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  For my kids. I’m thrilled you’ve inherited my love of words, but the ones in this book are still out of your age range, so please don’t read this until you’re old enough to vote, okay?

  Her signature at this point was almost purely symbolic, yet Ali still relished putting her name on the dotted line. Knowing every eye in the room was on her, she took her time drawing the tip of the gold-plated fountain pen reserved for the occasion over the white paper. When she was finished, the name Alejandra Barros sat above the title Assistant Vice President for International Initiatives in elegant scrolls on the last page of the thick contract.

  Passing the packet to the man on her left, she repeated the process five more times. Her company—Foxhall Investments—would keep two originals, as would their new Chinese partners, while another two would be filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission. Her industry was well regulated, and even though a handful of lawyers had gone over every minute stipulation in the agreement she’d hammered out over the last six months, the $200 million deal could potentially profit or bankrupt a lot of people.

  When she was done, the dozen men representing the two sides at the large conference table stood and broke into polite applause. Continuing with handshakes and patting each other’s shoulders in their comically similar dark suits, the once-competing firms’ senior representatives smiled at the thought of how much money they’d each be making.

  Amid the jubilation, the room’s ceiling-height doors opened and two men carrying silver trays laden with crystal flutes entered. They weaved their way through the attendees, who each removed a glass of champagne. When the trays were empty and the attention was back on her, Ali raised her flute and smiled. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen. To a successful partnership. Gān bēi!”

  “Gān bēi.” The men murmured the Chinese toast in unison before downing their celebratory drinks.

  The cool liquid wet the inside of Ali’s parched mouth, and the bubbles tickled her throat as she swallowed the glass’s entire tangy contents in one swift gulp. She returned the empty vessel to the server’s tray, then clapped her hands together to command attention one last time.

  “To cap off the formalities, we have a lovely reception arranged at one of the best restaurants in New York City just two blocks away. When you’re ready, you can follow those two young ladies downstairs.” She motioned toward the newly arrived hostesses. “I’ll be joining you shortly.”

  As she finished, a hand tapped Ali on the shoulder. “Actually, you’re going to have to miss the celebrations.” When she turned around, a woman with a silver-streaked pixie cut pushed the extended handle of a Tumi carry-on toward her.

  Ali touched her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, god. That’s this weekend, isn’t it?”

  Her assistant pulled her lips into a thin line and nodded. “I thought with all of this going on you might forget. But you can’t miss your parents’ wedding anniversary. Grace would personally have my head on a plate if I didn’t make sure you got there.”

  Looking down at her assistant, Ali sighed. “You’re giving my mother too much credit, Nora. She wouldn’t hold it against you. Me, on the other hand?” She laughed. “Yeah, I’d never live it down.”

  She took the candy-apple red luggage and squeezed the older woman’s arm appreciatively. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  Nora smiled in return before handing over Ali’s purse. “Bill’s waiting on the roof. He’s ready when you are, but he would like to get back to the city at a reasonable hour.”

  “That’s fine. It doesn’t look like I’ll be missed,” Ali said, glancing around. The room was gradually becoming empty as the men finished their drinks and headed to dinner.

  “Should I get a car to meet you?” Nora discreetly began to usher her toward the door.

  Ali shook her head. “No. I’ll call Marco. He’ll already be there, right?” As the official photographer, her brother had also taken the lead on planning much of the weekend’s events.

  “I suppose.” Nora shrugged. “Would you like for me to confirm?”

  Ali stopped in front of the elevator and pressed the button. “Absolutely not.” She smiled at Nora. “Go home and have a great weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Nora nodded. “You, too. And enjoy the party. You deserve a little fun.”

  The elevator’s mirrored doors slid open, and Ali stepped inside. “Fun?” She shrugged. “I’ll try, but I’m not sure if I know what that means.”

  “Relaxation. Spontaneity. Reckless abandon!” Nora spouted off as the doors closed.

  Ali took a deep breath and watched the numbers on the digital screen incrementally count upward. Nora was right. She’d been too engrossed in work. The next few days were her chance to catch up on some much-needed personal time.

  A familiar buzz sounded from the bottom of her bag, and Ali groaned. So much for relaxation.

  She dug out her cell phone and scrolled to the alert. She’d been waiting for the email; it was about the next project in her pipeline. But as her finger hovered over the subject line, an unusual thought entered her mind.

  The reply can wait.

  Why not? It was Friday night, well past official work hours. Even if the sender was three time zones behind, he didn’t need her input right this moment.

  Dropping the device back in her purse, she smiled as the elevator came to a stop on the sixty-seventh floor. When the doors opened and she stepped into the empty hallway, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. With her heels clacking on the smooth tile, Ali pulled the suitcase along and out a door marked “Roof Access.” The muggy city air of midsummer hit her cool skin, instantly forming a thin layer of condensation on her face and bare arms. She quickened her pace to the waiting helicopter, and, after handing off her carry-on to the pilot, she climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Good evening, Ms. Barros,” the pilot greeted her through the headset after both had settled in. “We’re heading to East Hampton tonight, correct?” He punched the letters HTO into the navigation screen, identifying their destination airport.

  “Yes. Thank you, Bill.” She nodded, letting him finish the preflight preparations. Within a few minutes, the rotors roared to life, and the machine slowly ascended.

  Although she’d made this trip many times before, a chill still ran through her as they flew above the unequaled view of Manhattan’s skyscraper jungle. Yellow cabs dashed down the avenues, and tiny people rushed along the sidewalks in preparation for their Friday-night activities. She briefly wondered what it was like to regularly partake in impromptu happy hours while sipping cocktails with friends instead of attempting to woo potential business partners at highly structured—and more often than not, boring—corporate events.

  She hadn’t had a night like that since college, but Ali had no need to complain. Her focus on her career allowed her—among other things—to travel to the shore in half the time it took those poor souls stuck on one of the packed highways below.

  After crossing the East River and passing over the more mundane residential neighborhoods of Long Island, Ali pulled out her phone and sent a text to her brother�
��Pick me up @ helo in 30?—before looking back out the window. The setting sun illuminated the flat landscape for miles ahead, covering the rows upon rows of split-level homes in a cascade of reds and oranges. Ali occasionally glanced at her phone, but no replies came to her query. Finally, she clicked on the email icon and read the previously ignored message.

  She didn’t look up again until she’d cleared her inbox, just in time for the helicopter’s landing at the small local airport. By then, it was pitch-dark and nearing eight o’clock, according to the hands on her mother-of-pearl-faced Rolex. There was still no text from her errant brother when she walked away from the helipad, pulling her carry-on behind her. She didn’t bother going through the formal arrivals hall, instead heading straight for the exit gate.

  Stomping down the sidewalk, Ali pouted. She shouldn’t have counted on Marco. At the very least, she should have gotten him on the phone before leaving Manhattan. She knew in a place like this where there were only residents with cars—no, residents with luxury cars—taxis were few and far between. The house was only a mile and a half away, so technically she could walk, but wiggling her already sore toes in her black patent Louboutins, Ali knew she wouldn’t get far.

  Trying her brother’s cell one more time only took her to voice mail. The same went for her parents. Where the heck were they all? They were the ones who’d insisted that every able member of the family attend their anniversary. She hadn’t seen them in over a month and no one had thought of meeting her? There was no way Dad was still policing smartphones—virtually holding the “infernal contraptions” hostage while his children were visiting—was there?

  As Ali stopped and squirmed to straighten her skintight dress, a car zoomed by. It kicked up a cloud of dust, and she was about to begin cursing its driver for the offense when the vehicle’s brake lights illuminated and the silver sports car came to a screeching halt, then immediately started to back up. When the Porsche was adjacent to her, the driver rolled down the passenger-side window and leaned across the seats.

  “Alley Cat! Is that you?” A handsome face under a mop of tousled blond hair greeted her.

  Ali gritted her teeth. The nickname was no funnier now than it had been in the third grade when he shouted it to her from next door. Leaning down to eye level, she forced a smile. “Robbie Rockitt. Long time no see.”

  “Touché.” The young man grinned as his baby-blue eyes focused several inches below hers.

  Ali bolted upright and smoothed out the fabric covering the top of her cleavage. “Nice to know you haven’t changed,” she grumbled.

  He jumped out of the car and rounded the hood. His khaki shorts, collared rugby shirt, and Adidas sneakers momentarily took Ali back to 1995, and she had to stifle a giggle as he approached.

  Bounding beside her, he placed his hands on her bare shoulders. “Neither have you.” He planted an unexpected kiss on her cheek. “Welcome home, gorgeous. Do you need a lift?”

  Ali rolled her eyes. The heir to the Rockitt Joe’s Clothing empire wasn’t her first choice for company, but unless she wanted to spend the next half hour walking home in the dark, she was going to have to swallow her pride.

  “I would appreciate that. Thank you.” She handed him her luggage before stepping toward the car. Opening the door and pulling the hem of her dress down over her thighs as much as it would allow, she managed to slide into the low passenger seat while mostly maintaining her dignity.

  After he threw her bag onto the backseat, he revved up the engine and took off into the night. “I was hoping you’d be coming home for your parents’ party.” He glanced sideways before turning the corner at the next intersection.

  “Parties, you mean,” she corrected, scrunching her nose at the thought of the upcoming multiday events. “I’m guessing you’re invited also, Robbie?”

  He cleared his throat. “It was cute once, but—like you—I outgrew that nickname a long time ago, so can you please not call me that?”

  “You don’t actually prefer to go by the boring ol’ Robert Rochet?” She accentuated the original French pronunciation of his official moniker.

  “It may be boring, but I don’t have much of a choice,” he quipped with a shrug. “That’s what it says on my birth certificate.”

  “Are you sure?” Ali raised an eyebrow. “I mean, have you ever checked?”

  “How about we do each other a favor. You show me yours, and I show you mine.” Robert winked.

  Ali felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment at the thought she’d once actually dated the guy and was glad it was too dark inside the vehicle for her companion to notice. Their history allowed for risqué banter, but she certainly didn’t want to lead him on.

  Thanks to the short distance and Robert’s fast car, they were soon making the turn onto the Barroses’ driveway. In the distance, the unmistakable silhouette of a Shingle-style Colonial manor stood in the otherwise flat surroundings. Behind the building and hidden from view under the cover of night, the Atlantic Ocean quietly ebbed and flowed just a few hundred yards away.

  As soon as the car came to a complete stop, Ali opened the door and stumbled out. Pulling her bag across the center console, she barely gave Robert a chance to react before stepping away.

  “Thanks for the ride. See you at the party.” She slammed the door and turned toward the house. The crackle of gravel under tires signaled Robert’s hasty departure, but Ali had more to worry about than her ex’s hurt feelings. Apart from a few lights illuminating the wraparound porch, the whole building was dark. She dug out her keys and fumbled with the lock.

  “Hello! Anybody home?” The clichéd phrase made her inadvertently scoff as she shut the front door behind her. Walking through the expansive foyer past a Louis XV table topped with a massive bouquet of hydrangeas, she peeked into the living room. The darkness was a clear indication that no one was there, and it was much of the same for the rest of the ground floor until she reached the kitchen.

  The under-cabinet accent lighting threw a warm glow onto the white, country-style cabinets and reflected off the polished marble countertops. Accepting that the house was most likely empty, Ali had headed to the refrigerator to grab a drink when a piece of stationery paper caught her eye. Taped to the appliance’s stainless steel surface, there was a note written in her mother’s barely legible chicken scratch.

  Alejandra! Went to dinner with Dad and Marco. Join us at The Water Mill on 3rd if you get in early enough. Love, Mom

  Great. If this was how much they’d missed her, she might as well have waited until tomorrow to show. Spending the next two days in the company of relatives from near and far would be painful enough. Knowing she could have used tonight’s downtime to work on her jumps at the stables in New Jersey was a kick in the gut she didn’t need.

  Ali sighed. Throwing the note on the counter, she pulled her luggage along and headed up the staircase, shaking her head as she passed framed photographs lining the wall, displaying her awkward childhood memories.

  There was one of her and Marco from a trip to the Gulf of Mexico standing on a fishing boat and holding a freshly caught blue marlin between them. Wearing cutoff jeans and a tank top with her straight brown hair in pigtails, she looked like any other ten-year-old on a family vacation, right down to her exaggerated pout. That was thanks to her mother’s insistence on posing with the foul-smelling fish in spite of having nothing to do with catching it. But a picture was forever and the occasion had to be commemorated.

  Another photo farther up the stairs was even worse: a yearbook portrait from high school capturing Ali’s brief experimentation with red hair dye and serving as an ironic reminder that not even an orthodontist’s daughter could escape the need for braces.

  Casting her eyes downward to avoid reliving further embarrassment, Ali continued to trudge onward. With her visits home becoming more and more infrequent, she feared on each return that she’d find her childho
od sanctuary had been remodeled into another luxurious but generic guest room. But when she opened the door at the end of the hallway and turned on the light, she was relieved to see everything was still the same now as it had been a decade earlier.

  The décor was fit for a beach retreat and although not as contemporary as her current style, the whites and pale blues meant home. The personal touches—her well-worn copy of a first-edition Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone on the nightstand, an original Georgia O’Keeffe flower print above the bed, and her framed diploma from Yale, her undergrad alma mater—made up for her family’s absence.

  Ali dumped her suitcase on the floor before kicking off her shoes and slipping out of her dress. After a quick shower, she snuggled under the covers between the gaggle of decorative pillows with the company of her laptop. Fully intent on making the most of her situation and spending the night productively, she opened a draft document and began to read. She made it to the third page of the quarterly foreign investment report before drifting off to sleep.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  She’d forgotten to close the plantation shutters. The bright sunlight streamed over her face, pleasantly warming but keeping her from sleeping any longer. Rolling onto her back, she opened her eyes just in time to see her still-open laptop slide off the edge of the bed.

  “Crap!” she exclaimed as the machine hit the floor. Reaching over, she righted the device before shutting the lid. If it was damaged, there was no use in checking now.

  Sitting up, Ali pushed her fingers through her hair and found a tangled mess. Her back ached. Throwing the pillows scattered around her—square ones, tasseled ones, floral ones, and even cylindrical ones—across the room one by one, she didn’t stop until only a down-stuffed, queen-size pillow remained.

  When she finally got out of bed, Ali headed straight for the en suite bathroom. Her morning routine took longer than usual, seeing as she was in no hurry. Getting her hair back to its smooth luster took a lot of product and patient brushing, and not even expertly applied makeup could fully cover her puffy eyes from her poor night’s sleep.