SUMMER DUSK, A long, shimmering stretch of afternoon bleeding into twilight.
Pearl was home with supper ready—mac and cheese, Veg-All—when Dad got out of work. They ate in companionable silence; then she cleaned up, turning from the sink when she heard him putting his shoes on by the door. “You’re leaving?”
Dad didn’t look at her, taking his time checking his pockets for his truck keys. Was it her imagination, or was there more gray in his dark hair than the last time she’d noticed, more salt in his two days’ growth of stubble? His scarred left hand found the key chain, jingled it into his palm. She wondered if she’d ever be able to look at his hands without picturing him trying to get into the Garrisons’ burning parlor, being held back by the flames, finally having no choice but to retreat to the fence and watch the place go up until the first responders arrived, the whole time thinking the family was alive, unreachable. “Heading over to Yancey’s to help him with the tractor.”
Ah. The project without end. “Has that thing ever run?”
“Once in a blue moon.” He hesitated briefly, something in his posture making him seem no older than Pearl herself. “You mind?”
“No. Go for it.” But she sounded stiff, and she saw a flash of Mom standing at this same sink, up to her wrists in soapy water, turning her back on Dad for going out. “Be safe.”
Dad didn’t say anything as he left. They both knew the tractor was an excuse to start up the drinking again, to sit around Yancey’s garage getting numb with the same guys he saw at the Tavern every week. How many hours had Dad spent out there this spring, even when he had to know how much crap his so-called buddy had been talking about him since what happened to the Garrisons? She dropped the pot she was scrubbing back into the water roughly, splashing herself. There was no rule that said she had to stay here and wait to see how long it took him to walk back through the door.
Instead, Pearl drove. Through downtown, past tourists leaving restaurants or toting shopping bags of souvenirs: balsam pillows, mugs reading Maine: The Way Life Should Be. Out into the woods, to Millionaires’ Row, past the Spencer compound on its ledge. Daylight seemed to hover, the low sun casting everything in flat, unreal brightness, like an old Technicolor movie. It felt different being here without Reese this time. Desperate, compulsive. In the backseat, her tennis racket lay covered with a sweatshirt. She hadn’t known what else to do with it.
She drove up the Garrisons’ driveway, reaching the clearing that opened on the gatehouse before she spotted the car parked inside the gate. Tristan’s Bentley.
Swearing under her breath, she dropped into reverse and backed down the drive, praying he hadn’t seen her. She reached Cove Road, whipped onto the shoulder, and sat parked, rigid, tapping her fingers on the wheel. What was he doing in there? It had never occurred to her that he’d set foot inside the house since what happened, actually walked those halls. Just the thought made her stomach take a lazy, nauseating plunge.
Pearl drove down the road to the dirt turnaround and left the car parked under the cover of low branches, walking back to the Garrisons’ property at a brisk pace, praying her luck would hold and nobody would drive by and see her.
She followed the driveway as far as she dared, then entered the woods, circling off to the left, always keeping the security fence in sight through the trees.
The house sat on a rise, flashes of white clapboard visible as she walked. She crouched for a time, watching, wondering how far away she was from where the killer had sat that night in the snow. She tried to picture it, flakes swirling around the gate, the way Dad’s hunched figure might’ve looked from this distance, wading through the snowbanks around the perimeter in the dark, a flashlight in his hand. Had the killer drawn his gun, sighted for a time on the back of Dad’s head?
The thought made her weak, but it was logical. Get the watchman out of the way. Cove Road was mostly deserted in winter; there would’ve been no one else around to call 911, no one to smell smoke until it was too late. The house probably would’ve burned flat, taking with it much of the evidence that the Garrisons hadn’t simply fallen victim to an accidental house fire. So why let Dad live?
There was a click as the back door of the three-car garage opened. As she watched, Tristan crossed the yard, following the winding stone path past a brick outdoor oven, a garden with a stone sundial in the center. There was a rear gate in the fence, which he unlocked and left ajar behind him, continuing down the path toward the beach.
Pearl followed at what she hoped was a safe distance, cringing at every snapped branch or crushed leaf. Tristan made his way down the rocky path until he reached sand, where he disappeared from view.
She went to a gnarled birch tree at the edge of the embankment and knelt, watching him go, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground, following the line of the tide on his private beach. She recognized the posture well: beachcombing.
He completed the circuit, walking back close to the tree line. Pearl shrank down, her pulse throbbing steadily, her abdomen clenched, wondering what he’d do if he spotted her through the leaves.
Tristan headed toward a structure on the beach some twenty feet away from where she hid, a sort of two-story playhouse made from weathered planks and driftwood. A sign had been affixed to the peaked roof, painted in a kid’s handwriting: The Roost.
There were other treasures visible on the second-story platform: a peeling lobster buoy, a couple of plastic crates holding pails, shovels, beach toys. Tristan went up the ladder to the platform, looking through the crates for a bit before settling back to watch the tide, letting his legs hang over the edge. He wore a Henley shirt, the sleeves tugged over his hands, and from this distance he looked much like his little brother, Joseph, might’ve looked the last summer he swam here, played in his fort.
There was nothing but the sound of the wind. Gradually Pearl lowered her head, shut her eyes to rid them of the grainy feeling. She didn’t sleep—impossible—but when she looked up, dusk had crossed the seamless threshold to twilight. The sky was two shades darker, and peach sunset filtered through the horizon. The Roost was empty.
Her nerves leaped as a footstep crunched a few feet away. She held motionless, wide-eyed, cheek pressed against the smooth bark. More footsteps followed, heading down the path. Tristan, returning to the house.
She was breathless by the time she reached tree cover outside the fence. She crouched, watching him leave the garage again, this time by the front door, carrying a duffel bag and a couple of big cardboard boxes. He popped the trunk and leaned inside.
Pearl made for the slope along the driveway, running when she thought she was far enough away to crash through the underbrush without being heard.
Once she was back in her car, she accelerated down Cove Road, but the Bentley was already gone. She finally caught up with him on Ocean, relaxing slightly, letting a car pull out in front of her at the intersection with Pine so she didn’t feel so obvious. She doubted Tristan had any idea what she drove, but better not to risk it.
Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled onto Narragansett Way. Pearl drove past the road, continued for a few minutes, then turned around and went back.
Narragansett was a new road on land recently clear-cut to make way for the housing development. The homes were identical: two stories high, a cobbled-together architectural style resulting in odd angles and many windows. The streetlamps winked on as she drove past number 23, where the Bentley sat in the driveway. There were no lights on inside the house yet, and no curtains, only featureless blinds in the windows. What would it be like having an entire house to yourself, all those empty rooms surrounding you at night as the clock ticked down the minutes until dawn? Given the choice, she’d rather be waiting up for Dad.
She turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and left, taking one last look back at the blank facade of Tristan’s house, where he had yet to turn on a light.
The week passed, though Pearl never would’ve thought it possible. Every shift, she’d think she couldn’t stand another day of being ignored by Reese, of spending her breaks alone at the picnic table beneath the patterned shade of the maple tree, but then Tuesday faded into Wednesday, into Thursday, and still nothing changed. She did receive a voice mail from Mom, though: What I really wanted to tell you the other day was that it’s not your job. Fixing Dad, I mean. He’s a grown-up, he’s responsible for himself. Please call me when you have a chance. Love you, honey. Pearl almost called back, but she couldn’t face that conversation right now, dissecting Dad piece by piece. Not with how the rest of her life was going.
She caught Indigo watching her a few times; Pearl gazed back, trying to feel some measure of triumph over what the summer boys had said—everybody knows her, comes to all the parties—but what really separated the two of them at this point? A nickname, maybe some rumors. They were both townies, blue-collar in a white-collar paradise, allowed entrance to the summer world because the boys were tired of hooking up with the same girls they’d seen every school break since third grade. How much did Reese know about Indigo’s rep? Pearl guessed not much, which gave her some leverage, if she was interested in using it. She hadn’t made up her mind yet. Stupid, really; like Indigo had wasted any time telling Reese all about seeing her at the tennis courts on Monday.
Preparations for the ball continued: the floor buffer hummed steadily through the lunch hour on Thursday, and the voices of the staff charged with decorating the ballroom echoed back and forth. Pearl peeked through the doors at one point and glimpsed dozens of circular tables, shimmering white tulle drapery streaming out from the chandelier.
Then it was Friday.
Pearl had one dress. Bright-pink raw silk, spaghetti straps, a hem that ended just above the knee. Mom had mailed it to her for graduation, said she’d gotten some great deal at one of the outlet stores in Kittery. Pearl had worn it under her graduation gown because Dad made her, even though it was so not her, not even close, and Mom should’ve realized it the second she saw it on the hanger.
After work, Pearl showered with care, rinsing away the cooking smells and sweat, taking more time with the razor than usual. After a couple of swipes at her lashes with a mascara wand she’d forgotten she had, she studied the results in the mirror, decided she could live with it. Put in her birthstone earrings, citrine chips, another present from Mom. Better memories connected with that one: a tenth birthday party, just the three of them, a lopsided cake decorated with strawberries, Mom and Dad laughing over something. Outside the window, the anchor wind chimes clanged, tangled in their lines.
She left the empty house, carrying a backpack with street clothes to change into before she came home, in case Dad was back before then. Bridges had offered, but she’d insisted on driving herself. Next stop: the Spencer compound.
A long, paved driveway sloped down to lawns burnished in fading sunlight, the bay glittering beyond. The main house was set slightly off to the left. It had a wraparound front porch dotted with hanging flowerpots and deck furniture, cozy, more like a typical summer home of the less-endowed except for the little touches of extreme wealth: a massive stained-glass window with an S set above the entrance, professionally manicured flower gardens, and of course the little village of guest cottages below.
Feeling like a trespasser, Pearl drove down to the cottages. Bridges had told her it was okay to come right in, but part of her still expected alarms to go off, a row of spikes to rise from the pavement and shred her tires.
Bridges was staying in the last cottage, the one with Delta-Echo-Foxtrot nautical flags flying from the pole out front. Pearl parked and went up the steps, catching a wavy, distorted reflection of herself in the glass pane in the door, all peony pink. She was forced to choose her steps carefully, thanks to the matching stack-heeled sandals Mom had sent along.
Bridges opened the door before she could knock, his tie hanging in two ribbons down the lapels of his gray tattersall suit. The contrast with his untamed hair and deep tan was striking, and whatever she’d been planning to say died on her lips, and she simply looked at him.
“Whoa. Pearl.” He stepped back to take her in. “Amazing. Seriously. That dress is you.”
She almost laughed. “Thanks. You look pretty okay, too.”
“Come on in. Want something to drink?”
She shook her head, following him into the spacious main room of the cottage. The interior was “weathered beach house,” everything painted white or dove gray, a huge impressionistic watercolor of a dory with lobster buoys hanging above the fireplace, bleached shells that didn’t look like they’d come off any Maine beach arranged artfully on the mantel and filling a bowl on the coffee table.
Bridges leaned in front of the mirror, knotting his tie, making a frustrated sound. “I suck at this.”
“I can do it.” She stood in front of him, crossing the wide end of the tie over the narrow end, tucking it through the neck hole. He smelled good, fresh out of the shower, like expensive shaving lotion and sporty deodorant. It didn’t feel strange being so near to him now.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when his hands found the small of her back, but she didn’t expect the intensity of his touch, almost desperate. His fingers slid south, and he gripped her there, lifting her slightly to him as he leaned against the back of the couch. Her breath caught—she should say something, put on the brakes—then held as he kissed her. She didn’t remember putting her arms around his neck, but when they finally came up for air, she was eye to eye with him.
He didn’t let go, so she finished the Windsor knot with their noses touching, snugging it up to his collar and patting his lapel. “There.”
“You know”—he kissed her again, softer, just beneath the jawline—“we could blow this whole thing off. Stay here.”
She breathed out, gaining a little equilibrium, as his lips slid to her throat. “You said your grandfather really wants you to go.” She moved back a little, but he was still holding her; she was almost straddling his leg.
“I’ll tell him you got sick or something.”
She laughed a little—she didn’t know what else to do—and pushed away from him, walking over to the windows, which looked out on the cliff and water, a wooden stairwell allowing passage to the beach below. “Nice view.” She kept talking, words shoring up her defenses. “I can totally see it. Handsome young socialite Bridges Spencer swirling a snifter of brandy as he looks down on his private world.” She turned back. “Tell me you’ve got a velvet smoking jacket around here somewhere.”
He stared at her. “Where do you get this shit?”
She shrugged, flicking a carved sandpiper figurine on the windowsill. “Too many books.”
Bridges straightened, checked out his tie in the mirror. “Sweet. How’d you do that so fast?”
“The things you learn in food service.”
“What’s it like?” She glanced at him. “I mean, working at the club.” He took a few steps, hands in his pockets, checking out his shoes. “I’ve never done anything like that. Do you guys, like, totally hate us?” He laughed quickly, but there was vulnerability there, something very un-Bridges in his look.
“Hate you?” She moved to the coffee table, picking up an urchin shell from the bowl, pressing the spines gently into her fingertips. Kitchen talk came back to her, a thousand snarky remarks, plenty she’d made herself, an attitude she’d settled into. She pictured Dad hunched in the Garrisons’ gatehouse that night, hands numb with cold even with the space heater going, just trying to get through until morning and earn his under-the-table two hundred bucks to take the edge off the usual Christmas cash drain. “It’s just . . . you know, there’s a line. Staff on one side, members on the other.”
“Is there a line between us?” He came up behind her, slid a finger under one of her straps, smoothed it out. “I don’t want there to be.”
She couldn’t find any answer that he’d want to hear. “Don’t get deep on me, Bridges.”
His smile was slow in coming, but then he chuckled, shaking his head. “One of these days, you’re not going to have a smart-ass remark. It’ll happen. I’m going to get you.”
“Never.” She led the way outside.
It was strange to have Bridges in her car, his legs filling the space where only Reese and Dad had ever stretched out. “Can you pull in for a sec?” Bridges pointed to the circular drive in front of the main house. “Gramps wants to see us off.”
Pearl’s nervousness returned in full force. She parked and followed Bridges through the gleaming foyer into a parlor, where Mr. Spencer stood by a liquor table, pouring himself a glass. He was already dressed for the evening in pale summer-weight flannel, a brightly colored handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket. He turned in mid-sip and smiled, gaze keen and interested. “Don’t you two look dapper. Pearl, I hardly recognized you. You look like a vision in that pink.”
A vision of what, she wasn’t sure. “Thanks. Nice hankie.”
Mr. Spencer insisted on pictures despite Bridges’s groan. The old man withdrew a smartphone from his inner pocket and snapped a few times, hardly giving Pearl a chance to smile before he vanished it into his coat again.
“Are you leaving soon?” Bridges picked up a snow globe from a nearby end table, rolled it from hand to hand, sending glitter into cascades.
“Once I’m properly lubricated. It isn’t safe to attend these things sober. You run the risk of realizing what crashing bores they really are—” He cleared his throat, took another sip, made a sound of exclamation. “You should take the Mustang. Absolutely. I’ll have Gus bring it around.”
Bridges glanced at Pearl. “Is that cool with you?”
“Uh, sure.”
Mr. Spencer raised his glass in cheers, downed the contents, and came over to squeeze Bridges’s shoulder. “I only get to see you a couple times a year. God knows I wish it was more. Thanks for stopping by and giving an old man a thrill.” Then he took Pearl’s hand and kissed it, something she’d never experienced before; somehow, coming from Mr. Spencer, the gesture didn’t seem contrived. “Pearl. A pleasure.” He made his way back to the table. “Enjoy the Mustang.” He nodded, gaze traveling to the ceiling. “I always had good luck with that car.”
Pearl and Bridges waited outside until the gleaming black 1966 Mustang appeared, driven by a tall man who said, “Good evening,” and nothing else as he climbed out, handed Bridges the keys, and held the passenger door for Pearl. He continued to stand there after she was seated. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she was supposed to tip him, if she had any cash on her at all.
“Give him your keys and he’ll park your car in the garage,” Bridges said softly.
“Oh.” She dug into her clutch bag. “Sorry.” As Gus folded himself into the Civic, she saw her hard-won car as it must look to the Spencers: ancient, dented, sagging on nearly bald tires. She cleared her throat. “Wow. An actual manservant.”
“Gus has been around forever. He kind of runs the place.” They headed downtown, following the tree-lined Harbor Road to the club. “This was Gramps’s car, back when he was a little older than me. He almost never takes it out of the garage.” Bridges smiled a little. “I’m guessing he made some pretty good memories in the backseat.”
So that was what he meant by luck. Pearl looked out the window at the deepening night, unconsciously smoothing the hem of her dress. When Bridges’s hand found her knee, she let it stay there.