“You sure this is a good idea? I mean, the Fourth is three days away. Like,whyare we trying to plan a massive party with zero lead time?”
Charleigh splashes more Folgers into her mug, tears open a packet of Sweet’N Low, then dissolves the crystals into the brew. “Because Iwantto.” Cradling the mustard-yellow wall phone with her ear and shoulder, she steps into the butler’s pantry, shuts the door. “Youknowwhy. For Nellie. I wanna get in front of this Luke thing. And fast. Show him who we are, what we have to offer.”
A jagged sigh fills the line. “You do know this means you’ll have to invite his surrogate parents, your sworn enemies, the Swifts.”
“Obviously.” She rolls her eyes, wondering why Jackson is being so difficult, so pouty. “Look, I’ll cover you the next three days, pay you overtime, whatever—”
“It isn’t aboutthat.” His voice is crisp, shard-like.
“Okay, then tell me—”
“I’ve alreadytried! You hate those people, and you shouldn’t be butting in on whatever Nellie’s got going with Luke. It seems like a recipe for disaster to me. Times ten. Plus, we have three days! I’ll probably have to drive to Dallas to rent the margarita machine on such short notice. We could do an end-of-summer party instead.”
Charleigh sets her mug on a shelf, twists the cord around her index finger so tightly that she might tourniquet it off. She knows he’s only trying to talk reason into her, be sensible, which is why they’re such a good match. She’s hotheaded, impulsive. Wants to pick at every scab, untangle every knot. She wants to have this party,now. No wonder Nellie is such an impulsive brat herself; Charleigh is a garbage role model.
“No, I want to go through with this. I know it’s ridiculous, but c’mon, everybody’s tired of the same old fireworks bullshit at the Boat House. Plus, if this being last-minute means some people can’t make it, then all the better.”
“How are you certain the Swifts will accept, bring Luke?”
“Because you’re gonna talk to them, talk to Ethan. Tell him that I’m interested in possibly commissioning him to make me something after all.”
“But you’re not, really, are you?” Jackson practically shrieks at her.
She holds the phone out an inch, wonders again why he’s being so onerous and challenging, when he’s usually as moldable as Silly Putty.
“Of course, I’m not actuallyreallyinterested in any of Ethan’s furniture, but if I have to throw a few dollars at him to lure Luke over, who gives a shit?”
Another barbed sigh seeps over the line. “Okay, fine, I just think you’re playing with fire.”
“So?”
“Okay, fine. Whatever. But I’ll only agree to help if we can please rethink the Mexican-food buffet. I amsonot okay with doing that at the last minute.”
“Deal! What are you thinking, then?”
“Barbecue. From Bodacious. We’re not making Lettie haul out briskets for everyone. Red-checkered tablecloths, all-American look. Apple pies. Buckets of beer on ice. We’ll hire a bartender,ifI can get one on such short notice. Keep it simple. And I’m nixing the margarita machine.”
“Sold.” Charleigh cuts the line before Jackson has a chance to change his mind.
She lets out a long sigh, rubs her temples.
Jesus Christ, that was like pulling teeth.
The rational side of her knows that Jackson has a point, that this is dangerous, that it does indeed feel like playing with fire. But that’s precisely what excites her about it. Charleigh Andersen is not one who can be bothered with thinking about trivial things like consequences. And her friend should understand that bynow. Once a plan hatches in her brain, it can’t be stopped; she’s like a bitch with a bone.
Walking over to the counter, she snatches her notepad and jots down a reminder to reward Jackson with something special, maybe surprise him with a Caribbean cruise out of Galveston? Anything to keep him from being all huffy, while paying him back for going along with her little plan.
43
Jackson
Jackson touches the bags under his eyes with the pads of his pinkie finger, delicately dotting moisturizer there to try reducing the puffiness.
He gazes at his reflection in the mirror; he looks like hell. Hasn’t slept since Sunday night, since he caught Abigail in the throes of it with Alexander. The secret he’s been keeping is acid, burning a hole in his stomach.
How to tell his best friend that her husband is a lying, philandering, asshole son of a bitch? He’s heartbroken himself over it, having had Alexander on a pedestal all these years. Jackson truly thought he was one of the good ones. Not that he can’t sympathize with how much the man puts up with. Lord knows Charleigh’s a handful and a half—but still. He thought they were solid. And if they’re not solid, who is?
Their big Fourth of July bash is tomorrow, and earlier today, Alexander helped drag extra lounge chairs across the patio towedge by the pool, helped Jackson string rope lights from the stately pecan trees.
