Size 12 and Ready to Rock (Heather Wells 4)

“He did?” I have no idea what’s she talking about. Cooper’s not close with either of his sisters, since his dad threw him out when he was so young, and the age gap between them is more than fifteen years.

“Well,” she says, motioning to me to follow her and leading me into an open kitchen, all stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, “I more or less bribed it out of him. I’m working this summer as an intern for Marc Jacobs, and I told him I could get you all the clothes and accessories you want for, like, free. But he wouldn’t’ve told me if he didn’t want me to know, because it’s not like you can get Cooper to tell you something he doesn’t want you to know. You know?”

It’s only then that I realize that Jessica is half in the bag. She’s not falling-down drunk, but she’s barefoot—a look that doesn’t go badly with her silver bangles and the flowy black blouse and pants she has on. But she’s definitely not sober.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks. “Everyone else is having martinis before dinner out on the terrace, but I freaking hate martinis. I’m having pink greyhounds. I’ll make you one, if you want. It’s a brunch drink, but who the hell cares what time it is when someone’s trying to kill you, right?” She giggles, then holds a finger—the nail painted black, of course—to her lips. “Oops, sorry, I mean Tania. I don’t mean to steal her thunder. Nicole’s the one who thinks someone’s trying to kill us all. But you know how Nicole is.” Jessica rolls her eyes as she pours a generous amount of vodka into two highball glasses filled with ice.

“Watch out,” I say as she spills half of what she’s pouring onto the counter.

“Oops,” Jessica says again and giggles some more. “Anyway, I’m super glad about you and Coop. Jordan’s such an ass. I always thought you could do way better.”

I realize Cooper really did tell Jessica everything.

“Gee,” I say as Jessica pours freshly squeezed pink grapefruit juice from a pitcher into the glasses. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously. I know Jordan’s my brother and all”—she plops a sprig of rosemary as a surprise garnish into each glass, then begins to stir the contents of each violently with a long silver spoon that was probably passed down to her family from some Puritan who was on the Mayflower and never envisioned his family heirloom being used as a cocktail stirrer—“but he’s such an ass kisser. He does whatever Dad says. Here.” She passes me one of the glasses. “Cheers to being with the right guy. L’chaim. Oh yeah, Nicole is converting to Judaism to piss off my dad.”

“L’chaim.” I clink the rim of my glass to hers. Pink greyhounds taste like heaven, if heaven can be something concocted by barefoot girls wearing a lot of dark eyeliner. “Wow,” I say.

“I know, they’re good, right?” Jessica beams. “Let’s get shit-faced.”

“You’re here.” Cooper appears in the kitchen holding a tray of empty glasses.

As usual, I feel a twinge in my solar plexus at how handsome he looks, especially since he’s wearing jeans and not the cargo pants he couldn’t find because I hid them behind the dryer. There’s no sign of a fanny pack. He’s wearing a gray short-sleeved linen shirt that makes his eyes look even more blue than gray, two colors between which they’re always shifting. The shirt is untucked, though, which gives me a qualm as I remember what Pete said.

“I’m here,” I murmur. Our gazes meet, and I want to throw down my drink and run across the kitchen and leap into his arms, despite the fact that he’s probably packing. But something in his glance says, Don’t.

At first I think it’s because he doesn’t want me feeling for bulges where his gun might be. A second later I realize it’s because his mother is right behind him.

“Cooper, why have you stopped in the middle of the kitchen, how am I supposed to get by—oh.”

Patricia Cartwright looks startled to see me standing in her kitchen, even though her doorman said she’d told him to send me up. Dressed all in tones of beige and holding an empty martini glass, she’s either been taking very good care of herself or has an excellent plastic surgeon, because she looks younger than the last time I saw her.

Then again, her husband’s company—and my manager—made millions of dollars off the songs I recorded for them. Cooper’s mother can afford the most expensive skin care products in the world, even ones made out of baby-whale placenta.

“Heather,” she cries, floating toward me with a tiny smile on her face . . . tiny because I’m not sure the rest of her face can move, thanks to all the Botox she’s had. “How wonderful that you could come. I’m so sorry it had to be under such terrible circumstances. Was it awful?”

Mrs. Cartwright throws her arms around me exactly the way Jessica did, only the mother is, if anything, even bonier. If hugging Jessica was like hugging a skinny cat, hugging Mrs. Cartwright is like hugging the skeleton of a cat.

I look over her shoulder at Cooper and watch as he shudders comically for my benefit. Jessica, standing beside me, notices her brother’s antics and lets out a horse laugh.

“It was pretty awful,” I say, trying to cover for Jessica’s laugh as Mrs. Cartwright releases me.

“I can believe it,” Cooper’s mother says, her blue eyes—so like Cooper’s and yet so unlike them—narrowing with disapproval at Jessica. Apparently she didn’t miss the laugh. “The poor man was right here in this house only last week, filming footage of Tania and Jordan for their show and trying to get me to invest privately in some horrible documentary he was doing about a death row inmate. And now he’s the one who’s dead.” Patricia places a hand over her heart, and I can’t help noticing the large emerald on her left finger. “ ‘Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, ask not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.’ ” She lowers her hand and says solemnly, “F. Scott Fitzgerald. Such a wonderful writer.”

“John Donne, actually,” Cooper says, setting down the tray he’s been holding. “Born approximately four centuries before Fitzgerald, but who’s counting? Why don’t I get you a glass of water, Mother? Or some coffee?”

“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Cartwright says. “We’ll be serving dinner shortly. We should open the wine. Heather, I hope you won’t mind, we had to order in from the Palm. After such awful news, no one felt like cooking, much less going out. Palm doesn’t normally deliver, of course, but the owner does it as a special favor for Grant, because he knows how much Grant loves their steaks and they’re close, personal friends.”