The Smart One and the Pretty One Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2008 by Claire LaZebnik

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  5 Spot

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.5-spot.com.

  The 5 Spot name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: September 2008

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54276-0

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  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

  About the Author

  For my father, Mel Scovell, who has always reminded me that “a writer is someone who writes,” words that spurred me on to find a way to put something down on paper even when I had only little bits and pieces of spare time.

  And by the way, Dad, I’m actually glad you made me memorize “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” when I was twelve. Turns out I really do measure out my life with coffee spoons.

  Acknowledgments

  Writers routinely (and often mechanically) thank their editors and agents, so I wish I had a way to prove to everyone how crucial the notes, support, and advice were that I got from Emily Griffin, Alexis Hurley, and Kim Witherspoon. People will just have to take my word for it, I guess. I’m grateful to all of them and just wish I had a better and stronger word than “grateful.”

  The support I’ve had professionally is matched by that at home. Rob reads everything I ask him to, no matter how busy he is, and his notes are always right (damn him). Even when I try to ignore them, sooner or later I have to give in and admit that it’ll be a better book if I just listen to my husband. Aubry Dennehy continues to cover my back and make all our lives better in all sorts of ways.

  The Smart One and the Pretty One is a novel about sisters being there for each other. I know firsthand how supportive sisters can be, since I have three wonderful ones. My thanks to Julie, Alice, and Nell for always looking out for their little sister. To Ted, too, the lone male sibling.

  Finally, what keeps me going is the enthusiasm of my biggest fans, the ones who spend their free time setting up Web sites and Wikipedia pages about me, who pass my books along to anyone who might be remotely interested in them, and who follow my career with passion. The fact that I gave birth to them all doesn’t diminish my gratitude. Thanks, Max, Johnny, Annie, and Will. You’re what matters.

  Prologue

  One evening, when Ava Nickerson was eight years old, her parents betrothed her to Russell Markowitz, the son of their friends Lana and Jeffrey Markowitz. The adults seemed to find the idea of an arranged marriage between their kids very funny, but the whole thing embarrassed Ava, especially when Mr. Markowitz called her his “daughter-in-law” and tried to get his teenage son to embrace his future bride. “Come on, Russell,” said Mr. Markowitz, who had a genial smile and small, shrewd eyes. “Do an old man a favor and give us some proof for once that you’re batting for the right team.”

  Ava didn’t know what he meant, but the phrase “batting for the right team” stuck in her head, and since the Markowitzes drifted out of her family’s life soon after that visit, she only ever remembered Russell Markowitz as the kid who played baseball and had annoying parents.

  Chapter 1

  Your sister is on the phone,” Jeremy said as Ava approached his desk and snagged a Hershey’s Kiss out of his candy dish. Jeremy was a perfectly good assistant in other ways, but his endless supply of chocolates made him an indispensable one, in Ava’s opinion.

  Ava looked at her watch. “She wants to talk now?”

  “Should I tell her you’ll call back?” he asked. Jeremy had sweet big brown eyes and thick, tousled hair. There was something slightly babyish about his round chin and full lips that made Ava feel mildly maternal toward him, though he was only a few years younger than her.

  “No, it’s all right. I’ll take it.” Ava went into her office, shut the door, and punched the speaker button on her phone.

  “Transferring,” Jeremy’s voice said, and then there was a beep and Lauren’s voice came out of the speaker. “Ava? Are you there?”

  “Yep. Just got here.” She shrugged off her coat.

  “Really? So late?” Lauren’s voice had the breathy quality of a young girl, but she lingered on her s’s in a way that was oddly sultry. The combination suited her: in person she managed to be simultaneously childlike and alluring, with wildly curly dark hair, big eyes, a pointed chin, and a small, curvy figure.

  In theory, she and Ava resembled each other—they were both small and dark-haired and anyone could immediately identify them as siblings—but Ava, whose hair was straight and who knew herself to be neither childlike nor alluring, didn’t see it at all.

  “It’s nine a.m.,” Ava said. She hoisted her heavy briefcase onto her desk. “Three-hour time difference—remember?” She extracted her laptop and a few folders, which she arranged in a neat pile on her desk, squaring the corners.

  “Yeah, I know. I just figured you got up with the sun and made it to the office by six. Hey, A?”

  “What?”

  “How seriously do you have to take letters from a collection agency?”

  Ava digested that for a moment and then the weight of it made her sink into her desk chair. “You want to start at the beginning?”

  “Not really.”

  A pause. “Okay, then it depends a little on how many you’ve gotten and how much time has passed since the initial notice, but . . . I’d certainly take them pretty seriously. Who’s sending you the letters?”

  “Who isn’t?” Lauren said with a little laugh. “I’m up to my ass in debt, Ava. No, deeper. Up to my ears.”

  “Why?” Ava said. “I mean, you rent your apartment, you have a job, you don’t have kids—”

  “My job is the problem,” Lauren said. “I can’t go out there and buy stuff for the boutique without seeing things I want for myself.”

  “Wanting something and having to own it are two different things.”

  “Not for me.”

  “Well, that explains why you’re up to your earholes in debt,” Ava said. “So do you need me to lend you some money?”

  “No, no,” Lauren said. “I don’t want your money. Unless, you know . . . you feel like you want to—” She cut herself off. “No, really, I don’t. But I thought maybe if you wrote some of these debt collectors—you know, on your letterhead—maybe used some legalese, sounded official—”

  “And tell them what exactly?” Ava said. “That you’re above the law and shouldn’t have to pay money you owe?”

  “Would that work?” said Lauren with a hopeful little laugh.

  “You need to talk to a debt counselor, Lauren. Someone who’ll contact your creditors, consolidate all your debts, and set up a payment schedule for you. Do you want me to get some names
for you?”

  “Would I still have to pay it all back?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about declaring bankruptcy? Don’t people do that all the time?”

  “It’s a morally corrupt way to avoid accountability,” Ava said seriously.

  Another little laugh. “But besides that—”

  “It should only ever be a last resort,” Ava said. She stood up, which made her notice a small stain at the bottom of her sweater that hadn’t been visible in the mirror of her badly lit bedroom that morning. “I’ll e-mail you about the debt counselors as soon as I get some references. In the meantime, cancel all your credit cards and stop buying stuff. Make yourself a strict budget and stick to it. And if you can’t stand being around beautiful, expensive things, get a different job. Did I mention that you should stop buying stuff?”

  “I get it,” Lauren said. “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” Ava said. “I got my TiVo fixed.”

  “Woo-hoo. It’s an exciting life you lead.”

  There was a knock on the office door and Ava walked over and opened it. “It had been broken for a while,” she said, raising her voice so Lauren could still hear her. “I was missing all my favorite shows.” Jeremy was waiting outside the door, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. She mouthed her thanks as she took the cup, then said out loud, “I need to get to work, Lauren.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Lauren said. “Bye. Oh, wait—one last question. I almost forgot.”

  “What?”

  “Hypothetically . . . A landlord can’t just suddenly evict you for not paying your rent, right?”

  Ava groaned.

  Lauren’s boss had asked her to cover the boutique that afternoon. Normally Lauren was the one who went to trunk shows and designer showrooms while her boss manned the store, but Saralyn had promised a friend with a new handbag line that she would check it out herself. Lauren didn’t mind. She liked working with customers. She knew what looked good on people and enjoyed creating outfits for them. And once she had put them in something really spectacular, she was often inspired to try on something similar, so she frequently ended a day in the store with a bag of her own purchases—bought, of course, with her employee discount.

  It was a fairly slow weekday, and after she had helped a preteen and her mother find something they could agree on for the girl’s first middle school dance—the girl wanted it to look sexy, the mother didn’t, and Lauren got them to compromise on a tube dress that was form-hugging but didn’t actually reveal anything—she was all alone in the store until a young man entered.

  He was probably about twenty-eight, in good shape, and wearing a blue wool suit and a dark red tie. He could have wandered in from any of the financial or legal offices that surrounded their downtown store. She wasn’t crazy about his goatee, but it didn’t matter: any guy who came into their store was taken, or he wouldn’t be shopping there.

  “Hi there,” she said, looking up from the sweaters she was refolding and stacking. “How are you doing?”

  “Great.” He studied her briefly. Lauren was wearing a very short skirt with go-go boots and a tight heather-brown cropped sweater that was much shorter than the crimson tissue tee she wore underneath. “I have a feeling you’ll be a big help,” he said with a pleasant nod. “You’re so stylish. I need a present for my girlfriend.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Birthday,” he said. “It’s today, actually.”

  “Today?” Lauren said. “You sure put it off till the last minute, didn’t you?”

  “I kind of forgot.” He gave a sheepish smile. “She had to remind me this morning.”

  “Ouch,” she said. “That’s why BirthdayAlarm-dot-com was invented, you know.”

  He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. “So long as I get it in before midnight, I’m okay, right?”

  “Don’t worry—we’ll find her something fantastic. Did you have anything in mind?”

  He indicated her outfit. “How about that sweater you’re wearing? I wouldn’t mind seeing her in that.”

  She adjusted the sweater slightly. It was one of her favorites. For that month. But she hadn’t bought it at the boutique. “You sure you don’t want to go with jewelry? You don’t have to worry about size and everyone loves to get it.”

  “You know best.”

  “Let me show you what we’ve got.” She circled around behind the jewelry counter, which was also the cash register stand, and sorted through the necklaces hanging on the wooden display tree. She slid a long silver link chain off a branch and held it up. “This is really popular right now. It’s extra-long, but it can be doubled up if she wants to wear it choker-length. I bought one myself a couple of weeks ago.”

  “How much?” he said.

  She squinted at the tag. “A hundred and twenty-nine dollars.”

  He gave a low whistle. “That’s a little more than I was hoping to spend.”

  That was actually fairly inexpensive for their store. “Okay,” Lauren said, slipping the necklace back into place. “We’ll find something else.” She poked through the other necklaces, checking the price tags, and then pounced on one that was less than a hundred dollars and very simple, just a teardrop red stone hanging from a delicate silver chain. It wasn’t exciting but it was completely unobjectionable.

  She slid the necklace off the post and laid the stone across the palm of her hand. “This is it,” she said. “This is the one you want.” Men shopping for gifts liked to be led to a decision—that much she had learned from her years of selling to them.

  “It’s pretty,” he said obediently. “How much?”

  “Eighty-nine.”

  “You know what would help?” he said. “If you put it on. So I could see what it looks like. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” Lauren said, but the clasp was a tricky one and the little hook kept slipping out of the link.

  The guy said, “Let me help,” so she handed the necklace to him and gathered her long hair in one hand to bare her neck as she turned her back to him. He leaned over the counter that was between them and strung the chain out above her chest, then brought it around to the nape of her neck. His fingers brushed against her skin—possibly more than was necessary, but she wasn’t sure and decided to ignore it.

  Once it was fastened, she turned again with a bright smile, letting her hair drop back into place. She touched the necklace to reassure herself that the stone hit just below the hollow at the base of her neck. “There,” she said. “How beautiful is that? If you don’t buy it for your girlfriend, I might have to buy it for myself. And I can’t afford to go around buying myself any more jewelry, so you’d better take it.”

  “It looks great,” he said. “But I’m not sure the necklace can take the credit. I bet everything looks good on you.”

  “Hardly.” She reached up behind her neck again. Fortunately, it was easier to undo the clasp than to fasten it. “Shall I wrap it?”

  “It’s a go,” he said with a nod.

  While she was tying a ribbon around the box, another customer walked in. Lauren looked up and said, “Hi—be right with you,” and the woman said “Take your time” and wandered over to the sweaters.

  “There you are!” Lauren said, slipping the box into a bag and handing it to the guy. “I hope she enjoys it.”

  “Me too,” he said and took the box out of the bag and held it out to her. Lauren stared at it uncomprehendingly. Then he said, “It’s for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It looked so good on you,” he said. “I think you should have it.”

  “You’re so funny,” Lauren said, trying to pass it off as a joke, give them both an out. Flirting with a male customer was one thing—it was practically in her job description—but the flirting was supposed to end as soon as the charge was approved.

  Apparently he hadn’t read the rulebook. “No, really. Take it.” He put the box on the counter between them and pushed it toward
her.

  “I can’t.” She folded her arms. “Take it home and give it to your girlfriend. She’s going to love it.”

  “If you’re not comfortable taking a gift from a stranger, then give me a chance to get to know you. Have dinner with me tonight.”

  “I doubt there’ll be enough birthday cake for all three of us,” Lauren said.

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “I know.” She gave the box a backhanded slap. It flew across the counter and the guy had to make a dive for it before it hit the floor. She took advantage of the moment to escape from behind the counter and quickly hail the new customer, who had some question about hat sizes.

  The guy lingered for a little while longer, trying to catch her eye, but she pointedly ignored him, and eventually he gave up and left, carrying the little box with him.

  At least his girlfriend would get a pretty necklace, Lauren thought, though she suspected it might get thrown back in his face sometime in the not too distant future.

  A few weeks later, Ava returned to her office from a meeting to find that her father had sent her and Lauren a joint e-mail. The subject line said, “Serious news.”

  The entire body of the e-mail read “Your mother has cancer. Call home.”

  “Oh my God,” she said out loud and grabbed the phone. Her parents’ line was busy: her father refused to get call waiting because he thought clicking over to a new call was disrespectful to the original caller.

  She kept trying, dialing with trembling fingers that fumbled and hit the wrong buttons, but the line stayed busy. After a few minutes of this, Jeremy buzzed in to tell her that she had a call.

  It was Lauren, who didn’t bother to greet her, just said, “Have you spoken to Mom and Dad yet?”

  “Not yet. I was in a meeting and only just got Dad’s e-mail. My God, Lauren, Mom . . .”

  “I know, I was freaking out, too, but it’s okay.” The normalness of Lauren’s voice was the most reassuring thing Ava had ever heard. “I can’t believe Dad told us like that. The man is insane. Mom’s fine, Ava. They just found a few cancer cells in one of her breasts—I mean, literally, we’re talking a few cells. They’ll blast them with some mild chemotherapy and she’ll be fine.”