My Biggest Mistake Page 2

  A single billionaire. Sounds great, right? Well, let me tell you exactly why Rory Everest is single.

  I feel powerful as my fingers fly across the keypad. Rory may have the money, the status, the skyscraper, but I have a pen and a platform. There are over fifty thousand readers desperate for the truth about the most renowned bachelor of New York.

  I want to teach him a lesson.

  Rory judged me before he knew me, labeling me a gossip, a sell-out, and a nobody at first glance. He doesn’t know the dreams I had before life kicked me to my knees. He doesn’t know how close I came to real success, only to have it torn away from me.

  I enter the brain space where I go when I’m really writing, and several hours float by. When I get to the end, I am pleased with what I have written. It’s cutting, but it’s all true. I do a read-through for edits, then email it to my editor. I close my laptop and let out a deep breath.

  I may not be able to join Rory Everest on his pedestal, but perhaps I can knock him down a little so he can remember what it feels like to be someone on the ground below.

  Elise

  I make my way down the hallway of Cedar Manor, the nursing home where my mother lives. I keep my gaze downward, trying to ignore the splotchy mint green walls and the mildew-scented carpets. This is the best that I can afford. I feel guilty that I can’t do better. I would have loved to have kept her at the apartment with me, that is, when I had the apartment. She wasn’t safe there, though.

  When I had left for work one morning, she had forgotten that she had turned the faucet of the bathtub on. I had come home to water flowing out of the bathroom and into the hallway. Another time, she had left the burner of the stove on. Every time that I left the apartment, I worried about what I would come home to—a fire, a flood. Would she even be there? Or lost and alone, not remembering where she needed to be or who she was.

  I turn the corner to my mother’s room. It’s small and dingy, the décor is old. But here, she is safe. The doors are set so that residents cannot wander out. People are around 24/7. It costs me more than the rent of an apartment, but the peace of mind over my mother’s safety is worth it.

  Now, she sits silently in a chair by the small, cloudy window of her room. All of the furnishings belong to the hospital, designed to make it “homey.” Instead, they are worn and sad.

  I pull up a chair beside the one where she sits.

  “Hi Mom,” I say. Her gaze remains on the window. I’m not really sure that she knows I’m here. She hasn’t spoken or responded to me in over a year. The doctors said that it was an uncommon form of Alzheimer’s. Early onset. The symptoms started before my father’s death. He had died suddenly, and my mother’s decline was quick. In the blink of an eye, it seemed, I lost both of my parents.

  My mom’s brunette hair has been washed, but it’s un-styled. The staff here does the bare minimum—my mother is kept fed and clean, but that’s about it. I get her brush out of the drawer by the bathroom sink, then begin to gently run it through her hair. It is brown, like mine, although hers is streaked with gray.

  “I finished writing an article today,” I tell her. “It should be out soon.” She’ll never read it, but it feels good to tell her about it.

  I gently untangle the knots in her hair, brushing until it is smooth before I braid it into a long coil, securing it with a hair band and then setting it gently over her shoulder. This is how she used to wear it. She looks like a vague, washed-out shadow of her former self. I miss her—even though she’s still here physically.

  “There,” I announce. “You look lovely. Would you like your nails done, too?” There is no response. I take out a bottle of the shell-pink polish that she always wore. “I brought your signature color.”

  Inside, my heart is breaking, but I keep up my smile and easy demeanor. I pick up her hand and begin to paint her nails. Her hand is soft and light in mine. It’s as if her solidness, her weight, is fading along with her memories.

  “One time, and this was before Dad died,” I say as I work, “we went to the beach. We were going to have a picnic. We had driven all morning, since Dad wanted to get far away from the city.” I pause to watch her face for any glint of recognition. Nothing. I go on. “As soon as we got there and put all our food out on the blanket, it started to rain. Just absolutely pour. Our food was ruined.” I stop there. My mother’s hand lays limply in mine. “Dad brought us to that restaurant—the one with the seafood?”

  I don’t know if she can hear me. She just sits and stares out of the window. I doubt that she remembers what I’m talking about. But I hope it helps.

  I stay until the polish on her fingernails is dry, keeping up a steady stream of stories. Not that she would move and ruin it, but I feel like I need to stay until my job is done. Everything that I am doing is worth it. She may not remember me, and she may not know that I’m there, but she is still my mother—still the woman who loved me when she knew who I was.

  As I pass the receptionist desk on my way out, the woman behind it stops me.

  “Are you Kaitlyn Sawyer’s family?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You should be receiving this month’s bill soon,” she tells me. She is wearing a set of scrubs with cartoon characters emblazoned across them. They seem out of place here; that’s what someone working in a children’s ward should wear. A heavy stone settles in my stomach.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You said last time that you would let me know what your new address was? To send the bills? I tried calling you.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say before giving her Dayna’s address.

  “I hear that’s a nice area,” she says.

  “Very,” I agree. “Have a nice day.”

  “You too, Miss Sawyer.”

  I walk out onto the porch. As I do, I pull out my phone, which I have placed on silent for my visit. I have a text from my editor. My article is a hit. Us Weekly wants to run it. Suddenly, I have hope. Maybe this is my way back into serious journalism, and a steady, well-paying job. I remind myself not to get too far ahead. It’s a lucky break, even though I knew that everyone is predisposed to hate Rory Everest. My stomach does a flip as I realize that he’s probably read my article. He’s probably angry. I let it go as I make my way to the bus stop. He was the one who was rude to me. I just wrote what I found; Rory Everest is, without a doubt, the most heinous eligible bachelor in New York City.

  Rory

  I roll my tongue around in my mouth to try and remove the bitter taste left by reading the article in the magazine that is now in my lap. Miss Sawyer’s online article about me was so popular that Us Weekly republished it.

  I can’t see why. It’s nothing but trash tearing me to pieces.

  All that glitters isn’t gold. Rory Everest has no manners. He’s rude, short-tempered, and superficial, with a murky past we’re forbidden to question. Dating Rory Everest would be one game I wouldn’t want to play. Hard pass.

  I’ve been torn to shreds in publications up and down the country ever since I started to make it big, but for some reason, this piece is getting under my skin. I close my eyes and picture Elise sitting in my office again. She looked out of place in her old and tired clothes, writing for a gossip site.

  I underestimated her.

  I close the magazine with a sigh and lay it down on the side table next to the armchair. I’m sitting in the library of my home in Beverly Hills. It’s my preferred room in a house crammed full of bookshelves and first editions. A bronze sculpture from my favorite sculptress sits in the corner. It spins in the wind. I find the sight of it soothing. A dehumidifier by the window lets out a gentle hum. One of my four household coffee machines sits on a bronze cart by the doorway. I can’t go more than an hour without coffee. The one in this room is bean-to-cup, topped up with the finest Hacienda La Esmeralda beans which retail at $350 a pound. These days, it’s my only vice.

  I like to keep the drapes of the library drawn and the lights low. The smell of old books and fr
esh coffee relaxes me. I drink cup after cup of Panama’s finest until the buzz of anger blends with and becomes indistinguishable from the buzz of caffeine.

  It feels good to close my eyes. Leaning back against the soft red leather, I try to will away my agitation. I can hear the soft tread of footsteps coming down the hallway.

  “Rory?”

  I open my eyes.

  Alice, the housekeeper and nanny to my daughter, Grace, is standing in the doorway. I sit up and force a weary smile.

  “Hi, Alice.”

  She’s been a part of my household for seven years, and she’s probably the closest thing I have to a friend in this world. Not many get to see the life behind the closed doors of Rory Everest, but Alice lives in my home, knowing and seeing all.

  She’s sixty-five, I think, but looks younger. She has soft, kind eyes, a ready smile, and a soothing, low voice like she’s only ever one moment from a lullaby. She has dark blond hair which she usually wears in a pony or bun and has a penchant for denim jeans and pastel cardigans.

  When she walks into a room, she brings with her the scent of jasmine and fresh linen. Her hands are always slightly red from doing laundry and dishes. I’ve asked her a thousand times if she’d like gloves or gentler products, but she insists on doing housework the way her mother did.

  Her methods work. My house is always sparkling clean. I have no idea how Alice manages to juggle taking care of Grace and keeping a beautiful home, but she does them both and makes it look easy. I’d be helpless without her.

  “Grace has had her bath and brushed her teeth. She’s in bed. She’s asking for a story from her daddy.”

  Even though the day has been a long one and my bones feel heavy, I have never missed a bedtime story with Grace. I don’t get to spend as much time with my daughter as I’d like. I work long hours and am in high demand, but some moments are ours.

  “Of course. Thanks, Alice.”

  I head upstairs to Grace’s bedroom. An interior designer helped me make it the perfect haven for a little princess. The walls are white with soft pink accents. The bedsheets of the four-poster bed are covered in pink love-hearts and flowers. The bed is barely visible beneath the mountain of stuffed animals and cushions Grace has collected from our trips together over the years. The latest, and her favorite, is a huge bunny rabbit with enormous floppy ears and feet.

  In the corner is a six-year-old-sized dining set, complete with tiny porcelain teapot and cups. There has been more than one occasion where she’s talked me into sitting on one of the tiny chairs to pretend we’re drinking tea. Memories I treasure.

  The carpet is thick, and I sink into it when I step into the room. There’s still a lipstick stain on the floor from the play make-up set she asked for last Christmas. She got it everywhere and made all her dolls look like seventies’ housewives with shocking blue eyelids.

  She’s snuggled up in her bed. Grace is seven years old now, but every time I look at her, I still see my newborn child, my toddler, my little girl. Her long blond hair has been brushed until it shines, and she’s wearing her favorite elephant-print pajamas. She’s holding a copy of The Witches by Roald Dahl in her hand.

  Grace is mad about Roald Dahl these days. Last month, it was Jacqueline Wilson. She’s an avid reader, already reading far above her grade level.

  “Hello, Angel,” I say, peering around the door. “Alice tells me you’re ready for your story.”

  She grins, sits up and scooches over so I can sit beside her on the bed. When I’m next to her, she snuggles up against me and pushes the book into my hand.

  “Where were we?” I ask.

  “Chapter Seven.”

  “Chapter Seven? Were we really? Is it my turn to read, or yours?”

  “Your turn, Daddy.”

  I want Grace to learn and develop, so I encourage her to read to me as often as possible, but she missed hearing me read to her, so we made a deal. I read one night, she reads the next. Tonight, it’s my turn.

  My cold, stone heart melts when Grace nestles up against me. She’s warm and smells like strawberries. Her head is against my chest, her bunny tucked up under her arm, and her eyes scan the page as I read. She makes everything I do worthwhile. It’s all for her.

  I finish the chapter and Grace pouts. “Can I have one more?”

  “Sorry sweetheart, it’s time to sleep.” I kiss Grace’s forehead and turn on her nightlight. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I leave her room, softly closing the door behind me before standing in the hallway and smiling. I let out a long breath, feeling some of my frustration dissipate now that I’ve spent some time with my daughter.

  My step is lighter as I return to the library, where Alice is picking out a book.

  “Was it a good story?” she asks.

  “The Witches.” I raise my eyebrows. “It’s pretty scary for a kid.”

  Not that I ever read as a child. Not until I was fourteen, anyway, and discovered a tattered old book about computers in the far corner of our local library.

  Alice smiles. “Grace isn’t afraid of anything.”

  “How is she doing?” I ask. “Is there anything I need to be aware of? Problems at school? When did she last get a new backpack? Does she need a new backpack for school?”

  “Grace has everything she needs.” Alice offers me a warm grin. “Although, she’s been asking when her next ‘Daddy date’ is.”

  My free time is limited, but whenever I can carve out a free day, I always devote it to a day with Grace. We go and do whatever she wants. Last time, it was the zoo.

  “I can cancel my meetings this weekend. Grace is right. It’s been too long.” I look over Alice’s shoulder at the books she’s examining. “Any idea where Grace wants to go this time?”

  “Swimming.” Alice laughs. “One of her friends at school went to the new waterpark that just opened downtown, and Grace hasn’t stopped talking about it. Apparently, it has water slides and ice-cream.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I went swimming. I’ll have to dig around for some trunks.”

  “Can I tell her it’s a Daddy date?”

  “Saturday. Tell her I’m free all day. We’ll go swimming and then to that place she likes to eat. If she wants to, we can even watch a movie.”

  “She’ll be thrilled.” Alice herself looks thrilled.

  She loves to see my daughter happy, and that’s why I cherish Alice. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Grace’s mother hasn’t been around since she was born, so it’s always been just my little girl and me. Alice was a godsend to me, especially in the early years when I was still figuring out how to be a parent. Now the pair of us have found a happy rhythm, and I know Grace feels safe and loved.

  “I’m excited, too,” I say. “The days I get with Grace always makes the hard ones worthwhile.”

  Elise

  I love waterparks, so when I was looking for another way to make ends meet, lifeguarding seemed like a fun choice. It’s seasonal, so it’s only for half the year. It lets me top up my savings before winter hits. I also get to sit around in the sunshine, building my tan. As far as jobs go, it’s not the most stressful in the world. It’s certainly better than waitressing on the side.

  It takes me three jobs to take care of my mother.

  My day job as a columnist barely covers my mother’s care fees. The side-gigs just about cover everything else. My plan is to move into print publishing one day and work for a newspaper. Then things should be easier.

  Sometimes, though, I find myself praying for a miracle.

  It’s a gorgeous day in late March. It’s not too hot, and there’s a pleasant breeze in the air. I’m sitting on my lifeguard podium by the two main pools. I keep my eyes mainly on the bottom of the slides to make sure the kids land safely, but also to make sure I sweep my gaze around the edges of the pool for anybody running around the sides. Every thirty seconds or so, I look across over everyone in the pool to make sure nobody is in da
nger.

  The park is a mecca for young families. There are four smaller slides for the younger kids and five taller ones for the older kids. All day long, I hear children laughing and screaming as they shoot down the slides and land with a splash in the water. The waterpark always has happy music playing over the speakers. It creates a relaxed, pleasant vibe.

  It’s been an easy morning. All the kids have behaved, and so have their parents. I’ve heard no fighting, there’s been no mischief, and everybody is having a good time.

  Casting my glance around the waterpark again, I look around at today’s crowd. There’s a pair of moms on matching sun loungers, talking each other’s ears off as their kids swing foam noodles at each other and cackle maniacally. A set of grandparents watch their grandson toddle around in his water wings, dipping him into the water and helping him float. Two teenagers, maybe sixteen or seventeen, are making out under one of the slides. I pretend I don’t see them there.

  Then, all of a sudden, I do a double take. Is it just me, or is that Rory Everest?

  I’d recognize him anywhere, even in a pair of swimming trunks in a family park. His dark hair is bone dry, so I guess he hasn’t been swimming. He has a phone in one hand pressed to his ear. He’s pacing up and down beside the pool as he talks agitatedly to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He looks irritated at the people around him who are talking too loudly for him to hear. He presses his spare hand down over his ear to block them out.

  God, he’s gorgeous. I bite down on my lip as I admire him. I don’t know how he finds the time to work out, but his body is toned and strong. His shoulders are broad. I fantasize about him diving in. I’d love to see his body moving through the water; his skin dripping as he comes up for air…

  There’s a little girl playing near him. I assume she’s his daughter. She has long blond hair and a cute smile. She’s holding a pair of goggles in one hand and keeps dipping her toes into the water to test its temperature.