Unmaking Marchant

  Unmaking marchant

  A love inc. novel

  ELLA JAMES

  Prologue

  MARCHANT

  NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

  SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 2007

  The casket is gold. The color of the sun. The color of Marissa’s long, straight hair. I have the urge to open its lid, but that would be pointless. There’s nothing inside. Because there’s nothing left.

  It’s my fault. I know that just as surely as I know my goddamned name, even though I didn’t kill her with my own two hands. I look down at them. They’re bloody hands. Blood is seeping from the broken knuckles.

  Wonder how long before the cops catch up with me.

  I run a fingertip over the lid of the sunshine casket. The crimson smear gleams in the lamplight like something precious. And all of a sudden, I want to see more of it. So much more of it.

  I look around the small mortuary viewing room for something sharp. My hands are shaking with the need for it—the need to end it all right now. I could do it. The funeral director is in his office. I can hear him pecking on a keyboard.

  I could do it right now. No one would know.

  I’m in the perfect place for death, after all—and I deserve to die. Just ask Marissa.

  I turn around slowly and stare at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the left side of the room. So many books, and all the books so pointless. Like the casket, everything is pointless. Has always been pointless. Will always be pointless.

  I try to push past the fuzziness inside my mind and think. Maybe I could use the glass on a frame to cut my wrists. I could even find the room where they embalm the bodies and use one of the knives. Whatever the way, I like the thought of dying here.

  Right then, as if the gods ordain my thoughts, a letter opener pops out at me from among the books and trinkets. It’s long and brassy, pointed at the tip just like a dagger. It’s resting near the bottom of the bookshelf, right in front of a staunch, burgundy hardback called RESPECTING LIFE.

  Even in my current state, I can appreciate the irony.

  I step across the foot-worn rug and lift the cool brass gently off of its perch. I’m looking down at it, thinking how much duller it looks than the ones they use in movies to stab the villain, when the pecking stops.

  The sweaty hair on the back of my neck tingles, like I just did a line of coke.

  A second later, the double-doors burst open, and the cops pour in.

  1

  SURI

  NAPA, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2013

  Dancing.

  The last two hours of the Heels for Heaven charity gala are nothing but dancing.

  That’s why Adam’s drinking tonight. At least, I guess that’s why. Since dinner ended and the dancing started, I’ve stuck to one side of the ballroom, while Adam has been burning up the other.

  It wasn’t like this at galas past. Adam used to be a fabulous date. We would dance for hours, often commemorating our fun night by purchasing one of those cheesy dance floor snapshots: my head against his shoulder, Adam’s round face lit up in a huge grin as he spun me.

  And then we would go home. My house. Adam’s condo. Maybe a hotel, if Adam was feeling dramatic and fun.

  Where ever we landed, more often than not these last few years, trouble would start. I’d take care of Adam for hours as he lay on the bathroom floor, moaning and sweating. And in between bouts of being sick, he’d turn into someone mean; sometimes even cruel.

  So, when he asked me to marry him a month ago, in a beautiful little ice cream shop in SOHO, I said yes—with a single stipulation: no more drinking.

  Adam knows the extent of his issue—at least, I thought he did—because he didn’t even bat an eye before agreeing.

  I was on cloud nine that night. Adam, my sweetheart since our high school days at Hargrove Day School, told me he was moving back from New York. Opening his own one-man literary agency in San Francisco so I can continue to grow my interior design business. And the ring he gave me…

  A three-carat diamond surrounded by itty bitty fire opals. It’s so…me. Adam knows that. He knows everything about me.

  So why is he on his sixth drink?

  “You should just stop counting,” Charlene says.

  Charlene is my cousin. Our moms are sisters. We’ve traded secrets since toddlerhood, and we enjoy one of those comfortable relationships where we’re able to pick back up after almost any length of time apart. Since I’ve chosen to keep Adam’s drinking a secret from everyone else I know—I don’t want people in our circle to judge him—I broke down tonight and told Charlene.

  She’s a watercolor artist, and she’s jetting off to Sidney tomorrow afternoon for an extended showing, which is probably why I feel like I can confide in her. Unlike with my BFF, Lizzy DeVille—who’s currently in Vegas—or my other BFF, Cross, who’s in rehab after a major motorcycle accident, I won’t have to talk about the situation with Charlene again for months.

  “I’m not counting,” I lie. “I was just…glancing over there.”

  Charlene scrunches her long, straight nose. “He must know you’re pissed; he hasn’t looked at you once in the last half-hour.”

  “Thanks, Char.”

  She slaps my back, bared by the low dip of my black, Swarovski-accented Atelier Versace gown. “Just stating the facts, cuz.”

  Maybe it isn’t six drinks. Maybe it’s only four or five. I tried very hard to not pay attention when he first started, so I could be off.

  I glance at Charlene, who’s waving her arm around in front of my face. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, when’s the wedding?” She tosses back some pinot grigio while wiggling her pale eyebrows.

  “Oh, that. I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when we decide.”

  “I will be flying home for it, wherever I happen to be,” she says, leaning against the wall behind her.

  I wrap my arm around her tall, lean form, hugging lightly. “Thanks, Char. That really means a lot to me.”

  She flashes me a thumbs-up, and seconds later, James Renfroe, from Charlene’s class at Hargrove—two years ahead of me—struts over and jerks her into a funky waltz.

  He winks at me and says, “You’re next, Dalton,” and then they’re off, crisscrossing the shiny hardwood floor, weaving between more mild-mannered couples.

  As I follow them with my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Adam. Regardless of how many drinks he’s had so far, he’s definitely tossing back another one just now.

  I lean against the wall and grit my teeth. I don’t get it. I picked him up from his townhouse tonight, and we had a nice time together on the ride here. True, we haven’t seen each other for a week and a half—Adam isn’t moving back to Cali for five weeks—but that seemed to make our time together better. Lots of snuggling and kissing. He seemed into it. I know I was.

  Dinner was good, too: chicken breast saltimbocca, served with Anson Mills farro verde, organic bloomsdale spinach, La Quercia prosciutto, artichoke "chips" and a caper jus. We sat with the Davidsons and the Blancs, and it was easy-going and fun. I told a funny story about a San Francisco zoo fundraiser where a baby elephant knocked an aging socialite on her butt, and Adam seemed amused. He rested his hand on my knee under the table and gave me several just-for-Suri smiles.

  And then the dancing started. I went to the ladies’ room to adjust my tape-on bra cups, and when I got back, Adam was chatting up one of his college buddies and holding a glass of wine. I stuck around for a few minutes, saying “hi” to his friend, assuming Adam was only holding the drink for appearances. But then two more of Adam’s buddies showed up, and he downed the first drink and a second in the space of five minutes. That was an hour and a half ago. Shortly thereafter, Charle
ne popped up, and I’ve been on this side of the room ever since.

  The next hour passes in a miserable blur as I try to listen attentively to Charlene’s Sidney plans. I dance a few times with various acquaintances and watch as Adam does the same, on the opposite side of the room. I watch him smile and laugh, animated and open, and I wonder what on earth his problem is. Does he plan to ignore me this way all night? People have surely noticed. Even worse, we said no drinking! Not because I’m a buzz-killing fiancé, but because Adam has a problem.

  I’m on my second wine chute, wishing I could be like Adam and toss back five more in the next five minutes, when I see him gliding through the crowd. He stops to talk a few times, throwing his head back so his fluffy brown hair gleams in the dim globe lights. Smiling that handsome smile that makes him look so affable, so kind.

  He strolls past a large, potted palm, smiling at me like nothing whatsoever is wrong, and when he’s close enough so I can smell his cologne, he holds out his hand.

  “A dance, my lady?”

  I bite my lip, barely succeeding at holding back my tears. “Adam…I want to go.”

  “Home?” He bows lavishly at the waist, like an old-fashioned butler. “Then home it is.”

  He holds his arm out. I don’t want to make a scene, so I thread my hand through it, and together we walk to the club’s valet room, where we stand in silence until one of the valets tells us the limousine is outside at the curb.

  Adam leads me out the side door, down three brick steps to the curb line, and I can smell the alcohol on him.

  My fingers burn holes in his worsted wool dinner jacket—one I’ve never seen. One he must have picked up in New York. And it occurs to me, as my body presses into his, that for the first time ever, I feel like I don’t know him.

  The club valet, Mark, opens the limousine’s door for us. Adam waves his arm and I climb in, holding my gown so I don’t snag or step on it. I settle on the far side of the limo, near the window, my clutch in my lap and my body language clearly telling him to stay the hell away. Adam hops in behind me, lithe and seemingly sober. But he’s not fooling me. He gives Mark a little wink, and moves to close the door without handing out a tip.

  “Hold on,” I tell him. I reach across Adam, holding my arm out as a placeholder, and when Adam pauses, confused, I pull a twenty dollar bill out of my clutch.

  “Thank you,” I tell Tom, handing him the cash.

  “Have a wonderful evening.” He smiles and gently shuts the door.

  I’m opening my mouth to say something to Adam—I’m not sure what, but something—when he leans back his seat, kicks his feet up on the partition, and gives me a silly grin. “Thanks, G.”

  I sink back into my seat and roll my eyes at my window. Really? “G”?

  I feel the lurch of the car as Arnold takes off down the long, winding driveway, and I shut my eyes. I replay our conversation that night at Banana Beau's. Am I insane? Didn’t I tell him no more drinking?

  As I wrack my brain, Adam’s clammy hand finds mine. I peek my eyes open, and of course, he can tell I’m irritated.

  His thick eyebrows draw together, an exaggerated, drunken expression of concern. “What’s the matter, baby?” His pungent breath wafts over my face.

  I’m not even sure where to start. I slide my hand out of his and drop my head into my palms. Maybe he forgot our agreement? Or did he simply start drinking because his old friends were there? Maybe he wanted to look ‘normal’? If he can’t withstand the pressure to drink around two men he rarely ever sees, he’s not going to be able to honor this agreement of ours.

  Well, obviously.

  I think of the last time Adam and I went to a party—the Napiers' spring swing dance. We decided to stay at Adam’s townhouse afterward. When I dared suggest Adam strip his vomit-covered clothes off and shower without—gasp—having sex first, he called me a bitch, and later that night, he called me a stupid whore.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

  I tremble with anger, but I keep my mouth pressed firmly closed. If he doesn’t know, I’m not about to tell his drunken self.

  His head falls on my shoulder, and he looks up at me through his eyelashes. “Don’t be mad at me, Sur. We’re gonna have a good night. You’ll see.”

  I can’t tell exactly how drunk he is, but it doesn’t matter. He drank, and we said he wouldn’t.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” I mumble, shaking him off me and scooting closer to the door.

  I take a few deep breaths, gathering my patience. Preparing to discuss this whole drinking thing before Arnold gets much closer to my house, so if it turns into a fight, I can have him drop Adam off at Adam’s townhouse.

  I’m about to broach the subject when Adam leans over, opens up the mini fridge embedded in the partition wall in front of us, and pulls out a bottle of my favorite Aubert Pinot Noir.

  He dangles it in front of my face. “Want to half it with me? Your favorite, baby.”

  “Of course not.” I glare at him. “Do you have selective amnesia?”

  He drops the wine into his lap and puts on his petulant, I-know-I-messed-up-and-now-I-can’t-hide-from-it face as he makes another grab for my hand. I snatch it into my lap, setting my gaze on the partition in front of me. “Baby, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t have too much. I just needed…to loosen up, you know? You know how my social anxiety is.”

  Which is why I keep suggesting that he find himself a therapist.

  I don’t look at him. Not now, and not during the next fifteen minutes of our drive to Crestwood Place. I realize, belatedly, as we roll down my driveway, that Arnold brought Adam here, when I should have asked him to please take Adam home. I don’t want to talk to Adam anymore tonight.

  My eyes sting with tears as the limo stops, and I glance at him. He acts like such a child sometimes. How can I marry him if he’s not willing to grow up? How can he really love me if he doesn’t care enough about the drinking issue to just stop? Especially since he calls me ugly names when he gets drunk. My parents don’t do that. Neither do my friends. Until Adam started drinking a lot, no one—no one—had ever called me any name.

  I don’t deserve that—right?

  I think again about something my mother once told me: Most people never really change, and after marriage, bad habits tend to get worse.

  Adam is leaning over his lap, with one elbow propped on his knee and his face in his hand, like he’s upset. He hasn’t touched the wine, but does that even matter? A tear spills down my cheek as I remember all the names he’s called me during drunken moments—whore, bitch, cunt: things he would never call me when he’s sober, but he’s said them enough times when he’s drunk that I’m convinced he’s always thinking them.

  How can I marry someone who thinks that I’m a cunt?

  And isn’t that a nasty little word?

  I imagine my father’s face. I would bet millions that he’s never, ever called my mother a cunt. Even “bitch” seems hard to imagine coming from his lips. It should be unfathomable for Adam, too. What’s wrong with him that it isn’t? Or is it something wrong with me?

  Am I a cunt?

  I’m not, right?

  Most people who know me think I’m nice. I have my moments, sure, but so does everyone.

  I remember slamming the door of Adam’s town house last time he drank. “If you name-call me again, I’m leaving you! I really am!”

  Then he proposed and promised to quit.

  I can no longer ignore my suspicion that he’s been drinking in New York, too. Like, maybe almost every night. What happens when he moves to Napa? When we live together? I can’t do this all the time!

  As if he hears my thoughts, Adam raises his head and blinks at me.

  “Adam,” I say, “you need to go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I expect contrition. Understanding. Instead, his eyes widen like I’ve slapped him. His shoulders square, and he reaches out to grab my elbow. “No way, baby. I want to get in th
e pool.”

  I frown. “You what?”

  “Skinny dipping. It’s your fantasy.” He grins. “I’m feeling loose tonight. I think I can do it.”

  Adam’s so uptight, he’s never been willing to take a naked swim with me, not even when we’ve been the only ones at home.

  “Lizzy’s gone now,” he says. “This is our night.” He kisses the top of my hand. “Last night drinking. I fucking swear. I love you, baby. We can stop going to parties if we have to. I’ll make the therapist appointment. Just let me swim with your fine self.”

  I struggle not to roll my eyes; then Adam kisses me gently on the lips. Despite the overwhelming scent of alcohol, I don’t pull away when his arms wrap around me. He pulls me close to his chest—a signature Adam move that always makes me feel safe and sheltered—and for a long second, I can tell myself that he’s my Adam. The guy I started dating in ninth grade. The one who could barely get a condom over himself when we lost it to each other in the fields behind Harvey Goldman's house.

  I inhale his cologne and ignore the smell of the alcohol. I allow myself to ignore everything as he lifts me out of the limo and carries me around the back of my house. In the still of the night, I hear Arnold pull off, bound for the smaller, whitewashed house where he and the cook and my security guard have rooms.

  The egg-shaped pool is crisscrossed by thousands of globe lights strung between the main house and the garden house. Tonight, the stars twinkle between them. It’s beautiful.

  “Adam,” I say as he sets me gently on the pale tile. He looks down at me, and I wrap my arms around his neck and look at his familiar face. “It really hurt me that you did this after you promised you wouldn’t.”

  I stare into his eyes, looking for some hint—any hint—that he gets it. That he understands why I’m upset.

  He takes a step away from me and hangs his head, looking back up after a long moment staring at the Salvatore Ferragmo calfskin leather shoes I got him for his birthday. “I understand, Suri. I guess…I have a problem. Maybe I need to try AA or something.”

  Tension leaves me in a rush. I can feel my shoulders deflate like a popped balloon. “You’ll actually consider that?”