The Next Best Thing

THE NEXT BEST THING

BY SANDI PERRY

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

THE NEXT BEST THING DECEMBER 2019©

Sitting on the morning grass, I glance at my tiny companion. The toad barely pays me heed and that’s perfect because in the days ahead I’ll be getting more attention than a person could ever need. It’s part of the irony of my life that all I ever wanted was to be left alone. Terry hops off the cool rock and into our man-made pond. He is soon replaced by Tennyson in a warped version of leapfrog. I named them all at the insistence of the landscape designer who thought involving me would validate his exorbitant fee.

I feel a presence join me—bigger than a toad and much more of a threat to the Zen-like state I’ve talked myself into. He expertly skims a stone across the water, testing to see if his presence is welcome today, of all days. Without turning, I acknowledge him with a slight nod.

I stand up with a sigh—my legs giving out with a crumple as much from grief as from the misjudging of my left leg that had fallen asleep while I tried remembering the toads’ names. He pulls me toward him and I allow it. I lay my head on his shoulder for support taking care not to lean my body fully against him while seeking the life affirmation I desperately need. I sense the angels in heaven wagging their collective fingers at me. It just wouldn’t do to be seen with my arms draped around the man I’ve loved for the past twenty years on the day of my husband’s funeral.

Six Years Earlier

Chapter 1

The silent swoosh of the elevator hermetically seals in Michael and I as we descend to the lobby.

So now you need to find a way to excuse another hundred million in your trust fund, he says with a laugh. It was a nice gesture—giving ten million to the Hospital for Special Surgery. They did a great job with grandfather’s hip a few years back.

I count the lighted floor numbers on the way down, hoping he will stop talking and wonder why there’s no one else in this blasted building who has any interest in taking the elevator today.

"Want to hit Nobu? Lawyers and will readings make me hungry," he says.

No, I have a thing.

What kind of thing?

"My client is throwing himself a Welcome to the New Apartment party."

Ethan Brandt?

I nod.

What’s he like?

Brilliant. Fascinating—

Sounds promising.

Nerdy.

He shakes his head. Not everyone can be a movie star, Ev.

I flash him a withering look.

He leans toward me conspiratorially. You know, he says in an exaggerated whisper, You can bail on the party because you don’t need to work.

I grit my teeth and look ahead, doing my best to block him out. I work because I do need to—because relying on family money nearly undid my mother. Michael finds my approach to the family war chest hilarious. He practically doubles over in laughter, claiming my playacting at independence is disingenuous. Our last name, DuPont, figures prominently on plaques beneath several paintings hanging in The American Wing at The Met and is emblazoned on more than one wing at Weill-Cornell hospital. Several prestigious academic libraries dotting the East Coast bear the DuPont Family inscription as well. I’ve added an ‘E’ at the end of mine to throw off the scent, but anyone with Google can expose me in seconds. This too is a constant source of amusement to Michael. I expend a lot of energy tuning him out, and on occasion, loving him. That’s how things can be with twins.

The lobby, finally.

Good-bye, I say, with a wave over my shoulder. Send my love to Sebastian.

And send mine to Ethan—or is that Sully? Michael’s laughter rings off the marble walls and tall glass windows that let in the twinkling street lights of Madison Avenue.

Two hours later another elevator drops me off into rarefied penthouse air. Tinkling piano notes summon me forward as the door slides open into Ethan’s apartment. The music choice seems more of a nod to the party guests than to his own musical taste, which runs firmly to Blues. I see him across the vast living room and allow myself to get waylaid on my way over to him. There seems to be a nice mix of industry leaders, avant-garde millionaires, and a smattering of East Coast celebrities, of whom I know quite a few. Gayle King greets me warmly—as if she could possibly be anything but splendid. She offers condolences on my grandfather’s passing, and as usual, reminds me that her office is always open. She’s been trying to interview anyone in my family for years.

Susan Sarandon floats over, gives me a cheek peck, and says: The whole place is Divine. Which is overly-kind on her end, seeing as she’d never hire me because she ‘disapproves of my family and how it made its money.’ Guess what, Susan? I do, too—which is why I’m here playing nice with people I can’t stand so I don’t have to rely on my family. I shake the rant out of my head because the loop is ineffective and unproductive.

Instead, I take a good look at the place through fresh eyes. The whole space has a gorgeous glow because I always insist on using the best lighting designer available who understands the need to layer lighting in a space. The murmured conversations, occasionally livened up with an over-loud guffaw, and piano playing are well absorbed by the lustrous fabrics and soft-furnishings in the room.

I steal into the kitchen. The kitchen staff are trained to ignore wanderers, and I gratefully swipe a champagne glass off the counter and take a deep drink.

The apartment looks spectacular, a woman says, looking at me with a direct gaze. I’m Caroline, by the way.

I know who she is—her introduction is meant as an ice-breaker, an attempt at civility. I think of it this way because she leaves off her last name, but we both know it’s the same one that’s signed my checks during the months-long renovations. I wonder if her approval is necessary. She compliments my works seemingly without malice, and I wonder if such a thing is possible. They are no longer married and yet she is amongst the select group Ethan has allowed to come and see my work. I feel perfectly at ease in this environment of one-percenters, but the former Mrs. Brandt is looking at me as if I have hay stuck between my teeth.

I’m prepared for the acidic bite of the ex-wife as penance for having caught the eye of her husband before he was officially her ex. As for the rest of the gathered, I’m hoping my design of Ethan’s bachelor pad will spur more business because my momentary flush of funds will run out in the next few months. The only thing that could be worse than sucking up to smug, self-made millionaires would be acknowledging the trust fund that is lying in wait for me.

I know. Poor little rich girl.

He’ll give you the last payment and then make his move.

I remain quiet, careful not to reveal he’s already done both.

He’s sweet on you, she continues, seemingly undeterred by my silence.

That’s a quaint term, I say, determined not to be drawn into something with her. I’m uninterested in the conquest of a man fifteen years my senior.

She sets her wine glass on the kitchen counter and runs her hand along it. What is this? It’s terrific.

Lava rock.

She nods. I’m glad you reined in his garish tendencies. Our house was all gold and mirror—cruise ship décor on steroids. I never wanted it, but he needed to prove something. Now he needs to prove something else.

I glance around the kitchen even though I know every inch of it. I’ve selected milk-glass paneled wenge wood cabinets: simple, classy, understated. That’s my work mantra. The glossy, amber-hued lava counter top was the one compromise, its highly reflective surface providing the pop in the subdued space that’s backlit like a Hollywood movie set.

I need to extricate myself from the conversation but something tells me she has an agenda, possibly viewing me as a threat, which I’m not. I decide to continue with my police tactic of silence. Most people rush to fill a void and trip themselves up. No need to incriminate myself for something I’ve not done, although it seems like she’s already issued her verdict.

She walks my way and stops. Yes, we are still close. We started out as best friends and should’ve left it at that. You’ll get no pushback from me unless I think you’re being less than honest. He trusts me because I knew him before he was who he is now. She studies me. Do you know anyone like that—someone who started out one way but turned course and ended up a stratospheric success?

Her tone is without obvious challenge, but I can’t tell if she’s asking this question for emphasis or if she actually knows the answer. I decide she is a woman to carefully watch.

She takes another step closer and in a surprise move, reaches for my hands in a motherly gesture. I am momentarily disarmed, followed by a split-second of being charmed before I freak out because I dislike strangers touching me.

"Evie, can I call you Evie?’

I nod stiffly.

She continues. Ethan is a good man; I would listen carefully to anything he has to offer.

I gently pull my hands from hers and take a step back. I’m looking for all sorts of distance. I appreciate you looking out for me, or him—I’m not sure who you’re intending to help or why. But our dealings are purely business. Good night.

I turn away from the bizarre conversation. A part of my brain, the devious part finely-honed from years of attending the best prep school money could buy, wonders if Ethan put her up to it. He’s certainly capable of something like this. You don’t get to be successful by missing out on opportunities when presented with them.

I step back into the living room to say good bye to Ethan wondering if he’ll graciously let me leave. I mime my good-bye with the old nodding toward the door and pointing at the watch routine—even though no one from my generation wears a watch. He flashes me a genuine smile with a hand waving me toward him, and I don’t have the nerve to tick off a guy who could be a source of future referrals, so I scuttle my plans for a quick escape.

I move close, careful to stand just out of reach of his left arm that I know is itching to pull me in. Ethan hails from the Midwest and is not afraid of showing emotion or hugging strangers. His family is that way, not that I’ve met them, but I’ve selected frames for the graduations and family events that mark the walls of his study. In every one of them someone’s arm is draped around someone’s neck, or his parents are embracing one of their children or grandchildren. My high school graduation picture has my parents standing on either side of me, gritting their teeth because my father had just told my mother the night before that he was divorcing her, thereby linking my once in a lifetime event with his bolt for freedom.

Evie DuPonte, Ethan says. Everyone…remember that name. Great things are coming your way, Evie.

I blush on cue at the smattering of applause, and artfully answer the questions lobbed my way without giving anything away. I am an excellent protector of secrets, so all is safe with me. I smile at Ethan genuinely, and thank him for giving me the opportunity to showcase my talent.

He walks me toward the door in a possessive way and leans down to whisper in my ear. Can I call you?

We both know my work is done and the next move is a personal one. Caroline definitely knows her ex.

Of course, I say.

My mother didn’t raise a fool.

Chapter 2

I am cursed with being a morning person—even on the weekends. Brooklyn Heights, the part of Brooklyn where I live, has grown tres chic in a reverse-elitist way that has elevated its real estate prices out of range of the average citizen. I inherited my house from my maternal grandmother, Nana Bess, five years ago, and only have to keep up the taxes which are not a small amount. She adored me as I did her, and as a teenager I often sought sanctuary here when my own entitled neighborhood of the Upper Eastside had become too suffocating. I imagine she would let out a howl to see that I’m now re-entrenched in a sea of a different kind of entitlement spearheaded by hirsute hipsters wearing rucksacks doubling as clothing and furniture. On every corner, micro-brews flow from taps in abundance and fair-trade foods are prepared by condescending vegans who lecture us about our need for sustainability.

I head over to Michael’s place on Laight Street near the Holland Tunnel. Sebastian, his boyfriend, has an ever-changing, always eclectic group over for brunch Sunday mornings. I’ve never met a person with the kind of exuberant energy he has and wonder over and over again why he sticks it out with my brother.

Sebastian lives to cook, and I am never one to turn down a well-prepared meal. I am truly in love with Sebastian because he doesn’t judge me, and he keeps my brother calm. On the days when the financial markets are closed, Michael swims or plays tennis in the mornings. But after that he grows restless and roots around for something constructive to occupy himself. We are similar probably only in that way. The funny thing is Michael and I don’t even look related, much less like twins, except for our eyes. We were born within seven minutes of one another, and although most people don’t usually live or die by the minute unless they’ve missed a plane, or are in the throes of labor, my brother never misses the opportunity to lord his elder statesman wisdom over me regarding all things picayune in my life.

On the train ride over the bridge, Ethan calls. It’s less than forty-eight hours since he said he would and although I’m not completely shocked because I’ve taken him to be a man of his word, in the dating world of my generation, no one actually calls anymore. Typically, lame texts laced with non-committal offers of hanging out take the place of an actual call, targeting the low-lying fruit amongst us. I’ve always aimed high—perhaps too high, which is why I’m alone so much. I’ve never been a highly sexual person. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy sex done right, but that often isn’t the case with a nameless millennial who can’t be bothered to really satisfy a woman he barely knows.

I let the call go to voice mail in a cowardly move and wonder how I’m going to handle Ethan’s redirected interest in me. I am aware I’m a way to fill a void in his new life in much the same way I’ve handily filled his empty apartment. I’m not sure if I’m the right person for the role he’s now auditioning women for, and I feel he deserves better. I make a deal with myself. If he calls again, I will do him the courtesy of picking up.

I’d been working on Ethan’s apartment for weeks until I actually met him—and even that had been by accident. His uber-efficient assistant, Francine, had approved the layout and given me the budget. The next step had been the Power Point presentation of my furniture and accessory selections along with fabric swatches and sketches. Francine was fairly easy to work with since she was Ethan’s work wife and had a good line to his psyche.

She had been a stay-at-home mom until one day five years ago, when her husband woke up and decided he didn’t want to be married anymore. The workforce had recalibrated in the decade she had taken off to raise a family. Francine, who had known Ethan from college days, had reached out to him, and it spoke to his loyalty as a friend that he gave her a chance. She’s worked for him ever since and knows his taste. She made selections for him in the briskly efficient manner I had come to relish, knowing the energy drain indecisive clients can be.

Ethan had entered the apartment that day so silently neither of us had heard him, though Francine cocked her head just as a loyal minion might should the king suddenly arrive. Not to say he acted like royalty, but she definitely revered him. He strode over quietly, hands in his pants pockets, shirt sleeves rolled up. He held my gaze as he approached and I noted intelligent eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses.

I didn’t realize my meeting was with my designer—whom I’ve never met… He looked at me even as he addressed Francine. And now I understand why. The last word had been said with a tinge of admonishment. He held out his hand.

I’m Ethan.

Evie DuPonte.

Your meeting was with Mark at … Francine said.

He nodded, essentially ignoring her as he reached for the sketches, and touched the fabric samples I had prepared.

I overheard you say you were heading to the apartment, he said to Francine without looking at her. It sounded like a much better way to spend my afternoon. I see I wasn’t wrong about that.

He’d asked thoughtful and thorough questions directed at me about the quality of the goods and installation deadlines. When he was done, he turned to look at me in what I’ve come to think of as the ‘Richard Gere’ look. One of my favorite movies is Pretty Woman. Yes, I like the occasional fair-tale ending, as juvenile as that may seem. In it, there’s a scene where Richard Gere goes back to the hotel after work to pick up Julia Roberts to take her to a business dinner. He walks into the bar where she’s waiting for him. And although he sees her from behind, he doesn’t equate the gorgeous vision she’s turned into with the cheap-looking hooker from the night before. But just at that moment she turns around on her stool, and he looks fully at her. And even though they had sex the night before, he straightens his shoulder and looks at her appraisingly in a purely male way—assessing her as a worthy female and not solely as a sexual object. It’s a look I’ve seen on men’s faces before, and it had just added an unnecessary complication to my job.

I have it from here. Thank you, Francine, he said.

That was when I realized why she hadn’t included him in the decisions. Perhaps her decisiveness was borne of the fact she could envision herself living in the apartment once the final signatures were placed on her boss’ divorce papers.

I ring the bell to Michael’s place and let myself in. When I started EvieDu Designs two years ago, Michael was my first client. We may bicker and get on each other’s nerves, but we are related after all. His place turned out spectacularly. I took pictures of it for my then sparse website portfolio and social media sites.

It looks exactly the same today as back then: all sleek, urban sophistication with pure luxe fabrics and furnishings. Everything gleams in a low-key but glamorous way from the sheepskin rug in the living room to the silvery-cashmere draperies that cover the floor to ceiling windows. The color of the silk-velvet sofa reminds me of grapes that have withered on the vine—a deeply-saturated plummy purple.

Michael had shown my pictures to a colleague who called in a favor with an editor at Elle Decor. The living room got published in a two-page spread along with my profile, and my career took off. The next year the economy hit a snag, and now I’m grateful that at least the one-percenters still have money. I feel guilty about it but business is business.

Michael crosses the room to greet me. The place is still getting raves. How’s business?

Climbing back slowly.

You’re talented; you’ll rebound. He swings his hand around the space. Christopher, he nods his head toward the back of the room, loves it. He calls it downtown luxe.

I look in the direction he’s pointing and frown. I’ve never heard that term, and I’m not even sure what it means.

It means he’s an asshole and can’t give a legitimate compliment without trying to insert himself into it.

I shake my head as I look at the baldish fellow wearing a white, three-piece suit.

His unfortunate fashion sense doesn’t lend credibility to anything he has to say. Doesn’t he know that look has been done already? And much, much better?

Who cares? Michael replies. He wants your card and lots and lots of people step into his gallery. He said the apartment’s ‘curated opulence’ looks so understated that he’d never have guessed I was fey—not that I’m trying to hide anything.

I resist the urge to smile because I’m not in a smiling mood. But Christopher’s observation is hilarious because the thought that Michael could flit around airily like a whimsical character in a fairytale is too comical. He never refers to himself as gay because he’s self-aware enough to know that would be purely ridiculous—he is hands down the least joyful person I know. His partner, Sebastian, on the other hand is wonderfully, warmly and exuberantly gay. And I love him for it.

Within seconds of entering and before I even have a chance to fill my plate, Sebastian descends on me, all gorgeous six feet of him and robust Castilian accent, shouting, Evie my darling, the love of my life!

He kisses both cheeks, ignores Michael, and grabs my hand. He takes a plate and fills it with amazing foods I can’t name and ingredients I can only guess at. I do recognize the goat cheese tart—a favorite of mine, and the revueltos, a scrambled-egg dish, with shrimp and peppers that is a staple here. I carefully avoid the French toast even though it seems to have an amazing maple-glaze on top because Sebastian has been known to use quail eggs with aplomb, and I’m afraid they might have been used to make the batter. I’m not sure why that makes me queasy, but it does.

He watches me sample each baked, fried, diced and sautéed item and smiles broadly as I roll my eyes in delight and moan appropriately.

Michael whispers in my ear, You can stop faking the orgasm now; he knows what a real one sounds like.

Sebastian, I say loudly. You’ve outdone yourself. What’s this? I ask, pointing to my half-eaten dumpling.

That’s squid with my special sauce.

I should have asked first. I flash a bright smile at him. I’m sure your crowd will really go for it.

His bistro, Sanibel, is just three years old but has a loyal following. He met my brother when he took the lease on the first floor of a property Michael owns in Williamsburg. I spend the next few minutes recovering from my squid dumpling and chit chat with the assorted guests. Sebastian hand-picks them in a fresh version of a chef’s table except the table is at the apartment he shares with my brother.

Christopher’s