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?
I’ve had a perpetual stomach ache since our meeting with Harding. I can’t think about it.
Meanwhile Poppy gushes over a dainty, racing green colored purse with the sales associate. “It’s beautiful,” she says like she’s taking in a masterpiece. “But I just bought a spring bag in Paris.”
He immediately launches into all the reasons one spring bag isn’t enough. “This is an exceptional shopping tote.” He opens the flap as if to prove this. “It will fit all your necessities but not be too heavy. That bag is better for lunch dates.”
They banter about this for twenty minutes before she gives in.
“And you?” He studies me for a moment, no doubt trying to determine if I’m a lost cause.
I consider it for a split second, wondering if I can buy a few minutes of happiness. In the end, I decide for him, patting my small cross-body Louis Vuitton that I’ve had for years. “I’m good.”
We leave the bag to be properly wrapped for pick-up later. I lose track of Poppy’s purchases by the third store. I can’t seem to mindlessly fall into the rhythm I usually enjoy in her presence.
“Okay, spill. What’s wrong with you?” Poppy demands.
I study a display of silk scarves intensely, trying to look like I’m enjoying myself. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You can talk to me,” she says, “unless…”
“Unless?” I murmur absently. Did Cyrus tell her that Sterling is back? Does she remember what it was like four years ago when he left? Has she forgiven me yet?
“Unless you’re upset that I missed the funeral.” She chews on her lower lip. “I feel awful. I should’ve come home.”
I shake my head quickly. The trouble with being in a bad mood is that good people always think they put you there. “You didn’t need to be there.”
“I know that’s what you said. But a best friend should be there even when they’re not needed.” She’s quoting me and the conversation we had when I called to tell her it was over. Trust Poppy to know that what I say and what I actually want are often two very different things. We’ve been friends long enough for her to see through me like that.
The truth is that I wish she’d been there, but not for the reasons she thinks. I hadn’t needed her until Sterling showed up. “It’s really not about the funeral.”
I can’t decide where to start. In the end, my recollection of the day tumbles out of me. I tell her about Sterling. Poppy’s expression grows from interested to horrified as my story continues. When I get to the part where my ex is talking with her boyfriend, she gasps.
“Did he say anything?” I ask.
“No! Good lord, Adair, do you think I would have spent all morning worrying about buying a purse if I’d known Sterling Ford was in town?” She grabs my arm and yanks me toward a small, indoor café. We take seats and I don’t protest when she orders two white wines before noon.
“Tell me every detail,” she demands when the waiter leaves to get our drinks.
“That’s all.” Frustration bubbles inside me. How many times have I relived seeing him at the gravesite? Seeing him in Windfall? “I never thought I would see his face inside my house again. Honestly, I never thought I’d seen his face again period. It’s been years and he walked through the door like it was yesterday. I don’t know why he was there.”
Poppy groans, rolling her brown eyes dramatically, before turning a playful but withering glare on me. “You don’t know why he was there?”
“He didn’t talk to me!”
“Please! He came to see you.” She says it like it’s a settled matter.
I can’t admit that I want that to be the truth. That after all these years convinced that I hate him, seeing him once makes me doubt that I do. But it can’t be that simple. Nothing with Sterling is ever simple. “If he wanted to see me, he would’ve
