Until There Was You

By the time Posey had given her statement, it was getting late, and she was starving. She got a massive chocolate-covered pretzel from the food court and began making her way back toward where she thought the exit was. No clocks in here, of course, and no windows. No fun, either, from the looks of it. Even the high rollers’ lounge looked grim. Posey paused, looking in. A two-grand minimum bet. Holy Elvis Presley.

Hang on.

A familiar figure was seated at a table off to Posey’s left.

Gretchen.

She was sitting on a stool, dressed to kill in an emerald, one-shouldered dress. A man in a suit was with her, and they were clearly engrossed in a heated debate. Was Gretchen dating him? He put his hand on her arm, and Gret pulled back. “Don’t you know who I am?” she said. “Get your hands off me! This is a Stella McCartney, I’ll have you know!”

“Gret! Hey!” Posey yelled. “How you doing?” She pushed into the lounge, immediately out of place in her engineer boots and jeans. Gretchen looked up, then glanced back at the suit.

“Do you two know each other?” the man asked.

“I’m her cousin,” Posey said. “Is there a problem?”

The man folded his arms. “Not if you have three thousand dollars.”

“I’LL PAY YOU BACK,” Gretchen said tightly, as they drove home.

Posey flicked on her signal. “I don’t understand, Gret,” she said, glancing at her cousin. “How can you place a bet if you’re broke?”

“You’re so naive, Posey.” Gretchen turned her head and looked out at the landscape.

“Right. But I’m also solvent, and I just wrote a check for three thousand dollars!”

“And I said thank you, didn’t I?”

“Gret…you have to tell me about this.”

“Fine. Can it wait till we get home, at least?”

And so, half an hour later, Posey sat on the couch, clad in her fleece monkey pajamas, Shilo’s granitelike head in her lap as the dog crooned his appreciation for the belly rub she was administering. Gretchen came in from the kitchen and set a tray down on the coffee table. She was wearing what looked to be a midnight-blue satin peignoir (how Posey even knew the word was a mystery, but it looked like what a peignoir should look like, in her mind anyway, all long and flowy and expensive).

Posey picked up a mug—homemade cocoa—and took a sip, then dipped her finger in and offered it to her dog for a taste.

“Can you taste the Kahlua?” Gretchen asked. “And I used unpasteurized milk. Creamy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Posey said. “So. About the three grand.”

Gretchen sat down on the couch and arranged the robe around her. “Right. Well.” She sighed. “My money’s tied up in this fund, and I’m temporarily a little short on cash.”

Shilo’s tail began thumping against the sofa. “You’re broke?” Posey asked. “Broke is such an ugly word.” Gretchen took a sip of her cocoa and didn’t meet Posey’s eyes. Jellybean, who had always been something of a traitor, leaped up next to Gret and began purring.

Posey said nothing. She seemed to remember Stacia saying that Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ralphie had left Gretchen quite a nest egg…that Gretchen would never have to worry about money if she was smart. “What happened to your parents’ money?”

“That took care of cooking school and my year in France. And my car.” Gretchen had bought a Mercedes two-seater convertible for herself upon graduating high school. Even so, she should’ve had some left over. “And some jewelry and um…my wardrobe.”

“What about your salary?”

“See, that’s the big myth, that we get paid so much. Most of the real money comes from endorsements and product lines. But if you want to sell yourself, you have to look the part. The wardrobe allowance they gave me was laughable. And to live in Manhattan—well, if you want to live anywhere decent, that is—it costs money.”

Gretchen had lived in a glittering apartment in one of the sleek and shiny Trump buildings along the Hudson River. As Elise suspected, it was littered with celebrities.

Shilo stretched, hitting Posey on the side of the head with a massive paw. “So you were spending more than you were making,” she said.

“Well, yes, Posey, I suppose if you put it that way, I was. Look. I’m a celebrity, okay? There are certain expectations of me that you don’t understand. All those appearances, all those…things.”

“Like opening that Kmart?”

“People expect a television personality to look rich. You have no idea, Posey. So, yes, I spent more than I made. Big deal. Everyone does it. Even Donald Trump declares bankruptcy once in a while.” She flung her braid over her shoulder and took a defiant sip of cocoa.

Posey said nothing. There was no arguing with Gretchen when she started comparing herself to the rich and famous. After a minute or two, Gretchen sighed. “Look, Posey, I know you think I’m a big phony. And I was stupid, I admit that. I started playing blackjack— I dated this guy who had a share in a casino in Atlantic City, whatever, and at first I won. It was amazing. You have no idea what it’s like, winning a thousand dollars, or even two.” Her face took on a soft, dreamy look. “There’s such a rush. I mean, you walk in with what, four, five grand, and you can double your money in an hour.”

“I’m guessing you wouldn’t be broke if it was that easy,” Posey said.

Gretchen ignored her. “One time, Pose, I won seven thousand dollars in one night.”

“How long did it take you to lose it?”

Slowly, Gretchen seemed to come back to earth. “That’s the thing,” she admitted. “You get hooked. You lose six rounds, then you win one and you think ‘Oh, I’m on a roll now, I’ll get it back,’ and then even if you do, you can’t help wanting more.”

Sensing that someone needed a kiss, Shilo rolled off the couch and went over to Gret and licked her knee. For once, she didn’t push his big head out of the way, just reached out and gave him an awkward pat. Jellybean, disgusted that Gretchen’s attention had gone to a lowly canine, jumped off the couch and stalked away.

“I didn’t quit the Cooking Network,” Gretchen said, so quietly Posey almost couldn’t hear. “They fired me. I’d borrowed money from a not-very-nice person, and when I couldn’t pay it, he went to the network and said he’d make it public. So they paid it, but they fired me.”

“How much was it?” Posey asked.

“Twenty-five thousand.”

“Oh, Gret.” Posey closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” That dopey show had been everything to her cousin.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, a hard edge to her voice. “They didn’t know anything. Marketing practically ignored me. I was, like, how am I going to get a million viewers an episode if you put me in this slot? Against Rachael Ray, who gets everything handed to her on a silver platter? And who’s gained fifteen pounds this year alone? Don’t get me started on that scrawny tramp, Giada.”

“Okay, let’s just skip over all of the glaring hyperbole and let me ask you this,” Posey said. “Gret, if your whole life has collapsed because of a gambling problem, why were you at the casino tonight?”

“Because! You think I like living here with you in this freezing-cold house? Listening to Max and Stacia tell me—me!—how to make a linzer torte?”

“Whoa! Stop right there, princess! I don’t recall inviting you here, and as for my parents, you should be kissing their feet and scrubbing their toilets. So don’t go there, okay?”

Gretchen looked at her hands. “I just want to get my life back in gear,” she said in a quieter voice. “I thought if I could win a few thousand dollars, I could…start over.”

“Where’d you get the money to gamble?”

Gretchen didn’t answer for a minute. “From your parents. From what they gave me for the renovation.”

“Gret! You can’t do that!”

“Well, I did! It was stupid, but you don’t understand!”

“How much did you take?”

“Two grand.”

Posey took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’ll pay that back, too. But here’s the deal. You’re going to pay me back. All five thousand, because guess what? You cleaned me out, Gret. I’m not rich, you know.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” She cocked a perfect eyebrow.

“And guess what else, Fraulein? You can start by helping out around here. Painting, window glazing, moving some of this stuff…”

“I don’t know how to paint. Or glaze a window.”

“Well, how about this, Gretchen? You can learn.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SIX TWENTY-THREE on Wednesday night of a long weekend. He could work. Or eat. He could make dinner, then eat, then work. Also, maybe watch some television.

Nicole was at yet another sleepover, as school was closed tomorrow for a teacher-development thing, then on Friday as well for Founders’ Day Weekend. It was her third sleepover since they’d moved. This was either good, in that she was making friends, or very bad, in that she might at this very moment be guzzling vodka and doing Ecstasy with a bunch of boys, after which they’d get in a car and all end up dead.

Granted, he’d dropped her off twenty minutes ago, spoken to both Emily and Chris Carlisle at length, ensuring that both parents would be home all night. They seemed perfectly responsible, but still. He’d left his phone number (home and cell), and his address, just in case. Nicole had given him the Slitty Eyes of Death, followed by a hard elbow to the ribs, which still hurt a little, thanks to Cordelia Osterhagen trying to kill him.

And by the way, that whole hospital aftermath…that was oddly vague. The pain meds had knocked him flat, but there was something he should remember there. He and Cordelia had bickered at the hospital, he remembered that. She drove him home with the giant dog…but something else had been flitting at the edge of his brain for days now. Irritating.

Well, at any rate, Nicole had promised to text him at nine and eleven and call in the morning, then threatened suicide if he dared to call the Carlisles to check up on her. “Bye!” she said. “Have fun! Get out of the apartment, okay? You’re not dead yet.”

So here he was. In the apartment. Home alone, a widower picturing his child’s misdeeds…not so much fun. Work held no appeal; he’d just come from there to take Nicole to the party. No. He should get out of the house, be with other people. Life was changing, and Nic was right. He wasn’t dead. Not yet. He picked up the paper and got lucky.

A little while later, Liam pulled up in front of the adult education building. The ad had said walk-ins were welcome, so here he was. Granted, learning to design a website wasn’t high on Liam’s list of priorities, but he guessed the garage wouldn’t hurt by having an Internet presence. Besides, it sure as hell beat out singles cooking or, God forbid, ballroom dancing.

Speaking of, there were the dancers. And oh, crap, there was Taylor Bennington of the talented teeth. Her face lit up at the sight of him, and Liam gave a terse nod, then continued down the hallway.

The smell of garlic slowed him down. A chorus of laughter came from that room, and Liam glanced in. People were paired together, chopping and tasting, and the smell was fantastic.

Cordelia Osterhagen was in there, opening her mouth for a spoonful of whatever her partner—a man—was feeding her, and Liam had an abrupt flash of Cordelia over him, and he could practically feel her mouth on his, that lush, beautiful mouth—

“Hi there.”

Liam jumped. A man in his thirties stood in front of him. “I’m Jonathan White, your daughter’s home-ec teacher? We met the other night at Rosebud’s.”

Liam nodded, offering his hand. “Nice to see you again.” This guy was related to Cordelia somehow, he remembered.

“Nicole is such a great kid. I wish I had twenty of her. You hungry? Want to join us?”

“I’m starving, actually.”

“Come on,” the teacher said, smiling. “We eat at the end of the class. If Posey doesn’t cut off someone’s finger, that is.”

“I wish I could take credit for that,” Cordelia said, turning. “But it was just luck.” Her smile fell as she saw Liam, and her face flushed. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey,” Liam said. Oh, yeah. There was something about that mouth, all right.

“Gang, this is Liam, the dad of one of my students. You don’t mind if he hangs out, do you? We always have too much food as it is.”

“Hi, Liam!” Kate Ellington called, and Liam gave her a smile. She was with an older man who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her rack, not that Liam could blame him. It was nice there.

“Let’s put you with Ginny, shall we?” Jon said, leading Liam over to a woman in her fifties.

“Oh, wow, thank you, Jon, I owe you,” she blurted.

“Hi. Liam Murphy,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Wow,” she repeated. She wiped her hands on her T-shirt, which showed the werewolf kid from the vampire movies. Team Jacob, the shirt proclaimed. “I’m Ginny. Hi. Yeah. You are gorgeous.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, grinning. They were next to Cordelia, who was studiously ignoring him, and her partner, a rather odd-looking man wearing a fur hat with earflaps.

“My ribs are doing just fine, thanks for asking,” Liam said to her.