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PART
1
1
KIT
MONDAY, APRIL 24, 2017
I’ve already had two strong martinis before hitting the rooftop bar at the Hotel Monaco in Old City, Philadelphia, which isn’t like me at all. But my foundation’s clients, the very reason I’m on this business trip? They bailed on me at the last minute. Decided to go to a horse show instead. I tried to insinuate myself into their outing—not that I wanted to go to a horse show—but either they didn’t get my hint or they didn’t want my company.
I take my job very seriously. I raise money for Aldrich University, one of the best private colleges in the whole United States—it’s up there with the Harvards and Stanfords of the world, and actually tougher to get into. Ever since my first husband passed away, I’ve been the university’s leading ensnarer of Big Fish donors. I seek out alumnae far and wide, vetting their newly minted positions as heads of hospitals or as CEOs, tracking the science prizes they’ve recently won, making it my business to know if the books they’ve written have hit theNew York TimesBest Sellers list. And then I pounce, stroking their egos, showering them with praise, reminding them of the prestigious academic roots from which they hail and that the right thing to do, when enjoying their kind of wealth and success, istogive back. I get a rush when I receive a huge check from a new donor—it’s my version of doing drugs. So when I find out that Dr. and Mrs. Robert Hawser of Devon, Pennsylvania, will be watching dressage instead of coming out with Kit Manning-Strasser of Aldrich University Charitable Giving for some wining and dining, I take it pretty damn hard.
Have I done something wrong?I’m not even the one who groomed these people—it was Lynn Godfrey, a pushy, grating, competitive woman from my department. I consider calling her and chewing her out, but I don’t chew people out. I am graceful and humble and know when to back off. Next week, I will reach out to the Hawsers again. I will be kind and forgiving and gracious. We will start over.
But right now I have nothing to do in Philadelphia. I’ve checked in with my airline: All flights back to Pittsburgh tonight are booked. I don’t feel like seeing the Liberty Bell. I don’t feel like walking down South Street. I could finalize the plans for the Aldrich Giving Gala this Wednesday, but the party is such a well-oiled machine that there isn’t muchtodo.
I’ve never been great with idle hands.
I uncap the first airplane-size vodka bottle in my room and call my daughters. First, I reach sweet, cheerful Sienna in her dorm room (she’s an Aldrich freshman, and I’ve interrupted a study session). After a forty-two-second conversation in which Sienna profusely apologizes for not being able to speak longer, I then speak to quiet, sullen sixteen-year-old Aurora. She’s at home but getting ready to go out. “Where?” I ask, suspicious. It’s a school night. Aurora assures me she’s just going to Sophie’s house to study for a physics test, nothing to freak out over.
I mix the next drink as I dial Greg, my second husband of two years. Our conversation is short and about nothing but the basics. I don’t tell him that my clients have bailed on me because, well, it isn’t the picture of myself I want to paint. Greg doesn’t ask me why I sound so down because that isn’t the man he wants to be forme... though I believed he did, once. I confirm I am alive. He tells me the same. I remind him that the giving gala is in two days. It’s kind of like an adult prom, the university’s biggest fund-raiser of the year, and Greg is a no-brainer choice for my date, not that I’m exactly looking forward to it.
My phone pings shortly after I hang up with him. When I look down, it’s a text from an unlisted number.
Get ready.
That’s all it says. Frowning, I write back:Who is this?
No answer. A chill runs up my spine. Get ready forwhat?
A loud horn honk outside startles me. I turn and notice that my window curtains are flung open, affording me a view of the rooftops and the bridge beyond. A pigeon flaps from a nearby roost. I have a tingling sensation that I’m being watched.
I leap up and yank the blinds closed. I need out of this hotel room. I want company, noise, and maybe another drink. The closest place is the hotel’s rooftop bar.
“You should try a naughty mule,” says a voice beside me after I slide onto a barstool.
A man sits catty-corner to me on one of the gray couches, half-hidden behind a large marble post. I’m irked that he’s been eavesdropping. I’ve been debating with the bartender—a discerning, fiftyish man with half-mast eyes who is pretentiously overdressed in a three-piece suit—between a Moscow mule and a gimlet. After that strange, anonymous, cryptic text I’d received in my room, the last thing I want are random eyes on me.
But my eavesdropper smiles jovially enough. I twist around to get a better look at him. By the way his legs stretch from the couch, I can tell that he’s quite tall. His face is square and friendly, and hisdark hair curls over his oxford collar. The corners of his eyes turn down in a way that seems trustworthy, and he has a big, wide, straight smile, with good, square teeth. He looks like a preppy, naughty schoolboy, as if he might be hiding a slingshot behind his back. I notice he’s wearing Vans sneakers instead of loafers with his suit. Still dressed for my meeting, I am wearing Yves Saint Laurent pumps that paralyze my toes.
“It’s vodka mixed with jalapeño and cayenne pepper,” Schoolboy explains, holding up a copper mug. “If you like spicy, you won’t find anything better.”
My eyelashes lower, then lift. “What makes you think I like spicy?”
One eyebrow rises. His eyes drift down to my exposed legs, my high heels. “Doyou?” he asks, in a voice that, unless I’m crazy, oozes with flirtation.
“Wouldn’tyoulike to know,” I shoot back. Then I chastise myself. Kit Manning-Strasser is not a woman who flirts with random men in hotel bars. I catch the bartender’s eye. “Just a Tanqueray and tonic, please.”
The bartender turns to mix it up, with a smirk on his face. He sets down my cocktail silently, and I swear I hear him snicker. My cheeks are on fire; even a sip of the drink can’t extinguish the heat.
As the bartender turns away, there’s a voice behind me: “Don’t mind Bertram. He’s a judgmental prick.”
Schoolboy again. I can feel his gaze on my back as though it’s a heat lamp. “You know him?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Nope. Just met him today. But I can tell. I’m good at reading people.”
I pretend to be interested in the flickering votive candle on the bar. I’m still trying to process why this man thought I like spicy things. Or perhaps this is his line to every woman he meets.
