How to Teach Filthy Rich Girls (31 page)

The fire alarm. Again. I‘m totally serious. Dammit
.
I was moving out of this fucking East Village firetrap tenement as soon as I cashed that check.

Being no fool, I ran to get the check, then pulled open my front door and bolted for the stairs. But my Serbian landlord was on the fourth-floor landing, calling up to me. ―Stairs are blocked! Go to roof, quickly, Megan! Cross to next building!‖

Fuck!
I changed direction, ran up the steep steps two at a time, and rammed my upper arm into the heavy metal door to shove it open. It took three strong pushes, and then I was out, stepping onto the—

Sand.

Not concrete.
Sand
.

There was a
beach
covering my roof. It was dotted with beach umbrellas and chaise longues and a half-dozen of those portable gas heating units that can keep outdoor cafés toasty in the coldest weather.

On one of the chaises, clad in surfer jams and sunglasses, tall drink in hand, was Will.

―Flirtini?‖ He offered me the drink. ―Since you couldn‘t come to Palm Beach, I decided that Palm Beach should come to you.‖

I stepped toward him, trying to find words. ―Umm . . . no fire?‖ was the best I could do.

―It was pathetically easy to bribe your landlord into assisting us, I‘m afraid. He didn‘t blink about letting us into your apartment, or about the team of burly guys we hired to haul up the sand. I‘d think about moving if I were you.‖

I leaned over and pinched him.

―Ow!‖ He pulled his arm away.

―Just wanted to make sure this was real.‖

He rubbed his arm. ―Was my manly yelp enough confirmation?‖

I grinned, sitting down on the chaise in front of him. ―I love Hanan‘s painting.‖

―It‘s great, huh?‖ he agreed, placing the flirtini in my hand. ―That was the day I fell for you, you know.‖

I looked at Will, at his freckled arms and tapered fingers. He was so handsome. I still couldn‘t quite believe he‘d like someone like . . . me. ―Why?‖ I heard myself ask.

He took off his sunglasses. ―Because you were so much yourself. Frizzy hair, dirt on your face, kind of goofy.‖

“Goofy?”
I laughed. ―Fair enough. Well, that was when it changed for me, too, you know. The way you talked about Hanan‘s paintings, even though your father would never show them. I still hope you will. Someday.‖

―Step one is moving here,‖ he said.

Wait, had he just said . . . ―Could you repeat that?‖

―Here,‖ he repeated. ―To New York. Where I‘m going to open my gallery. Hanan will be the first artist I show.‖

I must have looked as thrilled as I felt, because he held up a hand of caution.

―It won‘t be easy. My father is less than delighted. He‘s putting his money where his mouth is, meaning he‘s not investing in me. The twins are, though. And I‘ve already talked with some of my frat brothers from Northwestern.‖

―And here I thought being in a fraternity was a waste of time,‖ I teased. I took a sip of my flirtini. It was as good as in Palm Beach. Maybe better. ―This . . .‖ I gestured wide.

―All of this. It‘s amazing.‖

―Funny, that‘s the word I used about what you wrote.‖ He looked down at the sand-colored roof. ―Everything you did made sense in a bizarre sort of way.‖

―I‘m so glad the twins gave you the article.‖

He looked up at me. ―Oh, I read it before they did. My mom FedExed it to me, actually.‖

―Your . . . what?‖

―Not a what, a who. Debra Wurtzel is my mother.‖ He smiled wide at what was surely my very shocked-looking face. ―Believe me, I had no idea she‘d sent you to Palm Beach until I read what you wrote. It was all her doing.‖

I was bewildered. ―But . . . why?‖

―Apparently, she thought you‘d make a great tutor for the fabulous Baker twins of Palm Beach . . . and she wanted to give fate a little nudge. Basically, she thinks you‘re perfect for me.‖

―Parents are always wrong about that kind of thing,‖ I pointed out.

―Maybe we‘d better change that to ‗usually wrong.‘‖

He stood up and walked over to a small makeshift bar near the edge of the roof. He pushed the button on a CD player. Bob Marley‘s ―One Love‖ filled the night air. I laughed as Will helped me to my feet.

And then, in the middle of the East Village on a chilly New York winter night, on a white sand beach that was formerly the roof of my apartment building, we danced.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Sara Shandler, Josh Bank, and their team; to Amy Einhorn, Emily Griffin, Frances Jalet-Miller, and
their
team; and especially to super-special-agent-in-charge Lydia dah-link Wills. Thanks also to my many friends in Palm Beach, and especially to my favorite mixologist, Pablo. Without Pablo, life itself would be impossible.