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“Don’t jinx it.” I held the cool glass to my forehead, trying to relax. No use. In the three days since the news broke of Hannah being arrested for several counts of fraud, my rage and resentment roiled nonstop. Going home for a month, escaping Manhattan and the press, would help.
Hopefully.
We turned a corner, silently driving down a side street, lit only by lampposts. My eyes flicked from one wooden door to another, until I spied a dark shadow tucked against the front steps of a townhouse. “Stop!” I bellowed.
Gerald whipped the car alongside the curb and parked. He popped open the trunk and met me at the back of the car. I pointed at one of the ten bundles filling the inside. “That one.” He untied the string holding the articles together and lifted a down-filled coat. I grabbed a blanket. Together we walked up to a man sleeping on the freezing sidewalk.
At least I hoped he was sleeping. Since it was fifteen degrees, this scenario could head south really quick. I locked eyes with Gerald while tipping my head at the guy. He bent down and placed two fingers on the man’s neck. After a few seconds, he nodded, confirming the guy had a pulse.
I shook out the blanket and gently covered the guy. Gerald placed the coat on top. Then we climbed back inside the warm limo where I thanked my lucky stars fate had been good to me.
Except for Hannah…
“You better step on it,” I growled.
“Now don’t go snapping. You’re gonna miss me while you’re gone.” Gerald winked in the rearview mirror at my reflection. “Besides, you pay your pilot a hefty salary to wait on you.”
“Jealous?”
“No, sir. You pay me very well.”
“Then shut up while I enjoy the scenery.”
“I’ll shut up when you shut up.”
I rolled up the blackened window partition so he couldn’t see my grin.
“Have any trouble getting here?” Randall Osborne, my pilot and good friend extraordinaire, stood at the top of the stairs leading up to the doorway of the jet.
“If you don’t count the mob scene, no.” I brushed past him, tossed my attaché bag on the couch, and settled on a leather recliner. After I covered up with a cashmere blanket, I closed my eyes. “Wake me when we touch down in Vermont.”
“Let’s hope you wake up on the less cranky side.”
“Remind me to hire new help.” A press to a button on the chair’s arm filtered soft jazz throughout the cabin. Complete dismissal.
“Heard that for the hundredth time. Man, I sure pity your family. They have mega work to do on you.” The click of the door clued me in Randall had shut himself off from me and my attitude.
I kept my eyes shut during takeoff and for at least ten minutes into the flight. Then I tossed the blanket to the floor, all pretense of sleeping gone. I hadn’t experienced a good night’s rest since the Hannah bomb exploded. Being taken advantage of by the woman I loved threw a wrench in my circadian rhythm.
From inside a side pocket of the attaché, I removed the latest New York Times newspaper. Reading the gossip on Hannah wasn’t the best choice for relaxation. But ever since the one person I promised my future to crushed my faith in all humans, that was how I now operated—continuously punishing myself over my bad judgment.
At least the front page didn’t have a picture of us. Instead, some editor had drudged up a photo of Hannah trying on wedding gowns in the most expensive bridal boutique in Manhattan. In typical pre-downfall Hannah style, she allowed Cosmopolitan to document her trial and error in finding the perfect dress. Strike that. Allowed might not be the best choice of words. Cosmo paid dearly for the bragging rights of printing an article about “the most anticipated wedding of the year.”
I scoffed and snapped open the newspaper before reading.
The Times had published their usual bang-up job of disclosing Hannah’s past, including her childhood of living in a German orphanage, which was news to me. But since Hannah had concocted a fairy tale of her being a heiress courted by imaginary princes, everything about my ex was news to me.
Naïve me.
Having grown up in a large, loving family, finding my soulmate was high on my list. Being the first born and very goal oriented, I waited until I finished grad school and built my investment firm before I set my focus on finding someone who could hold a candle to my mom.
That was my first mistake. Seeking a downhome-type woman in Manhattan was not a brilliant idea. Most residents or transients were looking to make their mark in their careers, not seeking a spouse. Those who did have their noses to the ground, sniffing for partners, were hellbent on upping their status and wealth. I was fully aware of that. Once I raised my zip code to include the Upper East Side, the invitations to private parties from single ladies multiplied.
I was no fool.
Until I met my second mistake. Miss Hannah Soro.
I ripped the front page off, wadded it into a ball, and pitched it perfectly into a wastebasket.
