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Authors: Bridie Clark

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Without really meaning to, she had made her way around his entire study. On his desk, next to his Tiffany lamp, there was a small gold frame. Lucy leaned closer. To her surprise, it contained a photograph of
her
, taken during their weekend in Palm Beach at his mother's house. Relaxed by the pool, she faced the camera dead-on and was laughing, and she looked like herself--not posed, not perfect, not some socialite in a pretty dress, just herself. She'd forgotten that he'd taken it. The sheer existence of the photo, let alone its intimate placement in a spot where only Wyatt would see it, for a moment took her breath away.
Her eyes fell upon a thick stack of paper on top of Wyatt's antique desk. THE OVERNIGHT SOCIALITE was printed on the top page, along with Wyatt's name. The title pierced her with curiosity and dread. Had he written a book? Since she'd known him, he'd been hard at work on some mystery project that he never wanted to discuss. Unable to control herself, Lucy flipped to page one and read:
There was nothing extraordinary about the girl under the awning--not her beauty, birth, education, or profession. In fact, I chose L. as the subject of my experiment precisely because she was so unremarkable--one of the faceless, nameless many who immigrate to New York City from the hinterland, full of unrealistic dreams.
Lucy felt her heart drop. She skimmed down the page--which was now shaking, along with her hand. It couldn't be real.
Just when I think progress is finally being made, L. blindsides me with an uncouth comment or action, or surprises me with her lack of basic cultural literacy. Last night, she asked if Edith Piaf was a kind of rice.
Lucy flipped frantically through the rest of his manuscript, but tears blurred her vision. There could be no explanation other than the obvious: Wyatt was planning to publish a book about their experiment. Long before Cornelia even heard of Rita Ellis, Wyatt himself was planning to expose her as a fraud to the entire world. She had never felt more betrayed. She was nothing more than a trained dog to him, a girl he'd plucked from obscurity and passed off as a woman with class. No, worse--a trained dog wasn't humiliated in public. Wyatt didn't love her--it was right there in black and white, impossible to deny--he found nothing about her "remarkable" or "extraordinary." The whole thing was just academic for him.
Just a topic for a book
. He had set her on a path to a humiliation that would deny her humanity and annihilate her ambitions. He obviously cared nothing about her feelings. He was worse than Cornelia--at least Cornelia had never pretended to be Lucy's friend.
"Lucy!" She hadn't heard the advance of his footsteps, and looked up to find Wyatt--unshaven, in an old sweater--standing in the doorway. He smiled. "You're here! I've been everywhere--Eloise's, the Carlyle--" He stopped short when he saw his manuscript, and her face. Lucy wiped away tears with the back of her hand, grabbed the pile of papers, and charged toward the door. Wyatt stepped back in alarm. "What were you doing in here?"
She flung the manuscript at his head. Pages cascaded over his shoulders.
"I can explain--" he began in the timeworn words of men who've screwed up big time.
"How dare you?" She ran to him, raising herself on her toes to come just inches from his face. Her entire body shook with anger. He looked petrified, scared speechless. "You should make sense of your
own
warped life, and leave mine alone!" Lucy hurled her way to the elevator bank, stabbing the down button. She heard Wyatt behind her, calling her name. The door opened and she rushed into it as he appeared in the landing. "Maybe I didn't grow up gagging on silver spoons, but I know right from wrong. I would never,
ever
stoop this low." Then the elevator doors shut on his stammering, bewildered face.
As it dropped nine floors to the lobby, Lucy fought the urge to crumple on the floor in tears. She'd endured Wyatt's constant criticism for months, and for what? So he could use her like this--destroying not only her dreams but her trust?
"Are you okay, Miss Lucy?" asked Howard the doorman, looking concerned as she made her way shakily through the lobby.
"Not really," she answered, but she shook her head when he asked if he could help.
Once outside, she took a sharp breath. The first notes of spring were in the air already, although the crocuses in the median of Park Avenue had yet to emerge and she still needed a coat. She struggled to clear her head. The sky did her a favor with its shocking blueness; one of the neighbors had planted scarlet geraniums in her window boxes.
Wyatt doesn't own this
, she thought suddenly.
Wyatt doesn't own the taxicabs, swimming upstream like vibrant yellow fish, or the smell of roasting chestnuts. He doesn't own the bustling streets, the outdoor cafes, the symphony of car horns and dogs barking and distant sirens and people laughing in foreign accents.
When she'd first gotten off the bus from Dayville, Lucy had claimed all this as her own. And it was still hers, if she wanted it.
A young girl walked by with her mother and a beagle, pulling gently on the dog's leash, and Lucy envisioned an older, more sophisticated spin on her bright poppy-colored coat. She was surrounded by inspiration: the light slanting down through the buildings, the uneven sidewalk, the boy on a scooter whizzing past her. New York hadn't spit her out. She'd prove to Wyatt that she didn't need him to reach her dreams. She wouldn't sit idly by while
Townhouse
and Wyatt spun their own versions of the truth. As Lucy walked briskly back to Eloise's apartment, she could taste hopefulness in the air, and her mind started to weave a plan.
33
Twinkies have a shelf life of twenty-five days, not seven years, and certainly not fifty years. Even so, twenty-five days is an unusually long time for a baked product to stay fresh. The secret to Twinkies' longevity is their lack of dairy ingredients: because dairy products are not part of the formula, Twinkies spoil much more slowly than other bakery items. . . . According to Hostess, it takes forty-five seconds to explode a Twinkie in a microwave.
D
ottie Hayes, over her cobb salad at the Colony Club, clucked in sympathy for the young lady sitting across the table. Lucy Ellis might not have sprung from the pages of the Social Register, but Dottie had long since decided that this girl, who could endure her son so graciously, was one of nature's aristocrats. Dottie was furious with Wyatt for not telling Lucy about his book--for not canceling it--months ago. Instead, the girl had been ambushed by it. Dottie was deeply relieved when Lucy called and asked for her help, and she'd invited her to lunch straightaway. "I'd be honored to lend my support, Lucy. Your work deserves a stage. Besides, after what that knucklehead son of mine did--"
Lucy smiled, holding up her hand to stop Dottie. She looked crisp in a navy blue sheath, fresh-eyed and lovely. "Thank you. That's incredibly generous of you. We can't imagine a more beautiful setting than your library."
Dottie fiddled with her napkin, troubled. Lucy, to her credit, had yet to say a negative word against her son. Did that mean she might be persuaded to give him a second chance? Not that he deserved one, but her maternal loyalty required her to ask. "I've never seen Wyatt so tormented," she said softly, testing the waters. "He regrets hurting you very much. You know that he's canceled that awful book?"
Lucy sighed, but didn't say anything. She took a quick sip of her Pellegrino. "Maybe it'd be better that we not discuss Wyatt."
"I understand that, of course." But then Dottie, against her natural temperament and Lucy's wishes, forced herself to say more. "It's just that--you've had such a wonderful effect on him. In these last few weeks, when he had you in his life, he would call to see how I was doing. He seemed calmer, even
nicer
. Ironic, isn't it? That he's the changed person from all this."
"I'm grateful to Wyatt for all he's done, but I don't want to see him, Dottie. If that puts you in an awkward position, please just tell me."
"No, no." Lucy had spoken with such finality that Dottie didn't dare push the subject further. "He's the one who's created any awkwardness, not you, my dear." As much as she wished otherwise, perhaps Wyatt didn't deserve the girl seated across the table from her. She was hardworking, modest, loyal, curious--just what he had been searching for, and what Dottie had prayed for her son to find--but he'd betrayed her.
Dottie glanced around the members-only haven that felt like her second kitchen. Most of the women in the dining room knew Lucy Ellis, either personally or via the social columns in which Wyatt had made her an unlikely fixture. In days they would know her true provenance. They would read the slander spread by that shabby, overexposed vixen Cornelia Rockman. Dottie knew she had to do her part to make sure that the right people understood Lucy's innate elegance.
Besides, her plan sounded like fun. "Why don't you and Eloise stop by tomorrow, and we'll discuss the details," Dottie said. She had always wanted a daughter. She wasn't about to make the same mistake her son had.
"Oh, I'll just wait here," Wyatt said nonchalantly, moving toward the small couch in Eloise's lobby. Lucy was still living with Eloise, as far as he knew, and he was prepared to wait all day for her to come downstairs and hear his heartfelt apology.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you won't." The doorman, a gray-haired gentleman in his fifties, looked stern. "The young lady does not wish to see you. She made that abundantly clear."
Damn it.
Maybe he could appeal to the man's sense of romance. "I just need to make things right. I made a huge mistake, but I care about Lucy a great deal."
"Well, Lucy is an exceptional young woman. Always goes out of her way to brighten my day."
"You see why I miss her so much!" Maybe it was working. He couldn't tell. "I can't sleep, or eat--I just keep thinking about how she must feel." It was a strange relief to admit this to another person. The doorman nodded; it seemed he felt Wyatt's pain.
"You still can't sit here," he said.
"C'mon, man!" Wyatt, scowling with frustration, headed for the door. The tightness in his stomach was worse than ever. He'd have to find some other way to reach Lucy, to show her how sorry he was.
"And you might want to slow down on the flowers," added the doorman. "The ladies have very important business to attend to, and they don't need to be interrupted by deliveries every ten minutes. And pass that on to your friend Mr. Peters. I don't know what he's trying to prove with all those roses. He should've proposed to Miss Carlton years ago."
Wyatt, dropping his head, left the building.
"So Wyatt's been calling me nonstop," Mallory said, resting both elbows on the zinc-top desk of her midtown office. She directed this to Lucy, who had just lowered herself into a visitor chair next to Eloise.
"Has he?" Lucy held Mallory's gaze, not allowing the mention of his name or efforts to affect her. "Well, then, you know why we're here. Cornelia told us about your article."
Mallory frowned; bit her lip. "I like you. I even like the idea that you put one over on the toffs that buy my magazine. But I'll tell you what I keep telling Wyatt.
This is business.
I've got to think about my newsstand numbers. Our advertisers are mostly luxury-goods retailers, and they're getting massacred, which means we're getting massacred. A story like this, like it or not, will drive sales."
It was the response that Lucy had anticipated. "We're not asking you to kill the article. We're just asking that you hold it for the next issue."
"You want time to flee the country? Sorry, but I don't want to get scooped on this. I can't afford it."
"You won't get scooped," Eloise said. "You'll get a bigger story." She slid the invitation across the desk, a reprint of a page from Lucy's sketchbook with the event details handwritten in the margins. Cheap, easy--they didn't have money or time to spare--and yet perfectly chic. They'd picked them up from the printer on the way to Mallory's office.
"Interesting," said Mallory, frowning a little. "You've been planning this for a while?"
They chose to ignore the question. "Lucy is poised to become a darling of the fashion industry," said Eloise. "As you know, Margaux Irving showed tremendous support by bidding on her gown--"

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