Page 13 of The Art of Scandal

Bobbi proceeded to lecture him about emotional vulnerability until the oven timer buzzed. She pulled her creation from the oven and set it down with a smug flourish. “You should ask this person who has you all introspective to hang out sometime. It sounds like they could be good for you.” She pointed to her finished dish. “Veggie frittata.”

Nathan nodded. “Right. So basically…”

She rolled her eyes and tossed him a fork. “Yes, eggs, asshole. Eat up.”

Rachel didn’t know how long she stayed in bed. Checking would require opening her eyes, which she refused to do. The shades were still open from the day before because Matt had ignored her request to close them before the party. “The sun is my alarm clock,” he said. He had to know she would be hungover with the sunlight tolerance of a vampire. They used to laugh at how two drinks could have her stumbling around, begging for electrolytes and Advil. Then he’d call her his “little teetotaler” while stashing bottles of Vitaminwater near her bed.

Rachel rolled onto her side and opened one eye into a narrow slit. According to the clock, it was almost noon. She never slept this late, especially on a Sunday. It was her planning day. She usually spent the early morning hours adding reminders to Matt’s phone so he wouldn’t overlook any events.

Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. The noise stopped for a moment and started again, somehow seeming more insistent than before. She glared at the caller ID: Ben Abbott, Matt’s younger brother. He wouldn’t call just to chat.

“I got your text from last night.” Ben’s voice was low and measured, similar to Matt’s, but more cautious. Rachel always imagined him running words through his mind like a script before he said them. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I understand what sort of help you’re asking for.”

When had she texted him? Before or after she’d been mistaken for a criminal breaking into her own home? “Um, okay. Could you hold on a minute?” She squinted at the cracked screen and navigated to her sent messages.

Rachel:Matt fucking chrysanthemums. Need your help.

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I had too much to drink last night.”

“You know I’m happy to help with home improvements, but gardening isn’t really my area.”

Being the overlooked, second-born Abbott son had given Ben the breathing room to develop practical skills while attending Harvard Law School like his brother and father. On the day he met Rachel, Ben was covered in grime and sawdust from building cabinets in a house he’d purchased to flip. She later learned he had briefly flirted with starting a contracting company that specialized in restoring Victorian homes. Matt told her the story as a joke because Abbott men didn’t work with their hands. Their calluses were from gripping mountain bike handles or holding pens with an awkward grip. Even though Ben had ultimately caved to his family’s expectations, his ability to see the value in creating something beautiful had always made him different in her eyes. He was her Abbott ally—the person who sent her Gordon Parks postcards each year for her birthday because he spoke a discerning creative language the rest of his family didn’t understand.

“That message wasn’t about flowers.” She hesitated. “Ben, if I speak to you as an attorney, this conversation is privileged, isn’t it?”

A long stretch of silence followed her question. “Yes, it is. Are you in trouble?”

“Your brother is leaving me for another woman.”

Another pause. “Shit.”

It was only the second time she’d heard Ben swear. The first was during a Christmas dinner, one of the obligatory Abbott family gatherings. Matt announced he was writing a memoir and Ben had declared it “a fucking joke.”

“I’m so sorry, Rachel. My brother’s a jerk.”

“Don’t be. I just need to talk through some next steps.”

“The prenuptial agreement.”

He was too polite to say it, but she heard theI told you so. Thirteen years ago, Ben had told her not to sign the prenup without speaking to an attorney, but Rachel couldn’t imagine taking money she hadn’t earned. She’d thought signing it made her a better person. At least now she could tell him she hadn’t rolled over and played dead last night when Matt threw the prenup in her face. “He agreed to give me money and the house.”

“Agreed? He just offered that to you?”

She was afraid of this. An agreement made during a drunken argument probably wouldn’t hold up in court. “Not exactly. I blackmailed him. A little.”

“Jesus, Rachel. Why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t have a choice.” She kicked the comforter away from her overheated skin. The conversation had her covered in sweat. “It’s my house. I need money to keep the lights on long enough to figure out my next move.” Saying it out loud made her chest hurt. She shouldn’t have to explain herself to a man like Ben who would never understand what it was like to be financially vulnerable. He’d tell her to apply for a job like she didn’t have a decade-long gap in her anemic work history.

The first time she’d explained to Ben how she ended up in Oasis Springs, she could tell he had a hard time believing her story. He couldn’t reconcile the Rachel he knew—an art history major and devoted mother who had finally convinced Matt to take the Metro into the city—with a woman who had experienced homelessness. Despite his relative sophistication in the Abbott household, he wasn’t immune to the privilege that kept him isolated from the rest of the world. Ben liked to believe that bad things only happened to bad people because it gave him a sense of control. But Rachel had learned years ago that control was an illusion. Tragedy was indiscriminate and ruthlessly patient, waiting until you let your guard down to strike. Before she met Matt, it had stolen her life. She refused to let it happen again.

Ben shifted back into attorney mode. “Okay. Well, you’ll want to get the clock moving on the separation waiting period.”

“Is there any way to file that without people knowing?”

“You mean a legal separation? Those don’t exist in Virginia. You need to live separately for a certain amount of time. With a no fault, that’s one year.”

“A year?” She ran a hand over her face. “Is there any way to speed up the clock?”

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