There were more messages, ambiguous one-liners complimenting her looks, wanting to get to know her better, suggesting they exchange cell numbers. Nat didn’t have time for niceties or banter. She was considering the foot-massage guy when she opened the final message from Angeldaddy.

I love art and creative people. Would you like to meet for a drink tonight? $500.

She clicked on his profile. There was no photo, but she found out he was divorced, a nonsmoker, a social drinker. His occupation was listed as lawyer, his net worth at $10 million, his annual salary at over a million. Jesus . . .

Before she could stop herself, she replied.

I’d love to. I’m in Brooklyn. Where are you?

The response was almost instant.

I’m in the financial district. Meet in DUMBO? I know a little wine bar.

He could be Splenda, or salty. He could be a murderer for all she knew. But Nat didn’t have time to be picky, didn’t have time to do her due diligence. She was desperate.

Sure. Send me the address.

And just like that, she had a date.

8

The Baby

Gabe Turnmill was committed to his marriage. The fact that he was currently in the back of a town car, on his way to meet a hot young art student for a drink, was not a contradiction of this fact. He remained devoted to his wife, Celeste, had been since they met during their first year of law school at Yale. She’d been seated across a vast lecture theater the first time he’d spotted her—so bright, so engaged, so ethereal. Gabe had openly watched her, gawking at her composed beauty. She hadn’t even noticed him.

He’d inveigled an invitation to a party Celeste was attending—even then, he’d been unafraid to go after what he wanted. He’d approached her, a tepid beer in hand, and sparked up a conversation. He learned she was the daughter of a Haitian doctor and a French-Canadian folk singer. She had grown up in Montreal; spoke fluent, unaccented English and French; had done her undergrad at McGill University. Unlike most of his Yale alumni, she was impressed by Gabe’s humble beginnings. With Celeste, he didn’t have to hide the fact that his father was a taxi dispatcher, that his mother ran an elder-care facility. He could admit that he had attended Princeton on a lacrosse scholarship, that law school was funded by an enormous student loan. She thought his accomplishments were more impressive because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Celeste had been a serious law student, top of the class, determined to have an impact on the world. She wanted to be a public defender, representing the disproportionate number of people of color who ended up in the justice system. Gabe’s grades were decent, his goals less altruistic. He wanted a lucrative career in corporate law. He wanted to be a one-percenter, a big shot, the guy behind the tinted windows in the back of the town car. Even then, Gabe knew what it took to get to the top and stay there: a ruthlessness, a moral fluidity, an in-depth knowledge of loopholes and gray areas. After law school, his mercenary approach built his reputation in the upper echelons of the business world. His finesse and discretion had kept him, and his clients, out of trouble. Out of jail in some cases. Back then, he’d had to spin his avaricious plans for Celeste. He wanted to make a difference in the world, too, he said, but he’d do so via the economy. She’d bought it. She still did. Gabe had charmed her, wooed her, and, eventually, married her.