People might have considered it more than a little stalkerish to chase down the caterer of the McNamara wedding and insist she give her employee my contact information, but I didn’t care. After going so long without seeing Samantha, I couldn’t let a moment like that pass. I had to try to connect with her. Had to.
And I was still thinking about her the morning after the wedding, when I joined Aaron for coffee at Green’s Pharmacy, a small diner in the center of town known for its muffins and bottomless coffee. When Aaron ordered an omelet with a side of home fries, I took advantage of the moment and glanced again at the Google search I’d done on my phone about Samantha.
Odd. She didn’t have a social media footprint. No searchable Facebook profile. No Instagram. No Twitter. Not even an old Myspace account. Nada.
“Dude, what the—?” Aaron ’s sharp tone made me click the phone shut.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just distracted.”
“That’s an understatement. This is getting a little ridiculous.” He took a creamer pod from the basket on the table and dumped the contents into his coffee cup. “Never needed caffeine more in my life.” He looked up at me. “Want to talk about what’s bothering you, Prince Davis?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m here if you need me.”
“I know.” I shrugged. We didn’t have a friendship based on “talking.” I preferred to build my relationships around drinking, soccer, polo, living the good life, and other relatively meaningless pursuits. But Aaron was probably my closest friend in Palm Beach, and at least he’d asked. “Fine. Have you ever run into somebody after a long time, and it’s like nothing has changed?”
“A few times, maybe.” Aaron opened a sugar packet and dumped it into his mug too. Then he stirred the mixture once. “Usually because I haven’t changed, not them.”
I drank some of my own coffee, black and strong. “Well, the other night I crossed paths with someone from my past.”
“Let me guess.” Aaron grinned. “You slept with her once, and she’s still pissed you never called her after.”
I shook my head. “Not that simple.”
“Oh, God, something worse?” He clutched his collar in mock horror.
“No. Not like that. Her mother used to work for my father.” I had to tread carefully with my wording. Samantha’s mother had been the housekeeper—the help. That meant an unspoken rule for most Palm Beachers.
One didn’t become friends with the staff.
I waved a hand. “But she was pretty cool, and I didn’t realize until now how much I missed her.”
Not exactly the truth. But it sounded good.
Aaron drank some more brew. “You guys haven’t kept in touch?”
“Nope.”
“Isn’t she on social media like everyone else?”
“No.” I picked up my phone. “I’ve been checking. Nothing.”
Aaron frowned. “That’s weird.”
“It is.” I placed my phone on the table again. “And even weirder is the fact that I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Really?” Aaron studied me. “How long are you in town, man?”
“Until Wednesday. At least, that’s the plan right now. I have to go back to Cambridge, pack up my place, and move it all to New York.” I didn’t add that by “packing” I meant overseeing a team of movers, and that “moving to New York” really meant taking my belongings to the vacant Park Avenue apartment my father left me in his will.
“Wednesday, huh?” Aaron rubbed his top lip with his index finger. “Not a lot of time.”
“No, it isn’t. Why did you ask?”
“Because if you really want to talk to this woman again, I suggest you get moving.”
I nodded just as the waitress arrived with Aaron’s omelet. He was right. I didn’t have time to be considerate of normal social cues.
About three hours later, I pulled up to a storefront in a West Palm Beach shopping center a few blocks from the airport. The glass door had the words “Haute Holidays” stamped across the front in flowery lettering, and a small catering van was parked in a space near the entrance. I slid my Mercedes convertible into an adjacent spot and turned off the engine. The car had been a splurge four years earlier, when I sold the travel app I designed to some Silicon Valley investors. I kept it in Florida and only took it out on special occasions.
This felt like one.
I took a few deep breaths, got out of the car, and walked into the business.
A teenager behind the bakery case seemed surprised to see me. “Can I help you?” he asked in a broken voice as he stared at me with wide eyes.
“I didn’t realize Haute Holidays was also a bakery.” I braced my hand on the glass display window, which showed off several elegant cakes and a few cupcakes drenched in chocolate ganache and whipped white frosting.
“We just have a few items in case customers want to try our offerings.” He took a white plastic wrapper from a dispenser located between the cases and the register. “Is there something I can get you? Would you like to taste a sample?”
“No, I was—I was looking for someone.” My gaze met the teen’s. “Samantha Green. Is she working today?”
“Samantha?” The boy put down the wrapper. “Oh.”
“Is she here?”
“No.” The teen glanced toward the back of the business before lowering his voice. “I’m not really supposed to talk about who works when. It’s like a persona matter.”
“You mean ‘personnel’,” I said, unable to resist correcting the kid. “Personnel matter, not persona.”
“Yeah, that.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Whatever. Listen, I’m not supposed to talk about that kind of stuff.”
I shifted my weight and straightened up. Then I pulled my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans. “Okay, I get that. It’s not really anyone’s business. You guys have to have policies.” I opened my billfold. “But I promise, I’m friends with Samantha Green. We go way back, and I’m figuring a guy like you can help me find her.”
I took out two fifty-dollar bills, no longer caring that I’d crossed the line from normal into creepy. I only had a few days left in South Florida, and I’d be damned if I left the area without having a chance to talk to Samantha again. I handed the money to the teen. “Maybe that will help you with your ‘personnel’ policies.”
The boy looked down at the money as if I’d handed him two winning lottery tickets. “Ugh”—his gaze met mine again—“yeah, yeah that helps.”
“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Where is she, if she’s not here right now?”
“Let me get a piece of paper,” he said. “I can write down the address for you.”
A half hour later, I was parked in front of a six-plex of apartments, right smack in the middle of what looked like an average, but rickety complex. It was the kind of place contractors put up too quickly and crammed too many people inside, the type of place that advertised reduced rates and premium amenities that never quite matched the marketing.
This second time, I parked the Mercedes away from the other cars, in an unmarked spot at the end of the lot.
Apartment 601 was a downstairs unit, one that looked like all the others. It had a small patio with a few hanging ferns and a metal chair. As I walked toward the door, I recited over and over what I would say when she opened the door. She’d have questions. Demands. She might accuse me of stalking. She might slam the door in my face.
None of that will derail me. I know what I want.
When I reached the door, I took two deep breaths before I knocked.
“Who is it?” asked a female voice on the other side. I couldn’t tell if it was her.
“Um…it’s Davis Armstrong. Can I…”
I broke off because I heard shuffling on the other side of the door then the sharp clicking of locks being opened. The door opened a fraction, and Samantha peeked around the security chain. “What the hell are you doing here, Davis?”
“I just—” I stepped backward as a sudden rush of embarrassment passed through me. She was right. What the hell was I doing? This kind of behavior was way out of character for me, and I hardly recognized myself. But seeing her again at the wedding reception had triggered something, and I had a need to answer questions that had long ago been forgotten.
“I had to see you again,” I tried. “That’s it. I didn’t want to let the wedding reception be the only time.” I shoved my hands in my trouser pockets. “So here I am.”
“How did you find out where I live?”
“I have my ways.” I gave her a wry smile. “And I stopped by Haute Holidays offices. Turns out, money talks.”
“It sure does.” She unlocked the security chain, stepped outside the apartment, and closed the door behind her. “But I’m not going to say I don’t find it weird that you paid someone to find out where I live.”
“You’re pretty hard to find. No Facebook, no Instagram. Nothing.” I spread a hand. “And that meant I had to get creative.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to be found?” She frowned. “Besides, just because everyone else is on social media all the time doesn’t mean I have to be as well.”
“You’re right.” I stared at her for a moment, taking her in. God, even after ten years, she was still beautiful, in a fragile, delicate way. She had her long, dishwater-blonde hair tied in a low ponytail, and this accented her pointy nose and upturned sea-blue eyes. She was thin, but not athletic, and the white polo shirt she wore hung on her body, with the scripted words “Royal Palm” on the lapel. It was at about that time that I realized she was wearing a uniform.
“Are you about to leave for work?” I asked.
“Yes.” She looked at the black watch on her wrist. “In about fifteen minutes or so.”
“And you have two jobs?” Something about this fact made my stomach sink into my knees.
“A lot of people do, Davis.”
“I know, but…” I wanted to say, you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t have two jobs, but I didn’t. Instead I said, “Where do you work besides Haute Holidays? Royal Palm something?”
“Why do you want to know?” She grinned. “So that you can stalk me there too?”
“Maybe.” I let out a nervous laugh. “I guess just to catch up. It’s been so long, and I—I keep thinking about the last time I saw you, that last night, when we drove to the turtle sanctuary in Jupiter and ended up at the beach house—”
“The night you stole your dad’s old Bentley and we used those fake IDs so we could get those bottles of cheap wine from the Quick and Go?”
“You remember it.” I didn’t hide the triumph in my voice, or the relief. Yes, this was still the person I knew, the one who was so different and refreshing from the Waspy, put-upon girls I knew at boarding school and through my family’s vast connections.
She nodded. “Good times.”
“That shit tasted so bad. Like moonshine.” I wrinkled my nose. “But, you know, what did we care, right? We were sixteen. Anything would have worked. We probably could have just taken the wine from my grandad’s butler pantry, but it wouldn’t have been as fun.”
“Someone would have probably noticed, anyway.”
“You’re right.”
She laughed again. “That was before—” Then her shoulders slumped. “It’s been a long ten years, Davis.”
“For me too.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I really can’t talk much longer. I have to get to work.”
“You never said where that is.” I stared at her, trying to take in every little detail as we talked in the apartment vestibule. The way the wisps of her hair fanned out from the part. The light blush in her cheeks. The hollow curve between her neck and her collarbone.
“I’m the front desk attendant at the Royal Palm building downtown. A glorified doorman, really, but it pays pretty well.”
I wondered what her definition of “paid well” was, but I decided not to ask. I already guessed time hadn’t been too kind to her. The apartment alone showed that. Whatever money she made, it probably only barely took care of her bills. Otherwise, she wouldn’t live in a dumpy complex like this one.
“Do you like working there? I’ve heard Royal Palm is nice. They do a lot of advertising.” I also decided to leave out where I’d seen the ads—magazines like Palm Beach Illustrated, Palm Beach The Island, New York Now, Ocean Drive. All of those catered to people with disposable incomes, and I didn’t want to sound like a typical rich asshole. Not that it wasn’t a known fact as the family name was synonymous with wealthy, but I didn’t want to seem like a rich asshole to Sam.
She shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. The people are nice, and it’s not that hard. It’s an upscale building, so not a lot of stuff happens.”
This was going better than I expected. She hadn’t ordered me to leave or called the cops. She didn’t seem too upset that I’d basically hunted her down and bribed my way to get to her. I decided to press my luck.
“When do you get off work?” I asked.
She glanced at her watch again. “Late. After nine.”
“Let me take you to dinner once you get off work.”
She knitted her eyebrows together. “What? That late?”
“Drinks. Dessert. Whatever you want. There must be a place in Palm Beach County open at nine o’clock on a Sunday night. And I want to take you there.” I stepped forward, closing the space between us. “Please,” I begged. “It’s just dinner. An hour of your time, if that. Nothing permanent.” I gave her a sheepish smile. “And we’re old friends, right? We have a lot of catch up on.”
She studied me for a long time, but her expression was blank, and her face unreadable. “Okay,” she finally said. “Let’s meet at The Hamburger Stand on Flagler Drive at nine thirty. It’s open late.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, and I couldn’t hold back my gleeful smile. Ten years was a long time to go without her smile, her friendship, her kiss. I should have moved on—up, some might have said—from her, but I’d once lived for her yeses. Especially when she said yes to my kiss. She’d been my best friend, and when she left so suddenly, I’d been devasted. Alone.
And now she’s here.