The Last Mrs. Parrish Read online

  Dedication

  Lynne’s Dedication:

  For Lynn, the other bookend, for reasons too numerous to mention

  Valerie’s Dedication:

  For Colin, you make it all possible

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I: Amber One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Part II: Daphne Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Part III Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Amber

  One

  Amber Patterson was tired of being invisible. She’d been coming to this gym every day for three months—three long months of watching these women of leisure working at the only thing they cared about. They were so self-absorbed; she would have bet her last dollar that not one of them would recognize her on the street even though she was five feet away from them every single day. She was a fixture to them—unimportant, not worthy of being noticed. But she didn’t care—not about any of them. There was one reason and one reason alone that she dragged herself here every day, to this machine, at the precise stroke of eight.

  She was sick to death of the routine—day after day, working her ass off, waiting for the moment to make her move. From the corner of her eye, she saw the signature gold Nikes step onto the machine next to her. Amber straightened her shoulders and pretended to be immersed in the magazine strategically placed on the rack of her own machine. She turned and gave the exquisite blond woman a shy smile, which garnered a polite nod in her direction. Amber reached for her water bottle, deliberately moving her foot to the edge of the machine, and slipped, knocking the magazine to the floor, where it landed beneath the pedal of her neighbor’s equipment.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” she said, reddening.

  Before she could step off, the woman stopped her pedaling and retrieved it for her. Amber watched the woman’s brow knit together.

  “You’re reading is magazine?” the woman said, handing it back to her.

  “Yes, it’s the Cystic Fibrosis Trust’s magazine. Comes out twice a year. Do you know it?”

  “I do, yes. Are you in the medical field?” the woman asked.

  Amber cast her eyes to the floor, then back at the woman. “No, I’m not. My younger sister had CF.” She let the words sit in the space between them.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. It’s none of my business,” the woman said, and stepped back onto the elliptical.

  Amber shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Do you know someone with cystic fibrosis?”

  There was pain in the woman’s eyes as she stared back at Amber. “My sister. I lost her twenty years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. How old was she?”

  “Only sixteen. We were two years apart.”

  “Charlene was just fourteen.” Slowing her pace, Amber wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. It took a lot of acting skills to cry about a sister who never existed. The three sisters she did have were alive and well, although she hadn’t spoken to them for two years.

  The woman’s machine ground to a halt. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  Amber sniffed and shrugged. “It’s still so hard, even after all these years.”

  The woman gave her a long look, as if trying to make a decision, then extended her hand.

  “I’m Daphne Parrish. What do you say we get out of here and have a nice chat over a cup of coffee?”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to interrupt your workout.”

  Daphne nodded. “Yes, I’d really like to talk with you.”

  Amber gave her what she hoped looked like a grateful smile and stepped down. “That sounds great.” Taking her hand, she said, “I’m Amber Patterson. Pleasure to meet you.”

  * * *

  Later that evening Amber lay in a bubble bath, sipping a glass of merlot and staring at the photo in Entrepreneur magazine. Smiling, she put it down, closed her eyes, and rested her head on the edge of the tub. She was feeling very satisfied about how well things had gone that day. She’d been prepared for it to drag out even longer, but Daphne made it easy for her. After they dispensed with the small talk over coffee, they’d gotten down to the real reason she’d elicited Daphne’s interest.

  “It’s impossible for someone who hasn’t experienced CF to understand,” Daphne said, her blue eyes alive with passion. “Julie was never a burden to me, but in high school my friends were always pushing me to leave her behind, not let her tag along. They didn’t understand that I never knew when she’d be hospitalized or if she’d even make it out again. Every moment was precious.”

  Amber leaned forward and did her best to look interested while she calculated the total worth of the diamonds on Daphne’s ears, the tennis bracelet on her wrist, and the huge diamond on her tanned and perfectly manicured finger. She must have had at least a hundred grand walking around on her size-four body, and all she could do was whine about her sad childhood. Amber suppressed a yawn and gave Daphne a tight smile.

  “I know. I used to stay home from school to be with my sister so that my mom could go to work. She almost lost her job from taking so much time off, and the last thing we could afford was for her to lose our health insurance.” She was pleased with how easily the lie came to her lips.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” Daphne clucked. “That’s another reason my foundation is so important to me. We provide financial assistance to families who aren’t able to afford the care they need. It’s been a big part of the mission of Julie’s Smile for as long as I can remember.”

  Amber feigned shock. “Julie’s Smile is your foundation? It’s the same Julie? I know all about Julie’s Smile, been reading about all you do for years. I’m so in awe.”

  Daphne nodded. “I started it right after grad school. In fact, my husband was my first benefactor.” Here she’d smiled, perhaps a bit embarra
ssed. “That’s how we met.”

  “Aren’t you preparing for a big fund-raiser right now?”

  “As a matter of fact we are. It’s a few months away, but still lots to do. Say . . . oh, never mind.”

  “No, what?” Amber pressed.

  “Well, I was just going to see if maybe you’d like to help. It would be nice to have someone who understands—”

  “I’d love to help in any way,” Amber interrupted. “I don’t make a lot of money, but I definitely have time to donate. What you’re doing is so important. When I think of the difference it makes—” She bit her lip and blinked back tears.

  Daphne smiled. “Wonderful.” She pulled out a card engraved with her name and address. “Here you are. Committee is meeting at my house Thursday morning at ten. Can you make it?”

  Amber had given her a wide smile, still trying to look as though the disease was first in her mind. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Two

  The rocking rhythm of the Saturday train from Bishops Harbor to New York lulled Amber into a soothing reverie far removed from the rigid discipline of her workday week. She sat by the window, resting her head against the seat back, occasionally opening her eyes to glance at the passing scenery. She thought back to the first time she’d ridden on a train, when she was seven years old. It was July in Missouri—the hottest, muggiest month of the summer—and the train’s air-conditioning had been on the blink. She could still picture her mother sitting across from her in a long-sleeved black dress, unsmiling, back erect, her knees squeezed together primly. Her light brown hair had been pulled back in its customary bun, but she had worn a pair of earrings—small pearl studs that she saved for special occasions. And Amber supposed the funeral of her mother’s mother counted as a special occasion.

  When they’d gotten off the train at the grubby station in Warrensburg, the air outside was even more suffocating than the inside of the train had been. Uncle Frank, her mother’s brother, had been there to meet them, and they piled uncomfortably into his battered blue pickup truck. The smell is what she remembered most—a mixture of sweat and dirt and damp—and the cracked leather of the seat digging into her skin. They rode past endless fields of corn and small farmsteads with tired-looking wooden houses and yards filled with rusted machinery, old cars on cinder blocks, tires with no rims, and broken metal crates. It was even more depressing than where they lived, and Amber wished she’d been left at home, like her sisters. Her mother said they were too young for a funeral, but Amber was old enough to pay her respects. She’d blocked out most of that horrendous weekend, but the one thing she would never forget was the appalling shabbiness surrounding her—the drab living room of her grandparents’ home, all browns and rusty yellows; her grandfather’s stubby growth of beard as he sat in his overstuffed recliner, stern and dour in a worn undershirt and stained khaki pants. She saw the origin of her mother’s cheerless demeanor and poverty of imagination. It was then, at that tender age, that the dream of something different and better was born in Amber.

  Opening her eyes now as the man opposite her rose, jostling her with his briefcase, she realized they’d arrived at Grand Central Terminal. She quickly gathered her handbag and jacket and stepped into the streaming mass of disembarking passengers. She never tired of the walk from the tracks into the magnificent main concourse—what a contrast to the dingy train depot of all those years ago. She took her time strolling past the shiny storefronts of the station, a perfect precursor to the sights and sounds of the city waiting outside, then exited the building and walked the few short blocks along Forty-Second Street to Fifth Avenue. This monthly pilgrimage had become so familiar that she could have done it blindfolded.

  Her first stop was always the main reading room of the New York Public Library. She would sit at one of the long reading tables as the sun poured in through the tall windows and drink in the beauty of the ceiling frescoes. Today she felt especially comforted by the books that climbed the walls. They were a reminder that any knowledge she desired was hers for the asking. Here, she would sit and read and discover all the things that would give shape to her plans. She sat, still and silent, for twenty minutes, until she was ready to return to the street and begin the walk up Fifth Avenue.

  She walked slowly but with purpose past the luxury stores that lined the street. Past Versace, Fendi, Armani, Louis Vuitton, Harry Winston, Tiffany & Co., Gucci, Prada, and Cartier—they went on and on, one after another of the world’s most prestigious and expensive boutiques. She had been in each of them, inhaled the aroma of supple leather and the scent of exotic perfumes, rubbed into her skin the velvety balms and costly ointments that sat tantalizingly in ornate testers.

  She continued past Dior and Chanel and stopped to admire a slender gown of silver and black that clung to the mannequin in the window. She stared at the dress, picturing herself in it, her hair piled high on her head, her makeup perfect, entering a ballroom on her husband’s arm, the envy of every woman she passed. She continued north until she came to Bergdorf Goodman and the timeless Plaza Hotel. She was tempted to climb the red-carpeted steps to the grand lobby, but it was well past one o’clock, and she was feeling hungry. She’d carried a small lunch from home, since there was no way she could afford to spend her hard-earned money on both the museum and lunch in Manhattan. She crossed Fifty-Eighth Street to Central Park, sat on a bench facing the busy street, and unpacked a small apple and a baggie filled with raisins and nuts from her sack. She ate slowly as she watched people hurrying about and thought for the hundredth time how grateful she was to have escaped the dreary existence of her parents, the mundane conversations, the predictability of it all. Her mother had never understood Amber’s ambitions. She said she was trying to get too far above herself, that her kind of thinking would only land her in trouble. And then Amber had shown her and finally left it all—though maybe not the way she’d planned.

  She finished her lunch and walked through the park to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where she would spend the afternoon before catching an early-evening train back to Connecticut. Over the past two years she had walked every inch of the Met, studying the art and sitting in on lectures and films about the works and their creators. At first her vast lack of knowledge had been daunting, but in her methodical way, she took it step-by-step, reading from borrowed books all she could about art, its history, and its masters. Armed with new information each month, she would visit the museum again and see in person what she had read about. She knew now that she could engage in a respectably intelligent conversation with all but the most informed art critic. Since the day she’d left that crowded house in Missouri, she’d been creating a new and improved Amber, one who would move at ease among the very wealthy. And so far, her plan was right on schedule.

  After some time, she strolled to the gallery that was usually her last stop. There, she stood for a long time in front of a small study by Tintoretto. She wasn’t sure how many times she had stared at this sketch, but the credit line was engraved on her brain—“A gift from the collection of Jackson and Daphne Parrish.” She reluctantly turned away and headed to the new Aelbert Cuyp exhibition. She’d read through the only book about Cuyp that the Bishops Harbor library had on its shelves. Cuyp was an artist she’d never heard of and she’d been surprised to learn how prolific and famous he was. She strolled through the exhibit and came upon the painting she’d so admired in the book and had hoped would be a part of the exhibit, The Maas at Dordrecht in a Storm. It was even more magnificent than she’d thought it would be.

  An older couple stood near her, mesmerized by it as well.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” the woman said to Amber.

  “More than I’d even imagined,” she answered.

  “This one is very different from his landscapes,” the man offered.

  Amber continued to stare at the painting as she said, “It is, but he painted many majestic views of Dutch harbors. Did you know that he also painted biblical scenes and portraits?”
<
br />   “Really? I had no idea.”

  Perhaps you should read before you come to see an exhibit, Amber thought, but simply smiled at them and moved on. She loved it when she could display her superior knowledge. And she believed that a man like Jackson Parrish, a man who prided himself on his cultural aesthetic, would love it too.

  Three

  A bilious envy stuck in Amber’s throat as the graceful house on Long Island Sound came into view. The open white gates at the entrance to the multimillion-dollar estate gave way to lush greenery and rosebushes that spilled extravagantly over discreet fencing, while the mansion itself was a rambling two-story structure of white and gray. It reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the wealthy summer homes in Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. The house meandered majestically along the shoreline, superbly at home on the water’s edge.

  This was the kind of home that was safely hidden from the eyes of those who could not afford to live this way. That’s what wealth does for you, she thought. It gives you the means and the power to remain concealed from the world if you choose to—or if you need to.

  Amber parked her ten-year-old blue Toyota Corolla, which would look ridiculously out of place among the late-model Mercedes and BMWs that she was sure would soon dot the courtyard. She closed her eyes and sat for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths and going over in her head the information she’d memorized over the last few weeks. She’d dressed carefully this morning, her straight brown hair held back from her face with a tortoiseshell headband and her makeup minimal—just the tiniest hint of blush on her cheeks and slightly tinted balm on her lips. She wore a neatly pressed beige twill skirt with a long-sleeved white cotton T-shirt, both of which she’d ordered from an L.L.Bean catalog. Her sandals were sturdy and plain, good no-nonsense walking shoes without any touch of femininity. The ugly large-framed glasses she’d found at the last minute completed the look she was after. When she took one last glimpse in the mirror before leaving her apartment, she’d been pleased. She looked plain, even mousy. Someone who would never in a million years be a threat to anyone—especially not someone like Daphne Parrish.