Author: Kristan Higgins

New York City, I typed back. Yankees fans everywhere. Will do my best to cull the population. See you Monday.

Then I dropped a note to Kim, asking her to water the one houseplant I owned (a cactus, go ahead, make the joke) and if she wanted anything from the Big Apple. Another inbox chime. Is Derek Jeter available? she wrote. And why are you in New York? You still with your ex-husband? Are you sleeping together? I’m calling you right now. On cue, my cell phone rang—Ozzy’s “Crazy Train,” Kim’s favorite song. I opted to skip the call and kept typing.

Can’t talk now, long story. Will be back this weekend. Gotta run. Sorry.

“Want to come in to the firm? See where I work?” Nick asked, appearing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man was irresistible, and damn if he just didn’t improve hourly. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan pants, he hadn’t shaved today. Sigh!

“Sure, I’d love to.” I snapped down the lid of my laptop, then remained seated. “But Nick, I have to get back to Martha’s Vineyard, too.” I paused a second. “This whole…um, trip wasn’t on the calendar. I need to think about home.”

“Oh, sure. But not today, right? I mean, yesterday didn’t really count. You should stay till Sunday. Actually, traffic sucks on Sundays. So stay till Monday.” He paused and looked into his coffee cup. “Or longer.”

The first warning bell chimed, far off but still audible. “Well, I have court on Tuesday, and I need to prep for that. And you know, my regular stuff back home.”

“Right. Unless…well. Never mind. Let’s go.”

“BOSS! YOU’RE BACK!”

Within seconds of walking into the fifth floor of the Singer Building, Nick was swamped by employees. He greeted everyone by name, shook hands, answered questions about the wedding. I recognized Emily; she offered a tentative smile, and I gave her a little wave back, feeling oddly shy.

“This is Harper,” Nick said. “Willa’s sister.” His hand rested lightly on my back—a message, perhaps, that I was to be treated well. The seven or eight people clustered around the reception desk fell silent. Ah.

“Holy shit,” said someone. “I don’t believe it.”

I found the owner of the voice. “Hi. Peter, right?”

Pete Camden had worked at MacMillan with Nick. They’d been the two anointed rookies, the wunderkinds. Though I had met him only once, his name was burned into my memory…the night of our big fight, Nick had gone to stay with Peter Camden.

“Jesus Humphrey Christ. It really is you.” He gave me a cold look.

“Pete, you remember Harper,” Nick said.

“Oh, I remember, all right,” Peter answered. No one else said anything for a second.

“Want the tour?” Nick asked, then took my hand and started to lead me away from the gaggle.

“Nick,” Peter called, “stop in my office when you have a sec, okay? I’ve got something on Drachen.” He slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Great to have you back, buddy.” He ignored me.

“So my legend precedes me?” I asked Nick as we went down the hall.

He shot me a look and didn’t answer. “Here’s my office,” he said, opening a door. The room was spacious and open, decorated with blond wood furniture and a red leather sofa. An antique drafting table anchored one end of the room, a large desk and ergonomically graceful chair on the other. The windows overlooked Prince Street, and I could see the wrought-iron facade for which the building was rightly famous. In the center of the room was a huge smoked-glass conference table laden with neatly rolled blueprints and a model of a ten- or twelve-story building.

“So this is the Drachen model?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “What do you think?”

It was like a really sophisticated dollhouse, charming and detailed. I bent to get a better look, smiling at the little details inside, the models of people outside, the trees and walled gardens that would line the entryway, should Nick get the job. “It’s beautiful, Nick.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Here are some of the other buildings we’ve done.” He pointed me to the photos hanging on the wall.

They were stunning. I didn’t know too much about architecture other than what I’d absorbed during my time with Nick, but I could tell his stuff was special, modern yet not ridiculous, if you know what I mean. Nothing was shaped like a penis, in other words. Nick’s buildings echoed the surrounding architecture of the neighborhoods, but they were unique, too, in some indefinable way. I looked long and hard at the photos, aware of Nick’s eyes on me. “I like the curves on this one,” I said, pointing to one.

“That’s a little hotel in Beijing,” he said. “I wanted it to feel soft, you know, since it overlooked the botanical garden. The foyer is done in the shape of a gingko leaf…see?”

I nodded, charmed.

“And where’s this one?” I asked, pointing to the next photo.

“That’s a private museum in Budapest. That one was really fun. We used this curved facade out here, and again over here. There’s a solar-powered waterfall in the café, over here…” He moved on, pointing and commenting, like a kid during show-and-tell, his enthusiasm and love of his job lighting up his face. He belonged here, doing this.

“Nick? Gotta sec?” Peter appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.” He flicked his gaze toward me, obviously not sorry at all.

“Go ahead,” I murmured. “I’m fine.”

“Okay. Back in a flash,” Nick said, leaving me alone.

Behind the desk were a few other framed photos that caught my interest—a nice one of Nick and Christopher, both in tuxes. Maybe at Nick’s other wedding.

Crikey. I’d almost forgotten about that. Somewhere in this city was the other former Mrs. Nick—and her much adored kid. Sure enough, here was another photo— Isabel, if I recalled correctly—standing next to Nick in front of the Guggenheim. And voila, another one. Nick, an attractive woman with a sleek blond bob, and Isabel, perhaps twelve, all smiling on a white-sand beach. A family vacation.

Guess Nick wasn’t always a workaholic.

Stifling the flash of jealousy, I stuck my head out the door. No sign of Nick. I wandered down the hall to the foyer. Two of Nick’s employees, a man and a woman, were in a huddle over the reception desk, their voices low.

“So apparently,” the man was saying, “they used to be married, and she cheated on him, broke his heart.”

“Are you serious?” she asked.

“I didn’t cheat on him,” I said clearly. They jumped, totally busted. “Anything else I can clarify for you?” I tipped my head and smiled my angel-killing smile.

The woman scuttled back to her desk. The man, unfortunately for him, was the actual receptionist. Nowhere to run.

“Worked here long?” I asked cheerfully.

“Five years,” he mumbled.

“So you know my sister, then?” I asked.

“I sure do,” he said. “Sweet kid.” He paused. “I’m Miguel. Sorry about the gossip. It’s just…well, we all love Nick.” He gave a rueful smile.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, opting for the high road (and considering it my random act of kindness for the day). I offered my hand, and Miguel took it.

“You don’t seem nearly as evil as Pete says.” He cringed. “Jesus, what’s wrong with me today? I’m not even drunk.”

I laughed. “So, Miguel, how many people work here?”

“About fifteen. We subcontract out a lot, depending on where the job is.”

I nodded. “So did Chris Lowery work here, too?”

“Sometimes,” Miguel readily answered. “Nick gets him stuff with our finish carpenters once in a while. He worked here full time a while back, but Nick finally fired him and wouldn’t take him back until he got sober.”

The word slammed into me like a cannonball, but the receptionist didn’t notice and kept talking. “He came back, let’s see…a year ago? A little less? Yeah, it was just after Christmas, and he looked great, you know?”

“Christopher’s an alcoholic?” My voice was flat and hard.

Miguel’s eyes widened. “I…did I say that? I…um…you know, maybe you should ask Nick.”

I stared at Miguel unblinking, my heart rolling in slow, deliberate thuds. Vaguely, I recalled Nick saying something about Chris having a hard time lately. Ah. Mystery solved. Did Willa know about this?

“Nick!” Miguel chirped nervously. “Speak of the devil! Hi! You guys going to lunch? Want me to make a res somewhere?”

Nick looked between Miguel and me. “Hungry?” he asked me.

I didn’t answer.

“Harper? Want to go somewhere?”

“Sure,” I said.

Nick cocked his head and frowned at me. “Okay. Let’s go, then. See you, Miggy.”

“Have a great time! Boss, will you be back later?”

“No,” Nick said. “I’ll check in, though.”

I didn’t speak as we left the building.

“Harper?” Nick asked as we walked down the street. “Everything okay?”

“Not really,” I said.

“Yes, I get the impression you’re ready to murder a kitten,” he said, taking my arm to steer me around a broken chunk of sidewalk.

I pulled my arm back. “I’m not going to murder a kitten, Nick. I’m just…”

“Just what?”

“Sucker-punched.”

He stopped. “How?”

“I just learned that my sister married an alcoholic who hasn’t even been sober a year.” It was difficult to keep my voice calm. “I have concerns.”

Nick looked at the sidewalk. “And somehow this is my fault, yes?”

“It would’ve been nice to know, Nick.”

“Come on. Let’s not fight on the sidewalk.” He steered me into a restaurant. “Table for two, please,” he said to the young woman at the counter.

“We’re closed,” she muttered, turning the page of her magazine. She had a tattoo on her shoulder—Hello Kitty wearing an eye patch. “We open at 11:30.”

“It’s 11:29,” I pointed out a trifle sharply.

“Fine.” She snatched up a few leather-bound menus and led us to a table under a large clock, then stomped away.

I took a breath, then another. Nick didn’t look at me, just began building a tower out of sugar packets.

“All right,” he said, “Christopher checked into a program last winter. He’s been sober for about ten months.”

“And how long has he had a drinking problem?” I asked, calmly. Felt as if I was in a deposition.

“Since high school.”

Crotch. Half his life, in other words. I took a long sip of water, not able to look at Nick.

“Harper, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s not really your problem, is it?” Nick asked. “Chris has a good heart, and he’s trying really hard.” More sugar packets were put to use.

I unclenched my jaw. “Nick, Willa’s been married twice before to good-hearted men who tried really hard. Husband Number One tried really hard to stay out of jail. That lasted three weeks. Husband Number Two tried really hard not to be gay. That lasted about a month and a half.”

“She knows how to pick ’em,” Nick said, glancing up with a grin.

I bit my lip hard, started to say something, then broke off. “Nick,” I said in a harsh whisper, “I don’t want to see my sister go through another divorce. Divorce sucks, as we both know. It’s not funny. She has terrible judgment when it comes to men.”