The Lies That Bind(72)

“Okay. Take your time, dear,” she says. “It’s a big decision.”

“I know,” I reply. “But I think this is the one.”

“Well, I always say—with men and dresses, you have to follow your gut,” she says. “When you know, you know.”





A few hours later, after Scottie and I take a power nap, then shower and get ready for the engagement party, the two of us are in a cab heading uptown to Park Avenue. The plan is for the two families to meet and share a champagne toast before the other guests arrive—at which point Matthew and I will give them something additional to toast about. All simple enough, but I really and truly am not sure if I can get through the initial gathering with our families, let alone the entire evening. I have to say—Matthew has been wonderful, reassuring me over the phone that everything is going to be fine.

“Let’s put this in perspective,” he says at one point. “We’re talking about a wedding and a baby. Not a terminal illness.”

I silently replay his words, and can’t help thinking of Byron, which, of course, makes me think of Grant and the fact that the baby could be his.

“What if it’s not Matthew’s?” I blurt out to Scottie, a thought I’ve managed to suppress for days.

“It is,” Scottie says, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. “I know it is.”

“Why do you say that?” I say.

“Because I just know…and besides, at this point it doesn’t matter.” He echoes what Jasmine said to me, but puts it much more bluntly. “Grant is dead. Matthew is alive. You’re marrying Matthew. There’s nothing to be done. It doesn’t help anyone to dwell on all of this.”

    “I could tell him the truth.”

“Sure. You could tell him the truth. You could even announce the whole, entire complicated truth at the party! Ding, ding, ding,” he says, imitating someone clinking a spoon against a crystal glass. “Attention, everyone. Especially our nine-eleven widow, Amy, right over there…So I have some really big news. I’m pregnant, but the baby may or may not be Matthew’s. It’s entirely possible that it belongs to Amy’s husband, who was having an affair with me in the months before he died.”

“Stop,” I hiss to Scottie, as I catch our cabbie glance at me in the rearview mirror.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “But that’s essentially what you’re suggesting. Look. This is an all-or-nothing situation. Either you confess all of that—everything from top to bottom—or you just go with the assumption that this baby is Matthew’s.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say.

“And as far as Amy goes?” Scottie says. “This baby really isn’t any of her concern. Even if it is Grant’s, you know, biologically, it has nothing to do with her.”

“I think Amy might beg to differ,” I say.

“Okay. Well. First of all, Grant’s dead. No offense.”

“I’m not sure ‘no offense’ is the right expression here—”

“Okay, sorry. But second of all, what makes you think he would have stayed with her? Maybe he would have chosen you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I say.

“I don’t know. But again—it’s a moot point. You’re marrying Matthew.”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m marrying Matthew.”



* * *



—

    I do my best to put all of that out of my mind as we pull up to Matthew’s parents’ building, enter the formal lobby, and tell the doorman we are here for the Capells’ party.

“Yes, of course. The fifteenth floor,” he says with a proper little bow. “And congratulations, Miss Gardner.”

I look at him, surprised that he knows my name when I’ve been to the building only once before. Then again, it’s exactly the kind of detail that Mrs. Capell would totally think of, maybe even showing the doorman my photo with the polite instruction to “make the bride feel special.”

“Thank you,” I say, my stomach churning.

We turn and walk to the elevator, my heels and Scottie’s wingtips click-clacking on the polished marble floor, making an ominous echoing sound.

“Whoa. Fancy digs,” Scottie says, looking all around and touching everything as we go. He runs his hand over an antique side table, then reaches up to rub the petal of a giant peony in an arrangement on another table, confirming aloud that “it’s not fake.”

“Quit touching everything,” I say under my breath. “I’m sure there are cameras.”

He looks up and around again, even more intrigued, as I push the brass button calling the elevator. A long few seconds later, the doors open and we enter the tiny, posh enclosure complete with a little green leather bench. Scottie predictably takes a seat, crossing his legs and admiring his reflection in the mirror. He adjusts his bow tie, then smokes a pretend pipe, while I take deep breaths and we creak our way toward the penthouse apartment.

When the elevator opens, I hear jazz music and see my entire family already gathered in the foyer with Matthew and his parents. My heart sinks a little, as the plan was for them to come after Scottie and me, so that I would be present for the introduction. But of course my dad always arrives early.