Too Rich and Too Dead (2 page)

Stumbling upon an exciting new job just a few months earlier had also gone a long way in helping her get her life back together. She'd never expected to find herself writing travel articles, much less writing them for a well-respected lifestyle magazine like
The Good Life.
But when a friend at the local newspaper here in the New York City suburb of Rivington recommended her for the job, she suddenly found herself embarking upon a whole new chapter of her life.

Mallory realized that all things considered, she'd been fortunate. Yet as she sipped her coffee, she couldn't help comparing her own life to Carly Cassidy's. She supposed it wasn't surprising that the two of them had ended up going off in such differ ent directions. After all, they hadn't exactly started out their lives in the same way. The outstandingly pretty, perky, and popular Carly had not only been Homecoming Queen and captain of the cheerleading
squad, she had also been class president during both their junior and senior years. And the year their hometown had held its first and only apple festival, she had been chosen Miss Red Delicious. Mallory, meanwhile, hadn't even made it into the semifinals for Miss Granny Smith.

She had to admit that according to her recollection, she hadn't really minded. Mallory was one of those people who never felt particularly comfortable being in the spotlight—even when surrounded by a dozen other varieties of fruit.

In fact, the long-ago apple festival highlighted how different the two of them were. It was no wonder Carly had built a spectacularly successful career based largely on her natural flair for glamour and self-promotion.

It occurred to Mallory that she might try getting in touch with her one of these days. Even though they hadn't exactly traveled in the same circles, catching up on old times might be fun. She also welcomed the opportunity to satisfy her curiosity about what Carly's life was really like—the glowing
New York Times
report aside.

She was adding “Google Carly Cassidy Berman” to her mental To Do list when Jordan picked up the newspaper and commented, “I think it's cool that you know somebody so famous—and so hot.”

“Who's hot and famous?” Mallory's daughter asked as she bounded into the kitchen.

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” Jordan replied, his sister's arrival instantly causing him to regress at least ten years.

Unlike eighteen-year-old Jordan, whom no one could ever accuse of being a morning person, Amanda was as sunny as the bright yellow paint on the walls. While Jordan wore nothing but a pair of baggy blue-and-white-striped boxer shorts, Amanda was fully dressed in a crisp white T-shirt and black sweatpants that actually looked good on her tall, willowy frame. Her little brother's dark blond hair stuck up in a hundred different directions in a way that screamed bed head, but she had brushed her long, straight auburn hair and pulled it back into a neat ponytail.

This had turned out to be one of those odd years in which spring break for both Amanda's and Jordan's schools, Sarah Lawrence and Colgate University, was the same. And Mallory had been relishing the past few days. She had even enjoyed the familiarity of their harmless bickering, a remnant from their childhood that told her things were slowly getting back to normal.

“I have a right to know what you two were talking about,” Amanda insisted. She grabbed the newspaper away from her little brother, crying, “Let me see!”

“Hey, I was reading that!” Jordan insisted, scowling.

“Oh, go—go eat breakfast or something.” Studying the front page with a frown, Amanda added, “I can't believe you think this Carly whoever is hot. She looks old enough to be your mother.”

“Thank
you,” Mallory breathed into her coffee mug.

In a louder voice, she added, “It just so happens
that Carly and I are the same age. We went to high school together.”

“You mean you two were friends?” Amanda asked.

“Not friends, exactly,” Mallory replied. “More like acquaintances.”

“Hey, maybe she has a daughter my age,” Jordan commented, lifting the carton of orange juice toward his lips.

“Jordan, don't drink out of the carton!” Amanda shrieked. “That is so gross!”

He shrugged. “I'm the only one who drinks this stuff. What difference does it make?”

And then, as if to demonstrate to his older sister that there was absolutely no reason to conform to the arbitrary rules of society, he chugged down half the contents without coming up for air.

Having lost that round seemed to fuel Amanda's determination to win the next one.

“The woman in the newspaper isn't the only person from that high school who's famous,” she insisted. “So is your own mother.”

“I'm hardly famous, Amanda,” Mallory countered.

“Of course you are!” her daughter exclaimed. “Millions of people all over the country read your column. And
The Good Life
has a very sophisticated audience.”

Mallory was about to thank her daughter once again when Amanda turned to her, wearing a sweet expression that could mean only one thing: She was about to ask a favor.

“By the way, Mother,” she said, her tone so syrupy that Mallory wished she'd made pancakes for breakfast, “when I woke up this morning, I realized that classes start up again in only four more days. I was thinking that maybe I'd drive to Connecticut and stay overnight at Lora's. Would it be okay if I took your car?”

“How is Mom supposed to manage without a car?” Jordan retorted. “Stuck out here in the middle of suburbia while you go off with your dorky friends!”

“Maybe she's going on another travel assignment,” Amanda replied archly. Focusing on her mother once again, she asked, “When
is
your next trip, Mother?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jordan said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Neanderthal-style. “Where are you going next?”

“Good question,” Mallory replied. “Which reminds me: I'm supposed to call Trevor this morning.”

She'd barely gotten the words out before her cell phone, left out overnight on the kitchen counter, began to hum.

“Is that mine?” Jordan asked, glancing around frantically.

“No, I think it's mine,” Amanda said, dashing across the kitchen for her purse.

“Actually, I believe it's mine.” Mallory reached over and grabbed her phone, then checked caller ID before answering.

“Good morning, Trevor,” she greeted the magazine's
managing editor before he'd even had a chance to say hello.

“Good morning yourself,” he returned congenially. “I hope it's not too early to call.”

“Not at all,” Mallory assured him. “In fact, my kids and I were just talking about you.”

“Nothing too terrible, I hope,” he joked.

“Actually, they were asking me where I was being sent next.”

Trevor let out a deep, booming laugh. “You make it sound like you work for the CIA.”

“The Good Life
sends me to much better places,” Mallory assured him. “No spies, no microchips, and no cyanide tablets.”

“Not to mention that your job description includes some pretty nice perks,” Trevor kidded. “Staying at the best hotels, eating at fancy restaurants, going on endless sightseeing expeditions—all in the name of research, of course.” He sighed. “In my next life, I think I'll come back as a travel writer.”

“No one appreciates how hard we travel writers work!” Mallory shot back in the same teasing tone. “I once had two massages in the same week.”

“Poor baby!” Trevor cooed.

“Actually, at the second spa, the massage therapist asked me when I'd last had one. I actually fibbed and told her it was three months ago.”

“In that case, maybe I should put a cap on the number of spa treatments per trip.”

“I didn't say I
minded
getting two massages,” Mallory insisted. “Although I'm not sure I can say
the same about the eight pounds I've put on since I started writing for the magazine.”

“The demise of your girlish figure is
my
fault?” Trevor asked with feigned indignation.

“Not yours, exactly. More like the fault of all those wonderfully generous chefs in those afore mentioned fancy restaurants. They always insist that I sample every appetizer and every dessert on the menu. Then there are those who look positively crushed if I say no to the wine pairings…”

“I'm definitely putting in my application to be reincarnated as a travel writer,” Trevor said, laughing. “And if I have to start wearing a bigger belt, so be it.”

“At least it's for a good cause.” Her tone more earnest, Mallory added, “I really do take my job seriously. If
The Good Life's
readers are going to look to me for advice on where to spend their hard-earned vacation dollars, I want to be sure they get the whole story. And that includes the bad as well as the good.”

“In that case,” Trevor said, “I think you'll appreciate your next assignment.”

“I'm all ears.”

“This time, you've got a choice.” Trevor paused to clear his throat. “We had an editorial board meeting late yesterday afternoon, and we came up with a new concept for the next issue. We're looking for an article about a destination that's famous for one particular type of activity. But we want to answer the question of whether it's possible for any visitor to have fun there—even one who doesn't enjoy whatever it is that put it on the map.”

“Sounds interesting,” Mallory commented.

“We thought of a couple of possibilities,” he continued. “One of them is Nashville. We'd want to answer the question, Can someone who doesn't like country music still have a good time there? Another idea is Alaska. The question would be, Can an indoor person have an enjoyable vacation in the wilds?” He paused before asking, “What do you think?”

“Interesting angle,” she commented thoughtfully. Her eyes drifted over to the folded-up newspaper on the table. “But given the theme, how about Aspen?”

“Aspen?” Trevor repeated, sounding surprised.

“That's right.” She did some fast thinking. “How about finding out if it's possible for somebody who doesn't ski to have fun in Aspen?”

“I take it you're not a skier?”

“Hah! I'm one of those people who puts skiing in the same category as riding a motorcycle over the Grand Canyon.”

“Aspen, huh?” Trevor was silent for a few seconds, as if he was mulling over the idea. “I don't know, Mallory. We did a piece on top ski resorts last winter. Even though Aspen wasn't the main focus of the article, I kind of feel we've already covered it.”

“But not Aspen for nonskiers,” she insisted. “I bet there's lots to do there for people who have no intention of setting foot on a ski slope.” She hesitated before asking, “Have you ever heard of a spa called Tavaci Springs?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact—even before I read about the woman who founded it in the
Times
this morning. Carly something.”

“Carly Cassidy Berman,” Mallory said. “How about an in-depth interview with her, something that goes beyond all the PR fluff? I could write about how entrepreneurs like her choose Aspen as the location for their businesses because of its wealthy and sophisticated clientele. And a top-of-the-line spa like Tavaci Springs is perfect because it gives people who visit Aspen something else to do besides skiing or snowboarding.”

“Hmm.” Mallory's heartbeat quickened as she waited to hear Trevor's response. “Of course, you'd have to get this Carly Berman to agree to speak with you. Honestly, I mean.”

“I think I can do that. It just so happens that she and I went to high school together.”

“No kidding!”

Mallory smiled. She could hear from his tone how impressed he was.

“I think you may have something there, Mallory,” Trevor said thoughtfully. “The timing is certainly right. Since it's April, ski season is probably winding down. It would be kind of interesting to see if there are enough other things going on there to interest nonskiers. I know Aspen hosts a film festival and a few other special events throughout the year, but I'm more interested in what's available on a year-round basis. Attractions, restaurants, maybe some outdoor activities… and the spa, of course. The fact that you're friends with the woman behind Tavaci Springs would be a real bonus.”

Not
friends
, exactly. Mallory gulped like a Looney
Tunes character, hoping she hadn't just promised more than she could deliver.

“Yes,” Trevor said, still sounding as if he was thinking out loud, “focusing on Aspen could work. How soon would you be able to go?”

As soon as I buy some fashionable new clothes, get a facial, and find a really good hairstylist, Mallory thought gleefully.

Not to mention guzzling all the Rejuva-Juice I can get my hands on.

T
en days later, as Mallory stood at the baggage claim at the Aspen/Pitkin County Airport, waiting for her bag to emerge, she couldn't help noticing that her fellow travelers’ suitcases and carry-ons bore a disproportionate number of Burberry, Coach, and Fendi labels. Or that parked outside next to the runway were so many private planes that she felt as if she'd just arrived at the Lear Jet factory store.