had made her a star at nineteen,
and now she was an icon. Year after year, through a combination of touring, cutting-edge album production, and an iron will,
she reached the top of the Billboard charts. But the iron will had lately become a problem. It related to everything: her
daily, three-hour workouts with a personal trainer; her strictly organic vegetarian diet; and her relationships, which were
usually over before they began. Hudson’s dad was a case in point. He’d been a backup dancer on one of Holla’s first tours—and
then promptly disappeared the moment the tour ended, scared off by Holla’s fearsome discipline.

Hudson and Holla’s bond was fierce, almost sisterly, and Lizzie often admired it. But it also made her a little nervous. Hudson
had inherited her mother’s voice, her looks, and her presence, and now was about to record her own album. But where Holla
was all fast beats, flashy costumes, and high-energy pop, Hudson was soulful, slow, and a smoky torch. Unfortunately, Holla
wasn’t so aware of the distinction.

“Any cute dancers?” Carina asked as they walked out onto the street.

“Uh, no,” Hudson said. “They were all on the other team.”

“Too bad,” Carina said, making a beeline for a jewelry stand set up on the street. “I was too stinky to even think of hooking
up with anyone on that mountain, even though this one guy was really hot,” she said, holding up a pair of dangly coin earrings
to her ears. “What do you guys think? Cheap or cool?”

“Cheap,” Lizzie said.

“And do you really need them?” asked Hudson.

“Whatever, they’re ten bucks,” Carina said, producing a bill from the back pocket of her shorts and handing it to the man
in the Rastafarian cap behind the table. Despite her granola tendencies, Carina liked to spend money. And her dad gave her
plenty.

“Speaking of hot guys,” Hudson murmured, staring at something up the street. “Look at him.”

Lizzie turned and followed Hudson’s gaze. Walking out of the southern end of Washington Square Park, fists in the pockets
of his jeans, white iPod wires trailing from his ears, was a very hot guy. An
alarmingly
hot guy. He was so cute that Lizzie could only look at him in small, bite-sized glimpses. Large blue eyes. Chiseled face.
Straight brown hair that was a little shaggy over his forehead. Full, pink lips.

“Wow,” Carina muttered. “Now
that
is a hot college guy.”

But Lizzie could tell he was younger than that. And then she realized there was something familiar about his walk. It was
a loping, easy stroll, as if he was totally in his own world and in absolutely no hurry. “Oh my God,” Lizzie said when it
hit her. “That’s Todd Piedmont.”

“What?” Carina asked, awestruck. “The guy from your building?”

“Didn’t he move to London?” Hudson asked. “Like, three years ago?”

“Maybe he’s back for a visit,” Lizzie replied.

“Is that what happens when people move to London?” Carina wondered. “They become total hotties?”

“Go say hi.” Hudson grabbed Lizzie’s arm and gave her a nudge.

“Yeah,” Carina seconded. “Before he gets back on a plane and never comes back.”

“Wait—by myself?”

“You guys were BFF,” Hudson pointed out.

“Yeah, when we were
six
.”

As she watched her old neighbor reach the curb, she tried to wrap her brain around the fact that this was the same boy she’d
bossed around, played with, and once made cry. But whoever it was, she was just happy to be wearing a pretty dress and peep-toe
heels, even if they did kill her feet.

As two kids the same age living three floors apart, she and Todd Piedmont had trick-or-treated together, sledded in Central
Park, ran around the lobby on rainy days, or just rode the elevators for hours, pushing buttons for their tolerant neighbors.
Todd’s parents, Jack and Julia, were almost as glamorous as her parents. Jack was the head of an investment bank and did triathlons
on the weekends, and had a rugged self-confidence that made women giggly and other men very quiet. Julia was an elegant, dark-haired
beauty who worked as a contributing editor at
Vogue
. They seemed completely in love.

But Todd could be a little moody. Sometimes he’d disappear into his room with a book for hours, even when Lizzie was at his
house. He could also get his feelings hurt easily, like when Lizzie poured his favorite kind of grape juice down the garbage
disposal and he burst into tears. (It didn’t help that she was at least half a foot taller than him.) In fifth grade Todd
went to an all-boys school, St. Brendan’s, and started hanging out more with the boys in his class. And when he did see her,
Todd acted weird. He’d ignore her in the lobby, or barely mumble a hello if she ran into him on the street.

“Todd!” his mother would say, in front of Lizzie and her mom. “What’s happened to your manners?” “Hi,” he’d sullenly say,
and then make a beeline for the elevator.

The next year, when Lizzie and Todd were almost twelve, his family decided to move to London. Lizzie was relieved. No more
awkward moments in the elevator. No more Todd weirdness.

But then Todd did something
really
strange.

It was at the Piedmonts’ going-away party. Todd and Lizzie were hanging out by themselves, as usual, in the kitchen, while
the grown-ups mingled in the living room. They stood in the kitchen in awkward silence, eating red velvet cupcakes. Suddenly
Todd grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to him. She felt his damp lips press against her mouth for an instant, and
when it was over, her cupcake was on the tile floor, frosting-side down. Then her parents came in to say they were leaving,
and that was the last time she ever saw him. His parting gift to her had been that quick, sloppy first kiss.