THEY HADN’T CHECKED the mail in days. From the kitchen, where Pearl threw together a bag lunch to bring to work, she could see the mailbox door hanging open, letters and drugstore flyers sticking out. Neither she nor Dad wanted to be the jerk who brought the bills into the house.
Sighing, she went outside into the bright morning, yanking on the mail until it came free. The Clarence Agency: bill collector; Central Maine Power: past due; a heavy cream-colored envelope with her name and address printed in calligraphy across the front. The return address was the club. For a crazy moment, she wondered if it might be a pink slip, but not even Meriwether would be that pretentious. Brow furrowed, Pearl tore open the seal and pulled out the square of card stock inside.
You are cordially invited to
the Tenney’s Harbor Country Club
Formal Ball and Benefit Auction
She stared for a long moment, running down the details. Eight to eleven p.m., open bar and heavy hors d’oeuvres, auction to benefit the local nonprofit tutoring program. She checked again to make sure it really said her name on the envelope. This made no sense, unless she’d ended up on the list by mistake, somebody mixing up their spreadsheets at the club.
She heard the screen door open behind her and quickly shuffled the envelope in with the other mail, keeping her head down. “You want toast?” Dad said from the front steps.
“Coming.” She slid past him into the house.
She tried not to glance at the stack of mail until Dad was in the bathroom, at which point she grabbed the invitation and took it down to her room, hiding it between the mattress and box spring, along with Cassidy’s memory card.
Reese moved past her, no acknowledgment. Breakfast/brunch shift was tough on everybody, even on an average day: the prep cooks and busboys were still blinking sleep from their eyes, and the servers were sneaking coffee every chance they got. It was ten minutes before the dining room doors opened for the day, and as Pearl watched Reese taking chairs down from tabletops and setting places, she suddenly felt like hitting him—or at the very least, throwing some eggs Benedict at him.
“Really?” She stopped in the middle of righting a chair, looking at him across their sections. “You’re just not going to talk to me now?”
He dropped a chair heavily onto its legs, grabbed another.
“Fine. But you’re being stupid.” She glanced at him. He still had his back to her. “You don’t even know what’s going on. You didn’t even ask.”
Thump. Another captain’s chair landed on the hardwood.
“Reese—”
“Pearl, I don’t give a shit. Okay?” The next chair dropped so far that the bang echoed to the rafters. “Save it.” As she stared, speechless, he turned and went into the kitchen.
The morning continued as it always did, sunlight slanting across the room in the usual patterns, Lou Pulaski and some golf cronies meeting for artery-clogging breakfasts, talking too loudly and laughing too much for Pearl to keep her thoughts on anything but Reese’s words. How had they gone from holding hands in the dark to I don’t give a shit? She’d seen him annoyed before, irritable occasionally, but never like this—never to the point of completely shutting her out. Feeling slightly stunned, she went through the motions until she noticed a palpable shift in atmosphere, a redirection of focus to the patio entrance.
Frederick Spencer Sr., the patriarch, came in, removing his cap and smoothing the pure white feathers of his hair. He wore a pale-yellow sport shirt, khakis, and Italian loafers. Beside him, Bridges was a young, trendy version, Ralph Lauren to the old man’s Gucci. When the maître d’ abandoned his podium—seldom done—to hurry over to seat them, Bridges said something quietly to his grandfather and pointed Pearl out.
The maître d’ led them to Pearl’s section, Mr. Spencer meeting and greeting the whole way, patting shoulders and exchanging good mornings. Pearl felt a blush growing; she’d waited on him a few times before, but always as a nameless server, someone who would fade from memory before Mr. Spencer’s crepes had fully digested.
She walked over, provided menus, said, “Good morning, gentlemen,” in a tone that she hoped made clear to Bridges that she wasn’t out to endear herself, wouldn’t be leaping into his lap like a giddy cocker spaniel in front of the great man.
“Hey. I wasn’t sure if you’d be working this morning.” Bridges smiled. “Gramps, this is Pearl. Pearl, this is my grandfather, Fred.”
She hesitated, caught between roles. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Mr. Spencer put his hand out. It was tanned, deeply lined, and she was surprised to feel calluses on the palms. “Likewise, young lady.” His eyes must be the wellspring of the Spencer blue, vivid and lively. “My grandson’s quite impressed by you. I hear you sail?”
“A little.” Everyone must be looking at them now, wondering what possible reason Frederick Spencer would have to shake his server’s hand. “I’m a novice. Not like Bridges.”
“Don’t listen to her. She knows her way around a boat better than a lot of the guys in sailing club ever did,” Bridges said.
“Sounds like we have a mutual admiration society here.” Mr. Spencer smiled. Something in the expression hinted that lady-killing might be a family tradition. “Will you do us the honor of joining us for breakfast?”
“Oh. Um—”
But Bridges spoke up. “Come on, she can’t do that. You’ll get her in trouble.”
“Well. Another time, then. When you’re off duty.” He continued to study her, then broke into another smile. “Do you happen to have any of those currant scones this morning?”
Pearl leaped on the segue, taking their orders and walking swiftly away. Everyone might not have been watching, but Reese was; she locked eyes with him for a moment. His expression lingered somewhere between disbelief and disgust before he turned back to the table he was serving.
Imagine his face if she’d pulled up a chair across from Old Man Spencer and his golden grandson, right here in the same room where she and Reese had scrubbed hardened lobster bisque off tabletops and returned meals two, three times for members who didn’t feel that their swordfish was “blackened” enough. Pearl got it; at the same time, she resented the hell out of it, gripped by that same why not me feeling she’d had in Dark Brew Saturday afternoon. Was it so unbelievable that these people would want anything from her other than bowing and scraping, that she couldn’t possibly have anything else to offer?
When she delivered their breakfasts, Bridges said, “So. Tennis?”
She was aware of Mr. Spencer’s bright gaze. “I’ll be a terrible partner.”
“No worries. It’s not like any of us will be making the US Open anytime soon. I just want to hang out with you.”
She thought of the invitation to the ball, swallowed her questions for the time being. “See you at the courts.”
She didn’t expect to find him there, reclining in one of the patio chairs, a tennis racket dangling from his fingers as he waited for her.
Pearl hesitated in the doorway, looking back at Tristan, then stepped the rest of the way out of the dining room and shut the door behind her. “You’re not Bridges.”
He balanced the racket on the floor on its handle, picked it up again. “I was told you don’t know how to play tennis.”
“Guilty.” She hoped she sounded as blasé as he did. She’d changed into street clothes in the staff restroom right after she’d punched out, her tan shorts again, the nicest T-shirt she’d been able to find.
“You’ll learn.” He straightened up. The decision had been made to move, and they were moving, Pearl pulled along as if by inertia, down the steps and around the building, past the pool where summer kids lounged in swimsuits and played with their phones, soaking up the midafternoon rays. Some of them stared at her, then cast speculative looks at her company; she could hardly believe it herself. Tristan Garrison, not only walking beside her, but seeking her out. “If you can control how hard you hit a ball,” he said, “you can play tennis. You might not be great at it, but you can participate. Watching is for the Hadley Kurtzweils of the world.”
Pearl kept her expression deadpan. “Being Hadley Kurtzweil. A fate worse than death.” As soon as she said it, she wished she’d chosen any other turn of phrase.
“That depends. Here.” He put the racket in her hand. “It should be the right grip size for you.”
She looked at it. It wasn’t club-issue, rented from the sporting equipment counter. She didn’t want to ask where he’d gotten a girl’s racket. She casually swung it back and forth, acting like it meant nothing. Her mind was full of the video in the Islander’s head, of Cassidy’s hard breathing. I saw your sister scared to death. I saw her running for her life. And what did he know about it? Watching his still profile, it was possible to believe everything or nothing.
There were three tennis courts, and Bridges had reserved the one on the far left. He stood, smacking the ball lazily back and forth with Akil while other summer kids hung around, mostly girls, leaning against the fence to watch the matches in play. Pearl was surprised to feel Tristan’s hand graze her arm as he held the gate for her, then saw what he was indicating: Hadley and Quinn, sitting with their backs against the fence, watching the action.
Bridges’s face went blank at the sight of Pearl and Tristan together.
“Look who I found,” Tristan said mildly.
“She was going to meet us here.”
“And she has.” Tristan went to the fence, retrieved his own racket from his bag.
He stretched his left triceps, gripping his elbow. “Pearl and I against the two of you.” Bridges’s gaze went to him. “We need to even the odds. I’m the strongest player, she’s learning.”
Akil looked at her. He wore sweats with one pant leg pushed up to his knee, a Puma tank with his aviator shades hooked over his collar. “You’ve never played? You work, like, ten feet away from the courts.”
“Yes. She works here.” Tristan approached the net. “When exactly would she be playing tennis?”
Akil shrugged. “Well, you can’t suck any worse than Bridges.”
“Shut up, man.” Bridges pegged the ball at him, and Akil let it bounce off his shoulder. “You’re as bad as I am.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have an excuse. You should have tennis in your genes. Your grandfather was practicing his backhand when mine would’ve had to carry somebody’s golf bag to get into a place like this.”
“Come on,” Tristan said. “Flip a coin. We call heads.”
Bridges and Akil won the first serve, but Bridges was subdued, watching as Tristan showed Pearl how to hold the racket properly for a beginner—grip at the bottom of the handle, fingers spaced apart—and helped her with her swing. His touch on her forearm was sparing, his body close enough that she could sense his proximity, but not feel him; if she made a misstep, he was there, correcting her again with his touch, not words. From the corner of her eye, she could see Hadley and Quinn watching.
Preparing to serve, Akil said, “Thirty, bitches. Hey—look who’s coming.”
Bridges glanced toward the parking lot, and when Pearl swatted the ball back, it bounced out of his service box, forgotten.
Indigo crossed the side parking lot, her designer-imposter bag over her shoulder, her mass of sandy curls hanging loose down her back. The boys took in her rolling hips, the way her slacks clung to her. “No handicaps for boners.” Akil grinned at Bridges and Tristan. “Don’t even ask.” He went to the fence, calling, “Hey. Hi.”
Indigo turned to him, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. Once recognition set in, her body language changed, all the lazy panther looseness that Pearl associated with her tightening, tensing. “Hey.” She didn’t come over.
“So . . . are you going to hang out this summer?” Akil worked his fingers into the chain link, rocking back on his heels. “Because the invitation’s open. Anytime, anywhere.”
Indigo moved her gaze to Tristan, who’d retrieved the ball and now tossed it, caught it, tossed it again. She finally seemed to notice Pearl standing off to his left. The girls stared at each other, Indigo frowning slightly, revealing nothing. “Yeah. Maybe.” She turned away and continued toward the club, tossing her hair over her shoulder. If the word wasn’t out that Pearl Haskins had been seen with the summer boys, it would be now—how long before Indigo made this kitchen gossip, before she made sure Reese found out all the details?
“Don’t be a stranger.” Akil gave an exaggerated wave, speaking too loudly. “‘Bye!”
Bridges shook his head, smiling ruefully. “That was evil.”
“Hey, somebody’s got to let the girl know she’s wanted.”
Quinn sighed, calling, “You guys are pathetic.”
“How do you know her?” Pearl watched Bridges and Akil exchange a look, hide smiles. Tristan started bouncing the ball off the clay, catching it. “Am I missing something?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . . everybody knows her. She’s”—Bridges carefully avoided her eyes—“one of the townies who comes to the parties. You know.”
Pearl flexed her fingers. “Townies. Right.”
“I don’t mean—not like you.”
“Tell her the nickname.” Akil took a few practice swings. “Go on, Bridge, don’t be such a goddamn southern gentleman just because your girlfriend’s here. Say it.”
“I’m not saying it.”
“Okay, eww. I’m done.” Quinn stood, brushing off her white denim skirt, nudging Hadley with her foot. “Tell your little conquest stories after we’re gone.”
“Whatever.” Akil smiled. “You just wish you were in one.”
“With a walking hard-on like you? I don’t think so.”
A murmur of laughter from the kids nearby. Akil glanced over, laughed along sharply. “I meant Bridges. Pretty sure you guys never even made it to second base—or wasn’t anybody supposed to know that?”
A quick, naked flash across Quinn’s face, a glance at Bridges, who turned away, running his hand back through his hair. “Wait,” Quinn said to Akil, “just so we’re clear—you’re trashing me for not putting out when I was fourteen?” Akil snorted, shrugging her off, but she followed him. “Seriously, what does a girl have to do to earn a vote of approval from you guys? Or is that even possible?”
Akil dug into his bag. “Just forget it, Quinn.”
Hadley touched Quinn’s back. “Let’s go.”
“No. I want to hear what he has to say.” Quinn folded her arms as he gave her a sidelong look. “I mean, it’s obvious you think you can do whatever you want because you’re a guy. It’s okay to act like a heartless horndog slut, because later, all your buddies will buy you beer and tell you what a stud you are, right?” She raised her voice for the benefit of their audience. “I think you should have to explain why it’s not a karmic issue for you to have a random hookup on a boat named after your dead ex, who—let’s face it—only ever got with you as part of her Get Back at Daddy campaign. Any thoughts on that?”
Half a second of shocked silence. Hadley’s face was white. Akil swore, threw his racket to the side, and went for Quinn.
Bridges slammed into Akil’s chest, catching handfuls of his shirt, moving with him. “Dude, no—”
Akil shoved at him, tried to twist around him, still locked on Quinn, who gave a bring it on gesture, stepping lightly back.
“Stop it!” Hadley’s voice broke. “Quinn, let’s go! Please!”
“I’m shaking. Really, Akil. You’re such a badass. You have to beat up a girl to make her be quiet?” Quinn allowed Hadley to tug her toward the gate, calling back at them, “Nobody’s impressed. Just so you know.”
Bridges held on to Akil, kept talking him down until Akil finally ripped free, turning off balance to face Tristan.
Who was leaving. He was already through the gate and onto the walkway, bag over his shoulder, moving at a steady pace toward the parking lot without looking back.
Akil swore a final time, grabbed his things, and left too, shoving by Pearl and heading in the direction of the club.
Bridges watched him go for a moment, then sank onto the ground into a sitting position, hanging his head. Pearl walked over and sat beside him. “That was fun.” She glanced toward the parking lot. “Will Tristan be . . . okay?”
“Tristan doesn’t really need people.” He was quiet a moment. “Akil’s the one who’s freaking.”
“Quinn had a point. About the boat.”
He rubbed his face. “I know. Akil knows it, too. That’s the whole reason he did that with Hadley. To prove something about him and Cassidy.”
“And he had to prove it with your ex-girlfriend?” Bridges didn’t answer. “Was it true, what Quinn said about Cassidy using Akil to get back at her dad?”
“Cassidy wasn’t like that.” He released a pent-up breath. “I dunno, maybe it was a little bit true. But it wasn’t like she planned it. I mean, Akil came on to her hard, right from the beginning. Said stuff most guys wouldn’t say to somebody’s sister. Not that Tristan seemed to care.” He looked at her, his expression pained. “It wasn’t like she had a lot of experience, you know? Last summer was the first year she started hanging out with us. She just kind of showed up at the parties, had a few drinks, whatever. We were always Tristan’s friends before that . . . she stayed away. I don’t know if David made her or what. I don’t think she’d ever had a real boyfriend before Akil.”
Pearl pushed her hair behind her ears, watching a nearby match without really seeing it. “Tristan didn’t mind that his little sister was tagging along with his friends?”
“I guess not. They didn’t talk much. She always found her own rides places, things like that.” Bridges paused. “She said she was on a break.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I heard her playing at all last summer. Weird. Usually her music was all over their house.”
A silent piano. A suddenly full social calendar. And a video of someone breaking a door down. Pearl wanted to keep pushing, to reach into Bridges’s mind and rake through what he’d seen, what he knew—he’d been there, in the Garrisons’ house, at the Little Nicatou parties—but she was on the verge of prying too hard as it was. She picked up a pebble, tossed it away through the fence. “Think Akil really would’ve hit Quinn?”
“Everybody wants to hit Quinn. But, nah. You’ve got to know by now that Akil’s ninety percent talk.”
Interesting, considering how fast Bridges had gotten between them. Pearl looked off at the club, picturing Akil’s face on the other side of that door on the Islander, his shoulder slamming the wood. “Would he have hit Cassidy?”
“Are you kidding? He treated her like a princess—for him, anyway. Akil’s not stupid. He knew he was getting crazy-lucky. I mean, Cassidy Garrison? That’s like . . .” Bridges hesitated, got to his feet. “Well, lots of guys would’ve traded places.”
Pearl plucked at her racket netting, feeling the slight twist of—not exactly jealousy, but a resurgence of what’d she felt the night before Christmas Eve when she’d watched Cassidy’s poise and grace and known with a hollow certainty that she’d never, ever have that. Not even close. What did it take to inspire awe in people, to be the kind of girl that guys treated like royalty?
“So . . . do you ever check your mail?”
Pearl looked up sharply. “What?”
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something, but you should’ve gotten it a couple days ago, so . . .”
She stood. “How’d you manage that, anyway? Those invitations were mailed by the club.”
He grinned. “Are you saying you’ll come? You don’t have to work it, do you?”
“No. I’m working lunch that day.” Going as Bridges’s date would mean total exposure, see-and-be-seen by both members and staff. Word would almost certainly get back to Dad. It was a risk. “I don’t know. Hoity-toity people in diamond tiaras . . . ?”
“I’ll leave mine at home, promise. Come on, my gramps is making a big deal out of it. The whole club’s going to be there. He really wants me to go. And he likes you. I can tell.”
“All I did was bring him some scones.”
“It’s because you were cool. You didn’t try to kiss his ass. He respects that.” Bridges stood up. “So . . . do you have time to get a dress before Friday?”
She gave him a look. “I’ll get my designer right on it.”
He loped over and picked up the tennis ball, reminding her a bit of a golden retriever puppy, shaggy-haired and guileless. “Still feel like learning to play?”
They spent an hour batting the ball around, laughing at their mistakes; when Pearl stopped, winded, she realized she was having fun, genuinely enjoying herself with Bridges, and not for the first time, either. Then she heard one of the mowers approaching.
Dad rode by, following the nearest edge of the golf course. Bridges’s conversation faded behind the sound of her own heartbeat, the blood rushing in her veins as she stood still, sure Dad must’ve seen her through the chain link, that he’d cut the engine now and come over to ask her what the hell was going on.
But his gaze passed over her and moved on without hesitation. As if, without her uniform, with a racket in her hand, she was unrecognizable. A completely different person.