Three women wake up to the consequences of one impulsive pact in an insightful novel about friendship, love, and fulfillment by Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jamie Beck. Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and the first chapter of Jamie Beck’s The Happy Accidents, which releases on September 21st 2021.
SYNOPSIS
While at a casino to celebrate her birthday, Jessie Clarke proposes a pact to her reserved sister, Liz, and their childhood friend Chloe: the three women will say yes to any adventure that comes their way. Jessie is mourning her recent divorce, so the other two reluctantly agree. Twelve hours later, they awaken to the shocking consequences of their behavior.
A viral video throws Liz’s career and reputation into question. A major loss at the craps table rocks the foundation of Chloe’s staid marriage. And Jessie’s desperate bid to unblock her artistic creativity results in a life-changing choice. Staring down the crossroads, each woman finds her relationships―with herself, with each other, and with loves both old and new―tested. At every turn, they struggle not to let fear decide their fates. Will they give in, or will their misadventures lead to the greatest fulfillment of all?
JESS
Sunday morning, July 11, present day
Foxwoods Resort Casino, Connecticut
In a manner of speaking, Liz, Chloe, and I have all been suffocating lately, but only I’m alarmed. In fact, neither of them seems to notice, having long ago made peace with life inside the invisible fences of expectation and propriety. For me, having to stand still just to breathe-an unwelcome side effect of lost love-has been a jarring change this past year.
Sick of moping, and hopeful they could help me turn the tide, I begged them to join me at Foxwoods this weekend to celebrate my impending thirty-seventh birthday-the first I’ll spend without my ex, Dennis, in more than a decade. In a bid to shake things up, I requested an “adventure pact” as my birthday gift. Nothing illicit-a simple promise to let their hair down and try something different if it pre-sented itself.
It began well enough. We started with a great meal and wine, wrangled last-minute tickets to see the Go-Go’s perform, played a few hands of blackjack while drinking tequila, and then hit the Shrine to dance. That’s when things get hazy. Liz and Chloe had embraced the spirit of the pact, so we were tipsy and loud, which caught the attention of a group of guys. Instead of bailing on me when the men approached us, they rolled with it, dancing and accepting more free drinks.
Sometime after midnight I proposed a group detour to break into the spa pool to skinny-dip. Liz and Chloe drew the line at trespassing, although they gave up trying to stop me from trying. That’s why I’m without them now, being awakened by the muffled ringtone of Harry Styles’s “Adore You” for the fourth time in ten minutes.
My head pounds as I squint in the direction of my purse.
“Answer it already,” says a sleepy male voice.
It takes me a handful of seconds to orient myself. Naked. In a strange bed and room with some man instead of with Liz and Chloe.
The punishing smell of alcohol-tinged sweat taunts me. I rub my eyes, then glance over my shoulder at the guy I hooked up with last night. Josh. He pulls an extra pillow over his head and rolls onto his side.
A thin stream of sunlight peeks through a crack in the blinds and falls in a sliver across the carpet like an accusing finger. This “morning after” with a near stranger doesn’t carry the satisfaction it did during my college days. I drag myself from the bed, then fumble my way across the room.
Yawning, I unlock the screen. Beneath the time-6:55 a.m.-are a few all-caps texts from Liz demanding that I return ASAP, without further explanation. Surely if something were wrong, she’d spell it out. Her tendency to report every detail extends beyond the confines of her career in broadcast journalism. It began in childhood, when she’d beg me to play school-her as the teacher spewing random facts while making me “organize” my desk, and handing out detention slips when my attention wandered.
Even so, I’m shocked she didn’t sleep in this morning. Then again, this hour is sleeping in to a woman who habitually reports to the television studio at five in the morning. I hope she hasn’t been waiting up all night for my return. She used to do that during our young twenties, when she’d send worried texts from her dorm in Evanston while I enjoyed the Miami party scene. After I graduated with a studio arts degree from Bard College in New York, attending Art Basel Miami Beach in 2007 converted me to a full-time resident. Placing myself in the area’s burgeoning contemporary art scene had been a great career move, too.
But now I wince, guilt riddled and sorry that Liz’s night didn’t end with the same bang as mine. The pun makes me snicker, which helps loosen my uneasiness. While random sex has never been my thing, Josh was quite a bang. Several, to be honest.
After almost a year of celibacy, I needed a big O that didn’t come from battery-operated equipment. Not that Josh is Dennis. No one will ever be Dennis, the gifted, curious architect who wormed his way into my soul and left a permanent imprint. We met at our mutual friend Dina’s party, held at her vintage Spanish stucco home with the most romantic walled-in patio and pool area. I knew her from the gallery where I worked before my career took off.
Dennis had been confident, making a beeline to me when he saw me standing by a cluster of lemon trees. Dark jeans belted with a thick black leather belt, black shirt, and equally dark hair and eyes. My opposite physically. My soul mate in all other ways. Our first date was an art deco walking food tour-his idea. I was more enamored of his passion for design than interested in the tour guide’s commentary. Dennis saw architecture like an artist views the world, and we fed off each other’s creative eye. Not all men get excited about color and texture and lines . . .
I breathe through the dull ache, yet grief sticks to me like burrs, making each step forward so painful it’s easier to stand still.
I text Coming to my sister. Whatever our differences, she’s sincere. Responsible. Conservative in ways I could never be, God bless her. No wonder our parents love her best.
Over my shoulder, the lump on the bed shifts. Despite the superficiality, Josh was an excellent reminder that other men can be fun. Who needs love to enjoy touch or desire or affection? A “friends with benefits” relationship with an interesting man who makes me laugh and shares my disinterest in convention is plenty. Bonus: a lack of emotion means no one gets hurt.
I slip my phone into my purse. The frigid air-conditioning raises goose bumps on my arms. I snatch my lace thong, flowy pants, and glittery crop top off the floor and begin to dress myself, but my flimsy clothing does little to warm me.
Sadly, this girls’ trip wasn’t a miracle cure.
Josh finally removes the pillow from his head. “Morning, gorgeous. Where are you sneaking off to?”
Compliments always induce a grin, especially since becoming newly single on the back half of my thirties. “My posse is calling me home.”
Josh pouts. “Did you give me your real number last night?”
Hm. “Yes, but I’m only up for casual fun.”
“The perfect woman.” He smiles, propping himself up on the pillows with his hands clasped comfortably behind his head. Well-formed pecs and biceps suggest regular exercise, and I’m a sucker for a friendly, dimpled smile. “I get down your way occasionally for work. I’ll call when I do.”
I’ve already forgotten where he lives-somewhere near Hartford. “Fine.” I then cross to the bed, to where I’d kicked off my shoes, and lean over for a last kiss. “Thanks for the private birthday party, Josh. Take care.”
He squeezes my behind. “You too, babe.”
Another pang freezes me in place momentarily. That endearment was Dennis’s favorite. The emptiness of this exchange suddenly leaves me coldly angry-with myself and with my ex. Before Dennis, I loved my life. Even my earliest days of eking by while working in the gallery and selling my own work for ridiculously low sums had been an
adventure. A rebellion against my wealthy upbringing and an outlet to explore my own outlook on life, love, and freedom.
Miami had been a vibrant change from the woodlands and stone walls of Greenwich: palm trees, neon lights, the magnificent street art in Wynwood Walls-with the incomparable Panther Coffee-and flamboyant creatives so unlike the high-finance types who populate southwest Connecticut.
Dennis amplified everything. His love and encouragement fed my confidence, turning four-figure paydays into five- and then six-figure sums. With that came more exploration of art, travel, and culture-it all seemed perfect. My dream life come true. Triumph over my family, who expected me to fail because I never followed their rules. But when my life took a U-turn last September, I left Florida behind. Now every pursuit lacks the critical element of meaningfulness. If my old ways no longer bring joy, what comes next?
I hurry from Josh’s room with my shoes and purse in my hand and head back to my villa, battling the dark mood gathering with the strength of a spring thunderstorm. The key card unlocks the door, so I blow inside, hoping Liz’s and Chloe’s stories about their late-night activities will distract me. Instead, Chloe’s red-rimmed eyes and splotchy face stop me cold. “Oh, Chloe, sorry if I worried you. I’m not used to people waiting up for me.”
We met in grade school at Greenwich Academy, which she attended for free because her mom taught there. Although we’re opposites in nearly every way, she’s one of the people I trust most in the world. We remained friends even after college took me away from Connecticut.
She’s one of the few people who always liked me for more than the fact of my father’s wealth and famous friends. Unfortunately, her husband’s and kids’ schedules leave her free only for yoga classes and lunches but rarely (never) for much more. At least, not until last night. I toss my shoes aside and head to the kitchen for a glass of water. When my arrival doesn’t stanch her tears, I become more alarmed.
Liz must’ve heard me come in, because she charges out of her bed-room, her expression as taut as a soldier’s. Ponytail, baseball cap, no makeup, running shorts. No one would recognize her from the way she is dressed. “Where’ve you been all night? It’s irresponsible to take off like that and not answer any texts. Jesus, Jessie.”
Battered from her assault, I set down my water glass and rub my temples. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew where I was since you saw me leave with Josh. It’s not like he’s some serial killer.”
Liz’s face convulses as if she has swallowed vinegar. “This isn’t about him, although-news flash-serial killers aren’t often obvious when luring women away.”
Her tone reminds me of many lectures from our parents. Not that I mention it. Disruptions to her carefully arranged life never bring out the best in her. She needs comforting, not a witty exchange of barbs. Too bad, because those can be fun.
“I said I’m sorry.” I rub her arms and gesture toward Chloe with my head. “Why’s Chloe crying?”
“While you were getting off”-she thrusts her pointer finger at me- “your stupid pact pretty much destroyed our lives.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of that gesture, although being hungover makes me more sensitive than normal.
“Destroyed your lives?” I mock her exaggeration. When no one softens, my concern deepens. “Whatever happened, it can’t be so bad that we can’t fix it.”
Chloe whimpers and blows her nose before forcing another muffin past her lips. Since returning to Connecticut, I’ve noticed she still stuffs down her feelings like she’s stuffing down those muffins. That worries me, too. Emotions are the fuel of life and, as such, should be experienced fully-for better or worse. Truth, even if harsh, should be embraced. The key is finding a positive way to work through it, like I usually could with my art.
“Chloe?” I ask gently.
Her breath comes shallow and fast. “Drew’s gonna be so angry. Like kill-me-level mad. We can’t afford to lose five thousand dollars in one night!” She grabs her face and pitches forward, crying.
My brows rise as Liz makes a “told you so” gesture with both hands.
Her husband’s midlevel corporate job supports a family of four, so they count every penny. If I recall, Chloe brought only $200 to play with this weekend. “How’d you lose so much?”
“Does it matter? The point is, Drew will. . . I don’t even know what he’ll do. All I do know is that this will cost me. He wasn’t thrilled about my coming, but I promised nothing crazy would happen. Now look! I shouldn’t have wandered away from Liz.” She presses both palms to her forehead. “That craps table moved so fast.”
“Craps!” I say.
Her eyes glaze over. “At first I was way up-two thousand dollars. It was intoxicating.” Her voice turns husky, but she shakes her head to refocus. “Then it was gone in a snap. I thought I’d win it back-go home with extra spending money for our anniversary trip. It seemed possible because it’d been so easy the first time, so I got an advance on my credit card.” Her face crumples again. “People were placing big bets, so I did, too. But I kept losing, so I’d go again hoping to get back to even, but it was like trying to swim out of a strong riptide.” She trembles. Two empty plates with only crumbs remaining means she’s been stress eating all night. “It was awful. Absolutely awful!”
I cross the room to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. It was selfish to have left them last night. Especially after Chloe had to fight to come at all. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. What can I do?”
My sister stares into space, shaking her head. The way we grew up, money was never a concern. Although I refuse to draw from my trust account for anything other than charity, that cushion exists no matter how much I pretend otherwise, and it’s given me the freedom to take risks. Freedom Chloe’s never had.
“What if I reimburse you?” Helping other people is the only worth-while thing I can do with money I didn’t earn, so I give it away often-to friends, to worthy local nonprofits (particularly those that support children and artists), and sometimes even to folks who are down on their luck, like Dennis’s and my old neighbor, a young widow with three kids, whose mortgage nearly went into foreclosure.
Chloe’s mouth falls open. “I can’t do that.”
“Why not? You wouldn’t have lost the money if I hadn’t left you. Please let me help so that you don’t regret the whole experience or go home and fight with your husband.” I smile, thinking I’ve solved her problem.
“You can’t fix this by throwing money at it,” Liz scoffs. Her judgment wouldn’t normally smart, but remorse has left me raw. “Besides, encouraging Chloe to lie to her husband will only cause more trouble.”
Perhaps she has a point, but I don’t need a scolding-especially not from someone who’s never been married or even had a relationship that lasted longer than eighteen months. Lately she acts happy with Brian, an ABC newscaster she started dating this spring, but I’m not convinced. He gives off a superficial vibe. She’s not stupid, though, so maybe I’m missing something.
“Why are you so mad?” I ask. It isn’t as if she and Chloe are besties, despite knowing each other since childhood. Unlike normal little sisters, mine never chased after me and my friends as we got older. She was too involved in school and clubs to keep up with my antics. Other than during our annual holiday lunches, Liz hardly saw or spoke to Chloe before I moved back home.
Liz blanches, eyes misty, lips quavering. A rare loss of composure. Our parents hardly encourage crying as a response to stress-the financier Briggs Clarke and his cardiothoracic surgeon wife, Dr. Samantha McMaster, counsel logic over emotion in all things. Naturally, they don’t understand me. And despite often wishing my sister would unleash her
emotions, seeing hints of them now fills me with dread because only something catastrophic would make her crack.
With a tight voice, Liz says, “I wanted to give you what you asked for, so I let my guard down in public. Now my career might be tanked thanks to a video that’s trending on Twitter. Hashtag Liz Clarke Hates Kenny.”
The reminder of her life lived under a microscope makes me frown. We suffered enough of that as Briggs’s kids. I can’t understand her sac-rificing so much privacy for a job as a morning talk show cohost. Week after week of idle chitchat with celebrities isn’t the “change the world” stuff of her childhood dreams, that much I know. And it always hurts when she uses “protecting her reputation” as an excuse to turn down my invitations.
Still, her status as the reliable one-the star-has meant everything to her for as long as I can remember, so I’ll help her protect it. “I need more context.”
She starts pacing in a tight circle, brow furrowed. Speaking to no one in particular, she says, “I honestly don’t remember most of it. Is it possible Josh’s friends spiked my drink? God, if Chloe hadn’t come back when she did, an even worse leaked video could’ve happened.”
Drugs seem doubtful, seeing that neither Chloe nor I feel affected. More likely Liz is unaccustomed to the fuzzy memories and regrets that can accompany a serious hangover.
“Lizzie.” I snap my fingers twice, impatient for the details needed to know what to do next. “What’s on the video?”
“Me talking about Kenny.” She scrubs her palms over her face as if they will erase what happened.
“Your cohost?” I frown. “What did you say that was juicy enough to go viral?”
“Nothing good.” She shuts me out, already certain I can’t help. “Please pack your stuff. Chloe and I are ready to go. My agent wants me
back in New York to put out a formal apology as soon as possible, and I need makeup and good lighting so I don’t look hungover.”
“Okay, okay. Gimme five minutes.” I leave them muttering to each other in the living room while I throw my few things into my butter-soft leather Brunello Cucinelli bag. If my divorce hadn’t used up all my tears, I’d be bawling now. Our big night out was a big fail. Before leaving the bedroom, I see the hashtag trending on Twitter and find the video. It isn’t good. Although grainy, thanks to the dim lights and general club chaos, it’s clearly Liz-or rather a sloppy version of her I’ve never seen before. I hold my sinking stomach.
Whatever set her off, one insult after another flows from her mouth-about his lack of journalism background and inept interview preparations for “mindless” celebrity interviews. Worse, she slams the network for saddling her, a summa cum laude graduate of Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism, with an inexperienced injured football player as a cohost. Ouch! They won’t like that.
She’s not wrong, though. Kenny hasn’t worked his way up the broadcast-journalism ladder on merit. Despite being neither particularly smart nor quick-witted, he won the job through his fan base (large even by sports-hero standards) and practiced charm. Given his notorious reputation with women, I’ve no doubt he also came on to Liz when he first got hired. Her sandy hair, golden-brown eyes, and wide smile make her pretty in that approachable way that some men take as an unsolicited green light.
She must’ve been sitting on these feelings for a long time for them to explode this way. While I’m never ashamed of telling the truth, she will be horribly so. The fact that it’s going viral will amplify her humiliation. The public backlash is already brutal.
I zip my bag shut and return to the living room to face the two women I love most, both of whom are hurting because they tried to make me happy.
As the only one of us who has ample experience with screwups and the morning-after blues, I take charge with the hope of easing both their minds. Rule number one: flip the script. “Okay. I get it, guys. You’re both rightfully upset, and I’m sorry. I really am. I never meant for anything bad to happen. I can’t turn back the clock, but one thing that helps me when I get into trouble is to remember that, as awful as things seem in the moment, no one has died and we’re not headed to jail.” I offer a weak smile that does nothing to break the tension in the room.
“Chloe, my offer is genuine.” I stare at her. “I’m not minimizing what happened, but I’m happy to fix it. Tell Drew the truth, but let me reimburse the debt as an anniversary gift. And, Lizzie, I know you will probably OD on Tums for weeks because you made a mistake. I really doubt those guys laced our drinks, but we can get a drug test to be sure.”
She shakes her head. “No. You’re right. I’m grasping for an explanation behind my royal screwup.”
“Everyone says stupid things when they’re drunk. Just admit that you were tipsy and that you didn’t really mean them,” I suggest.
“That’ll merely shift the conversation from me being a bitch to me being a drunkard who got played by dudes with a phone. It won’t save my reputation or erase the attack on my cohost and the show’s brand. What was I thinking?” Liz grabs her face again, looking so distraught it makes my stomach hurt.
“There’s got to be a way to fix it,” I say, mind racing.
She lets her hands fall and looks at me, her big sister, who chose to go have sex with a stranger rather than stay with her. We were closest as youngsters, before our different outlooks pulled us in opposite directions. But I’ve always loved her and wanted her to achieve her dreams.
She’s seemed happy enough with her career, so why did she say all that?
My next opinion might not land well. “You know, a shrink might suggest that your outburst was subconscious self-sabotage. On the one hand, your career is stellar, but on the other, you’re not really delving into the stories and issues you’d originally planned on. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to pivot and pursue a new goal. I mean, The Morning Dish is kinda beneath you and you know it.”
Wrong thing to say, judging by her scowl, although I meant it as a compliment. Liz is one of the brightest, hardest-working women I know. With all that drive, she could change the world.
“Thanks a lot, sis.” She raises the handlebar of her suitcase. “You might not respect my job, but it’s a big effing deal to me.”
“Sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I’m only trying to offer a different perspective.”
Liz’s laugh verges on maniacal. “Like your perspective will help.”
“What’s that mean?” I glance from her to Chloe, who casts her gaze to the ground.
My lifestyle is too extreme for most-I get that-but I’m determined not to meet my maker thinking the world’s five saddest words: “I wish I would have . . .” Growing up, I had a front-row seat to the eighty-hour workweeks and enormous responsibilities that took over my parents’ lives, leaving almost no room for fun. That impression never left, nor did my nanny Marta’s death. Ovarian cancer at only thirty-six-a year younger than I will be on Thursday. A constant reminder that nothing should be taken for granted.
Sure, risks can go south. But I’d rather chase every idea, whim, and opportunity that crosses my path than become one of Thoreau’s quiet discontented, never taking any chances out of fear of judgment or failure.
“Your life is like a twisted Peter Pan tale, with you always following your artistic muse.” Liz’s skin is shiny with perspiration. “You hop from country to country, never content. Never committed to anything but `experiencing life.’ Even with Dennis, you were only committed so long as he was interested in a vagabond lifestyle, too.”
I’m shocked my nose isn’t bleeding from that jab. Liz can really fight dirty that way, like our father.
My words come out softly. “I love Dennis. You know I do.”
For the past decade, we traveled the globe, exploring everything from art nouveau architecture in Budapest to the music party scene at Distortion in Copenhagen.
But last August my world collapsed when, despite our long-standing agreement to remain childless, he decided he wanted kids more than the life we’d created. Brokenhearted, I trekked across the world, revisiting some of my favorite cities in a desperate bid to find happiness without him. Last spring it became clear it wasn’t working, so I returned to the place that formed me so that I might remake myself somehow.
That goal made my parents’ east-facing two-bedroom pool house the best place to crash-land. Its large windows let in ample natural light. Those first two months I lived in near isolation, subsisting on burgundy and Brie while dumping every painful feeling into my art. Literally. Cans of paint overturned, slapped, or spewed onto large canvases.
“Not enough to compromise,” Liz spits out. “If you really loved him, his feelings and needs would have mattered at least as much as your own.”
She looks so much like our father when she haughtily fires off her opinions, I can hardly stand to look at her. And she couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d carved out my heart slowly with a nail file.
My love for Dennis is deep and genuine, and has nothing whatsoever to do with the knowledge that I would be a terrible mother.
“Well, happy birthday to me.” I grab the car keys off the bar top, no longer worried about their feelings. “Hurry now so I can get you both back to normal. And don’t worry, I’ll never again tempt you out of your comfort zones.”
Despite blurred vision, I storm ahead without looking back, my nervous system reverberating with pain. The long drive to Greenwich will be awkward with no one speaking, but Liz’s tirade has knocked me on my ass. I don’t know if Chloe shares all my sister’s opinions, but she hasn’t come to my defense.
Well, they’re both wrong. I’m committed to plenty of things neither of them understands. Honesty and authenticity, for starters. At least I’m not afraid of failure or willing to compromise my beliefs for a person or job that doesn’t let me be true to myself.
My bruised feelings harden to anger, so much so that my veins begin to burn. Righteous anger might fuel the rest of this day, but what will I do if the fallout from this weekend drives a permanent wedge between us all?
Excerpted from The Happy Accidents by Jamie Beck with permission from the publisher, Montlake. Copyright © 2021 by Write Ideas, LLC. All rights reserved.
