Six Months Later
THE BOYS HAD been in the sun—tennis, maybe, or just back from the yacht club. Their brows were damp, postures loose, recuperating. They sat around the table like young guys do, taking up a lot of room, unconcerned by the stares they drew from members and waitstaff alike, lips moving in whispered conversation.
Pearl watched them, breathing shallowly, feeling panic, exhilaration. He never sat in her section. Now here he was with his entourage, the boys of summer, owning the place.
She gathered three menus and went to them, playing the part. “Can I start you gentlemen off with some drinks?” Her voice sounded stiff, an octave higher than usual.
If Tristan Garrison knew her, he gave no sign. That was the way with summer people; they were perfectly comfortable not knowing the locals who prepared their food, changed their sheets, or those, apparently, who were drowning in the undertow of their personal tragedy. “Water, please.” His voice was quiet, dismissive. He did not look at her.
Tristan’s fair skin bore the touch of late June sunshine, but he’d grown thin since winter, still leanly muscled from the racquetball court and hours on the treadmill. Pearl knew the raised veins on his forearms, the faint frown line between his brows that hadn’t smoothed even with the arrival of his wingmen. She studied him whenever he came into the dining room, gripped by the physical and emotional recoil she—and most everyone else—felt in his presence. Alone. He was so alone, even in a room full of people, and maybe in that they shared some kinship.
“Iced coffee. Cream, sugar, shot of espresso. Don’t put too much ice in it.” The boy across from her sat tipped back in his chair, his white tank top contrasting against his deep brown skin, designer ball cap cocked at an angle. The club had done away with the gentlemen-must-wear-a-jacket-and-tie policy long before Pearl began working here, but there was still a certain dress code to be maintained, and Akil Malhotra was way below par. Pearl knew him by sight. Everybody knew the Indian kid who’d stolen the golf cart last summer.
The boy on the left was one of the Spencer grandchildren. He had the look: shaggily blond, deeply tanned from living at the family compound in North Carolina the rest of the year. He smiled at her, his gaze moving from her face to her breasts and back again. “Surprise me.” A faint southern accent, honeying every other word.
She blinked. “Very good.” One more quick glance at Tristan before she left.
She took orders at two more tables, meeting Reese’s gaze on her way to the kitchen; he was waiting on Mimi Montgomery-Hines and her friends, a tableful of elderly ladies who wore ropes of beads and big hats and bright lipstick, like an inverted version of a little girls’ dress-up tea party. Mimi adored Reese; the maître d’s knew to seat her in section three without being told. Reese dropped Pearl a wink without breaking his stream of banter, and the sun-washed room rang with women’s laughter.
The bar was unmanned, so she grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino from the cooler herself. Tristan always drank San Pellegrino. Someone’s fingers stole over the back of her neck, and she smiled, knowing it was Reese.
“Hiya, twinkle toes.” He went around the bar, took the lid off the blender, and dumped in ice, lime juice, triple sec, tequila.
“You’d better get out of there before Chas comes back.”
“Hey, he’s taking a whiz, my table needs drinks. You think I don’t know how to make a margarita?” He put a swizzle stick in his teeth, commenced chewing. “C’mon, c’mon, what do you need?”
“Iced coffee: cream, sugar, espresso. And I’ve got a guy who wants me to surprise him.”
“Slap on some pasties and come out singing, ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President.’ Works every time.” He pulled the coffee pitcher out of the fridge and poured.
“You know from experience, huh.” She waited as he gave the blender a blast. “Isn’t it kind of early in the day for those?”
“Haskins. What have we learned about the rich?”
She sighed. “That it’s socially acceptable for them to drink more in a day than we do in a week.”
“Right. And since it’s now”—he checked an invisible watch—“just a hair past noon, Mimi and her cronies need a pick-me-up so they can make it till cocktail hour. Salt some glasses for me.”
Looking over her shoulder (you never knew when Meriwether might decide to do a walk-through, attending to her assistant managerial duties with grim fervor), she went to him and ran a lime wedge around the edge of the margarita glasses, dipping them in coarse salt. Being this close to Reese O’Shaughnessy was like standing beside high-tension power lines. She felt the energy thrumming through his wiry, not-quite-six-foot frame, and the abruptness of his movements, careless, sloppy, but still getting the job done. His auburn hair fell into his eyes, and she put her hands in her pockets to resist smoothing it back. Friends didn’t stroke each other’s hair. She was pretty sure that was in the manual somewhere.
“Who let the Prince of Darkness out?” Indigo’s low voice made Pearl turn. The girl leaned on the bar, one hip angled out, watching Tristan. She somehow managed to make the uniform of green-and-gold-striped tie, white blouse, and black slacks look like sex on wheels, as if it had been specifically tailored to her. Pearl’s size-small blouse hung loosely, and she had to wear a belt to keep the slacks from slipping down her nonexistent curves. “Looks like the posse’s back in town.” Indigo turned her cool gaze on Pearl. “Lucky you.”
Reese filled the glasses. “Bet he leaves a killer tip. Buh-bum-bum.” Indigo and Pearl made identical sounds of disgust. “Jesus. Warn me before you go all highbrow, girls. Indy, what do you need?”
“I’m still waiting for my surprise.” Pearl hoped she sounded light and breezy.
Reese mixed cola and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry. “Roy Rogers. Unless he’s ninety, he’s never heard of it.”
Pearl loaded her tray and left, straining to hear what was said in her wake. Indigo: “Pitcher of mimosas and a sex on the beach. Just make it,” before Reese could say anything. Possibly a good sign. Those two were notoriously on-again, off-again, though they’d never been officially on, and if they were off now, Pearl doubted she’d be notified.
She set the glasses down in front of the boys. The Spencer grandson bit into the cherry immediately. Tristan didn’t glance up at her; he had his phone out. “Have you decided?” she said. Tristan continued with the touch screen, letting the other boys order before him. Whatever he chose, she knew he wouldn’t eat it.
When she turned to go, Pearl paused to let the maître d’ lead a party of two past her. The couple spoke in low tones, casting looks Tristan’s way. He seemed unaware, or maybe he was used to it by now, his new normal. Pariah.
Tristan had always garnered stares, but originally it was because he was a Garrison, a National Merit Scholar, already a first-string lacrosse star in his freshman year at Yale. Tall, strikingly dark-eyed, brown hair carefully maintained to a half inch above his collar. Now his hair was longer, ignored, his style off-the-rack, though he possessed more personal wealth than most of the members would ever know, which was no small statement. It seemed everyone felt fascination-meets-revulsion in Tristan Garrison’s presence, followed by but the police cleared him; they let him go, didn’t they? Somehow, it wasn’t a comfort. Not at all.
When Pearl brought the boys their entrées, the Spencer grandson said, “Well, damn. You’re amazing. How’d you remember all that?” as she set his plate in front of him, a Reuben on panini bread, spicy mustard and dill spears on the side.
“I can read without moving my lips, too. You’d be surprised.” She bit the inside of her cheek. She could almost hear Reese say, Your filter, Haskins. It’s broken.
Instead of looking embarrassed, Spencer grinned, lopsided and guileless. “If that’s an invitation to get to know you better, I’m up for it.”
She cleared her throat. “Would anyone like another drink?”
Akil snorted. “Burn.”
“She’s just doing her job.” Spencer’s ease was unshakable as he held up his glass. “This is great, by the way. What’s in it?”
“Roy Rogers.” She tucked the collapsible stand and tray under her arm. “Enjoy.”
She snuck a peek back. He’d turned all the way around in his chair to watch her go. Heat creeping into her cheeks, she did a little bobbing and weaving to lose herself in the crowd.
Chas was back behind the bar, hopefully none the wiser that the underage waitstaff had been at the helm, and Reese was at Mimi’s table, which at that moment exploded with hooting laughter. Hard to tell what was going on, exactly, but Reese had a cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear, and everyone’s glasses were almost empty. Pearl studied Mimi, a small, plump woman in a purple linen short set, her gray hair curled under her chin. Mimi was one of the only club members who’d kept Dad on as a caretaker after what happened to the Garrisons; she’d simply called from Texas around the end of April to ask him to open the cottage for her and slap on a new coat of paint while he was at it. It was the first work Dad had gotten in almost a month, the first paycheck they’d seen other than Pearl’s in two weeks.
The boys ate quickly, economically, no time wasted in conversation. When Pearl returned, Tristan had angled himself toward the door, rubbing absently at his left arm. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she said.
“Yeah.” Spencer leaned forward. “Your number.” It had to be the oldest pickup line in the history of food service. Akil groaned, tugging his hat low.
Pearl withdrew the check from her apron pocket and set it on the table, patting it lightly. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Once they’d left, she went back to the table. Tristan’s plate was a psychological study: everything had been shifted to the right, picked at, barely touched. He’d signed for the whole bill. The tip was calculated at 15 percent to the penny.
In the corner of the slip, a phone number was written, along with the name Bridges Spencer. Beneath it, he’d drawn a smiley face with devil horns.