“Not sure if she’s mentioned this to you,” I say to Evie, “but Mom claims if you stop on this corner at midnight, you’ll meet the devil and he’ll make you an offer for your soul.”
“Do you have to enter a fiddling contest for it?” my cousin asks, amused, stepping sideways to avoid a crack in the sidewalk.
“Probably,” I say. “You know she literally drives two blocks outof her way on the bank run to avoid this street, right? Always has, ever since I was little.”
“They do ghost tours down here around Halloween. Maybe she got scared when she was a kid. I’ll ask my mom on our next Skype call. In the meantime, if you see any devilish looking figures with fiddles, warn me. Come on—this way.”
The party is in the sprawling backyard of one of the historic mansions near the center of town. I don’t even know whose house this is, one of Beauty’s Old Money families with a multimillion-dollar manor. Evie hands over a party invitation at a gated driveway filled with luxury cars, and we’re allowed to come inside. We’re directed to follow a path that leads to a pool and pool house—one that looks bigger than our apartment above the bookshop.
“Uh, Evie? Who are these people?” I ask as we make our way toward the pool’s blue water, around which dozens of teens are laughing and drinking and dancing to loud music.
“Mostly Goldens,” she says. Golden Academy, the private school in Beauty. Elite. Ivy League prep. Out of reach. “A lot of college students, home for the summer. Harvard’s only a couple hours away. Wish I could afford it.”
My goth cousin at an Ivy League? I wonder if this is because she briefly dated the Harvard guy. She’s taking some basic biology courses at the local community college for a couple of years, but she wants to be a forensic anthropologist. Or a historian. Or a writer. In typical Saint-Martin fashion, she’s always changing hermind. Even her mother, Franny—the straitlaced sister, compared to my mom—changed careers a dozen times before she rented out their house and ran off to Nepal with Grandma.
I get a little nervous the closer we get to the pool, where everyone’s congregating. These kids don’t just look rich, they look older. Prettier. Bigger. Faster … Better. I see them swaggering around town, but it’s weird to be invading their personal property. I feel like an interloper. “Um, Evie? How do you know this crowd again? Because you dated that guy?”
“Adrian. Yeah, sort of.”
“If you broke up with him, why are we here?”
“He’s one person. Plenty of other fish in the sea. Besides, I was assured he wasn’t invited, so we won’t be running into him. One hour, okay? Then if you want to jet, we’re out.”
One hour? Dream on. Twenty minutes of weaving through the bikini tops and top-siders, hearing snatches of conversations about Harvard’s rowing team and summering at the beaches north of the harbor and trips to Europe … and it’s all.Too. Much.
Evie finds her people, though. One is a friendly brown-eyed girl from Barcelona named Vanessa who goes to college with Evie and knows enough about me to catch me off guard. “Feel like I already know you,” she says in a pretty Castilian accent.
Which is odd, because Evie’s never mentioned this Vanessa person before. Guess they’re close friends, because they link elbows and Evie visibly relaxes around her. There’s another girl with them who’s headed to Princeton next year, but I don’t catchher name. They pretend to try and include me in their conversation in an obligatory kind of way, but they’re older than me, and it’s pretty clear that I’m deadwood by the way they turn their shoulders to exclude me.
While Evie gets caught up in a deep conversation with Vanessa about environmental activism and the rising temperatures in the harbor, I wander around the pool, pretending that I know where I’m going, feet matching the rhythm of the thumping music that blares through unseen speakers. And after making the mistake of wandering into the pool house—drinks and a bathroom, sure, but too many strange eyes staring at me—I head through French doors to a secluded patio around back.
It’s shadowy out here, lit only by a few globe lights, and there’s a shrub maze that shields the back patio from the pool; it’s segmented into a couple of seating areas. Plastic cups and cigarette butts litter a glass-topped side table next to a patio chair—unofficial smoking area, I suppose. I plop down in the chair and sigh heavily. This is a good moping spot for me to lick my wounds about the magazine internship. Maybe come up with a plan B. Maybe even a plan B through D.
Almost immediately, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck and suddenly realize my secluded oasis isn’t as private as I’d originally thought.
I’m not alone.
SUMMERS & CO: An early twentieth-century sign curves around the Art Deco entrance of one of the last thriving independent American department stores. Open since the 1920s, the multifloor store is known for its custom tailoring and elaborate holiday window displays.(Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)
Chapter 3
“Well, well, well,” a gravelly voice says.
I jump, startled, and peer into the darkness. Someone’s sitting, legs kicked out casually, on a loveseat-style piece of patio furniture tucked behind a tall, trellised shrub. When he leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees, the angular planes of his scarred face shift from shadow into light.
Lucky Karras.
Why is he everywhere I go in this godforsaken town?
“Josie Saint-Martin, as I live and breathe,” he says.
“I didn’t see you there,” I quickly say. “I wasn’t …” Following you? Stalking you? Always managing to bump into you whenever I step outside my door? “I didn’t realize you were out here. Or here. At this party. Here at all.” Good God, I sound like a moron.
“Oh, I’m here, all right,” he announces sarcastically, lightly lifting both hands and then dropping them. His gaze trails over the long, single braid of my hair that falls over one shoulder.“Question is, why areyouhere? Didn’t peg you for a partyer. Especially surprised to see you popping up at a Golden event.”
“Evie brought me along,” I say, gesturing toward the lights and sounds of the pool that seep between the dense branches of the shrubbery behind me. I try to remember the names of her friends. “Vanessa? From Barcelona? I think she’s taking a class at community college with Evie? I guess they’re friends or classmates or whatever.”
Lucky chuckles. Black lashes cast shadows over high cheekbones as he looks down.
