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Echo
Lyric knew me well enough not to say a word. I hunkered down in the back of the large SUV and turned my head to the window. Eyes closed, I shut myself off and pretty much stayed that way until we rolled into Manhattan almost three hours later.
I owned a two-bedroom apartment that overlooked Central Park. Located on the top floor, the view was to die for, and I had a private garden to boot. I’d wanted it the moment I saw it, but most of the folks living there were old money—I was new. I’d heard rumors they turned down Madonna just the year before. The only reason the co-op board allowed me to buy in was because the president was a huge fan of my dad’s.
My apartment was everything I’d ever wanted. Lots of windows and light. Modern architecture coupled with an industrial feel I was drawn to. The space was spread out over two levels, with the bedrooms located upstairs. Each level allowed access to a private green space outside. It was big and open and expensive. But the security alone was worth every penny.
The SUV pulled up in front of my building, and I swore under my breath when I spied the paparazzi jostling for the best position.
“I’ll clear a path,” the driver said. He slipped from the vehicle and barked at the photographers, signaling the doorman we were on our way in. I slipped out, wincing at the camera flashes as they went off. Several of the paps shouted at me. And I knew if I took the time to look, I’d recognize more than a few. Some I knew a little too well. It was a strange relationship we had.
“Hey, Echo. Where you been?”
“Echo, whose clothes you wearing?”
“Echo, what happened with your sister on New Year’s Eve?”
“I hear you and Harmony aren’t talking. Any comment?”
I kept my head down and let the driver lead me to the door, where, once inside, things quieted.
“Good evening, Miss Mansfield.” The doorman, George, smiled at me warmly as I sailed past him with a nod, Lyric on my heels, headed for the elevator that led to my apartment. I heard my sister say something to him, but I was tired and cranky and goddamn confused. I just wanted to disappear.
We rode the elevator up, and, once inside my place, I stopped and let the silence sink in. It was spotless—the cleaning crew would have been the day before—and through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered like a sea of diamonds in the night sky.
“You don’t have to stay.” I looked at Lyric, but she was already hanging up her jacket in the large closet near the front door. I sighed, knowing the conversation that should have happened on our trip back from the Catskills was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not.
“Do you have food in the kitchen, or do we have to order in?”
“There’s food,” I replied in defeat, heading up to my bedroom. “I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself.”
I wasn’t long in the shower and, once I was dried off, headed to my dressing room. I grabbed my favorite track pants and hoodie, along with a worn pair of slippers I’d had for years. My dressing room was situated in the center of three massive walk-in closets that were as big or bigger than my kitchen. One held casual stuff like the outfit I’d pulled on. The second was a lot of haute couture pieces, club outfits, and one-of-a-kind designer wear that I’d been gifted. The last was filled with purses and shoes.
I sat down on a low-slung bench, pulled on my slippers, and took a moment to look around the space. There were hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing and accessories within reach. Gucci. Chanel. Fendi. Things I loved and took pleasure in.
Or did I?
When was the last time I’d used even a quarter of the purses lined up in custom-made cubbies like pretty little trophies? Or the crazy number of shoes and boots and runners displayed by color? Or any of the clothes?
I got to
my feet, and, for the first time I could remember, I felt something other than pride when I looked at my belongings. Who the hell needed the same pair of track pants in ten different colors? Seriously. Most of the time, I wore black.
Unsettled, I left the room and headed downstairs, hair hanging down my back in wet ropes. Lyric had two place settings ready at the large island in the kitchen and handed me a glass of red wine as I sat down.
“I pulled together a salad, and I’ve got basa broiling in the oven. You didn’t have a fresh lemon, so I had to use juice, but it should be okay.” She took a sip from her glass and leaned her hip against the counter.
My older sister Harmony and I were built like our mother—we were a few inches over five feet, with a petite build—but our coloring was all Dad, blonde and tawny. Lyric, however, was tall like Axel and willowy. Of course, Mother being Mother, called her big-boned, which to me sounded like a cop-out. She wasn’t a cow or a horse. Lyric was all woman, with hips and breasts I’d kill for, coupled with our mother’s Spanish coloring, which meant she had thick glossy jet-black hair, big brown eyes, and perfect olive skin.
She was magnificent but didn’t know it. She constantly tried to hide her figure with overly big clothes, baggy jeans, and sweaters that covered her from neck to knee. Tonight, she wore a pair of black-and-red-checkered flannel pants and an old sweatshirt that looked as if it could fit a small giant. Her hair was piled loosely on top of her head, and she stared across the island at me, those brown eyes of hers shining behind her glasses.
My throat tightened. God, I’d missed her.
“I wish you weren’t in school,” I said, looking away, suddenly afraid I’d cry.
“Boston’s not that far away.”
“It sure feels like it.” I blew out a long breath. There was no point holding off any longer. “So how mad is Harmony?”
