Page 32 of Blacklist

“How convenient.” This could be fun. I have plans for Adair MacLaine. Plans that include an altar and a white dress and broken hearts. But there’s plenty of time to play with her until then. “Ready to play a game?”

He doesn’t need to consider. “Always.”

10

Adair

By the third day of the Cold War between me, Malcolm, and Ginny, I’m craving an escape and a friendly face, which is why I agree to a shopping date with Poppy. I need serious best friend time even if it means the mall. How she can still want to shop after being in Paris doing just that a week ago is beyond me. But Poppy is a shopper. I am not. She’s a hugger. I am not. She sees the world through rose-colored glasses and I prefer to keep things a focused twenty-twenty. She’s also exactly what I need to balance my tendency to be a bitch. That means if Poppy Landry wants a hug, mimosas, and three new pairs of shoes, I’m in.

I volunteer to drive, even if it means picking her up at the condo she shares with Cyrus in downtown Nashville and circling back toward the outskirts of the city, because it’s always safer when she’s not behind the wheel. Poppy sweeps out of the building in a yellow chiffon sundress that wraps around her swan-like neck, accentuating her bronze shoulders. She looks like she just stepped off a Parisian runway in nude Louboutin sandals that circle her ankle gracefully. In my black Converse, I’m going to be nearly a foot shorter than her, but I reserve heels of that height for business meetings and charity functions. I’d never survive a trip to the mall in them. She slips into the Roadster, arranging her skirt so that it won’t blow up when we hit the highway.

“Darling.” Despite the slight console separating us, she throws herself across the wide bench seat to hug me. When she pulls back her eyes shine with tears. “How are you?”

I blow a stream of air from my lips and shrug. “I don’t really know.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she says.

I’ve heard a lot of apologies in the last few weeks. Everyone it seems is sorry for my loss. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not entirely certain I share this feeling. Maybe it’s that I’ve had so much time to process it due to the length of daddy’s illness. Or maybe it’s that I’ve gone completely numb—my heart an anesthetized organ in my chest, functional but deadened. But I’m tired of hearing them. It’s too much to process—Sterling, my father, the will.

“Don’t be sorry for living your life,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.

“I wasn’t here when you needed me.”

“You’re here now.” And that’s enough. “I just need a friend.”

“You always have a friend,” she promises. “And you don’t have to go shopping for me to be here.”

“I want to.” Strangely, I mean it. I can’t help being in a good mood when she’s happy.

“Does that mean I get to pick things out for you?” she asks mischievously eyeing my gray t-shirt.

That could be dangerous, given the uncertainty of my bank account and the fact that my daily wardrobe is mostly jeans, t-shirts, and the occasional sundress. “I don’t need anything.”

“Shopping isn’t about needs. It’s about relaxation.” She studies me with a critical eye. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes,” I say defensively.

“What about a dress for the auction?” she suggests.

I cringe. I’ve been trying to get out of going to the fundraiser for months. It’s bad enough to go alone, but I know my brother plans to attend. “I don’t know if—”

“You are not getting out of this one,” she informs me. “You volunteer with the shelter!”

“That doesn’t mean I have to go.” But I know that it does. Poppy might have hatched the plan to host a charity gala to benefit adoptions for the Valmont Animal Rescue but she did it because she knew I was worried about loss of funding. Putting on a dress is the least I can do, even if I’d rather hang out at the shelter with the puppies. “You can pick out my dress, okay?”

She lights up like neon at nightfall, immediately launching into the current drama surrounding the gala she’s been planning for the last three months, yelling over the rushing wind. I’m mostly caught up when we arrive at Valmont Gallery, which isn’t a shopping center, but an experience. The mall sprawls over five acres of land, housing dozens of luxury brands, restaurants, and department stores.

A valet greets us at the parking station near the West entrance, and I hesitate in the driver’s seat.

“Park her in a big spot away from other cars,” I advise, knowing the classic car is a lot wider than most modern vehicles.

He nods, tearing off a ticket, and I can’t help wondering how many times a day he puts up with this request.

“Please,” Poppy interjects. She’s already out of the car, giving me a look that reminds me of my mother. “She meant to say please.”

“Please,” I add, feeling properly chastised. Another reason I need her around.

We head straight for Bottega Veneta. Poppy is giggles and rainbows as she gives me the play-by-play on her trip to Paris. It takes effort to leave my worry behind with the car, but I do my best. The truth is I’m not sure I should be shopping even if I need something for the fundraiser. Yes, Daddy left me an inheritance, but I can’t help wondering if it’s made of fool’s gold. Malcolm’s reaction led me to believe that everything is on the line. I can’t tell Poppy this, though. I can’t tell anyone. If we do lose Windfall, if we do lose MacLaine Media, what happens to my family?