Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(11)

Lauren opens the bottle of wine, pours some into the glasses, and hands one to Trilby. At the table, Sadie swaps her brown crayon for black and scribbles some more.

“Before I forget, I’m heading up the Junior League tag sale in September, and we’re going to be looking for donations in a few weeks. So if you have anything around here that you want to get rid of…”

“I have plenty that I want to get rid of,” she tells Trilby, “but I can’t imagine anyone actually paying for any of it.”

“You’d be surprised at what people buy. Last year, some woman offered me a dollar for the roll of tape I was using to put up signs.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. So…cheers.” Trilby clinks her glass against Lauren’s. “What should we drink to?”

Beyond the screen above the sink, Lauren sees a car pulling into the driveway. Nick. Thank goodness.

“To Fred,” she declares, and Sadie’s head snaps up at the mention.

Trilby doesn’t ask who Fred is. She knows.

A car door slams outside, and Chauncey launches into a barking fit from the next room.

“We lost Fred in the city earlier,” Lauren whispers to Trilby, and then tells Sadie, “Sweetie, I think Daddy’s here.”

“Does he have Fred?”

He must, or he wouldn’t be here, right?

“Go find out.”

Sadie starts to race toward the back door, then remembers and changes direction, scurrying toward the front. Nick always makes a formal entrance now that he’s moved out. Sometimes he even rings the bell. But only if the door is locked. Which it is.

The old-fashioned doorbell pierces the air.

“Go ahead and open the door for Daddy, Sadie,” Lauren calls. “Make sure Chauncey doesn’t get out, though.”

“Nick doesn’t have the keys anymore?” Trilby asks in a low voice.

“He does, but he doesn’t use them. Maybe he thinks I’ve changed the locks.”

“You haven’t?”

“No. Should I?”

“Hell, yes.” Trilby takes a big swallow of wine. “Can we hide in here or do we have to go say hello to the SOB?”

“You don’t.” Lauren sets down her glass and resists the urge to pat her hair. She hasn’t touched a brush or seen a mirror since she visited the ladies’ room at the sushi restaurant. At that point, her long, russet-colored hair was looking decent, but that was, what? Eight hours ago? Right about now, it probably has all the vitality of dead leaves.

“Wait.” Trilby stops her with a hand on her shoulder and tucks an errant clump of hair back from Lauren’s face, behind her ear. “There. That’s better. Want some lipstick?”

“What am I, thirteen with a crush? I couldn’t care less what I look like. It’s Nick, remember?”

“Wrong attitude. You need to look great to him, of all people. Make him kick himself every time he sees you.”

“How about if I just kick him every time I see him?”

Lauren leaves Trilby snorting into her wine and heads for the front hall.



“All right, how about a few more in the living room with the skyline and sunset framed in the window behind you,” the staff photographer suggests, collapsing his tripod, “and then we’ll call it a night.”

Congressman Garvey Quinn looks questioningly at his wife, who shakes her blond head wearily. Like their two teenage daughters, Marin is accustomed to the PR machine that accompanies a campaign. But it’s far more intense now that Garvey’s set his sights on a gubernatorial nomination, with still greater aspirations beyond that. Marin’s clearly had her fill of the spotlight already, and the primary is still almost two months away.

“Can’t we call it a night right now?” sixteen-year-old Caroline protests. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Like what? Go on Facebook and write snotty stuff about your so-called friends?”

Caroline’s wide-set black eyes—identical to her father’s—glare at her younger sister Annie, who merely smiles with satisfaction.

“I do not write snotty stuff on Facebook.”

“Yes you do, and you’re going to lose Dad a bunch of votes that way,” Annie retorts with a toss of her blond hair.

“My friends aren’t old enough to vote yet.”

“Well, their parents are, and they won’t vote for Dad when they figure out what a CB you are.”

“Oh my God, are you for real? I am so not a CB.”

“What,” Marin Quinn asks her daughters, “is a CB?”

Garvey takes it upon himself to answer: “Cyber bully.”

He’s been reading up on the topic of Internet safety, among countless others, in preparation for the upcoming primaries. He intends to arm himself with everything there is to know about every potential issue facing the people of New York State—a daunting task, to say the least.

“I’m not a cyber bully, Dad.”

“Of course you’re not,” he tells Caroline, and shoots Annie a warning glance when she opens her mouth again.

“I told Sharon I don’t want the two of you on Facebook all summer.” Marin shakes her head. “That’s how you talked me into hiring a summer nanny in the first place, Garvey. To keep the girls occupied while you and I are campaigning.”