I instinctively look left and right, searching the room for my ex-boyfriend. I spot Cal at Mom’s table with Angela, the deputy mayor’s daughter, by his side.
One thing I have to give him is that Cal doesn’t change who he is for anyone. He might be here with Angela, but he’s the only man in the room who isn’t wearing a suit.
Cal came to this glitzy event in a pair of black slacks and a purple button-down shirt. The top three buttons are opened on his tattooed chest.
His eyes meet mine from across the room, and the corner of his lips curves in a cruel smirk.
He might be pissed that his ex-girlfriend showed him up repeatedly on the racetrack, but I’m sure he’s loving the fact that I’m being forced to race for Mason Morelli.
Speaking of the devil, Mason is here too. I spot him at another table with one of the Zeta sisters. I think her name is Fiona.
I don’t even realize that I’ve stepped closer to Lev when he whispers in my ear.
“Don’t worry, Zee. I’m here. Cal might be an idiot, but I doubt he’s going to draw attention to himself in front of half the town.”
Lev is right, and I relax, lowering myself onto the chair he chivalrously moves for me.
Dave does the same thing for Heather and I find myself sitting between my girlfriend and Lev.
Mom asks for everyone’s attention as she introduces the president of Star Cove’s Wildlife Preservation Society, who explains how the unprecedented development that our small town has seen in recent years has worsened the situation of the already endangered Olive Ridley sea turtles.
“It’s important to help our wildlife thrive, and this is especially true for our sea turtles.” The woman says. “The Olive Ridley sea turtles are fairly common all over California, but here in Star Cove we have a unique subspecies. As if they wanted to give a nod to the name of our beautiful town, the sea turtles that live in our waters and beaches have a unique pattern on their shells.”
She points to the photo displayed on a giant screen on one of the walls of the dining room to draw attention to the star shape on top of the shell of the two turtles in the poster.
“Today we’re here to gather funds destined to build an oasis for these creatures. With the outstanding support of our mayor, our society hopes to purchase a portion of the beach on the western edge of town. While the town has come forward with a huge tax cut on the new natural reserve, we need help to come up with the sum needed to secure the purchase of the land from its current owners. You can donate here in person or online. Every donation you make today will be greatly appreciated. Donations are open now.” She clicks on the small tablet in her hands, and a website address appears at the bottom of the screen.
A round of applause sounds in the dining room.
Mason Morelli stands up from his chair and hands the woman a large white envelope. “I’m personally fairly new in town, having grown up on the East Coast,” he says loudly enough for most of the room to hear him. “But part of my family has been in Star Cove since before I was born. Please accept my donation on behalf of the Morelli Food Group.”
“How exciting. Thank you.” The woman’s eyes widen as she opens the envelope. “Oh my, Mr. Morelli. This is such a generous donation. Ladies and gentlemen, we have our first donation of four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I hope everyone will follow the example of the Morelli family and emulate their generosity.”
Ares and Lev’s earlier conversation about the money laundering behind Morelli’s legitimate business ventures echo in my ears.
I wonder if the woman who’s still praising Mason knows where that money most likely came from.
The picture of the turtles on the screen is replaced by a list of the donations that are beginning to come through.
There are several six figure sums in there and, while the cause is definitely worthy, I’m sure these donations represent a tax write off for most of these people.
Waiters begin serving tea and bringing to the table a variety of finger sandwiches, canapés, small cakes and scones.
“Scones are my favorite,” Heather beams, spreading jam and cream on one half of her pastry. “The fresh cream is my favorite part.”
I take a cucumber sandwich and a little pot of strawberry and cream mousse, I’m still full after the big brunch Ares cooked for us. “That’s called clotted cream.” I say. “I’m surprised they have it here; I’ve never seen it outside the UK.”
“Have you been to the UK?” Heather asks.
“Yeah, I went to watch my dad race at Silverstone whenever my mom would allow me to miss school or if the race coincided with spring break. I haven’t been in a few years, though.” I admit. After Mom sent me to boarding school, Dad’s already rare visits became even more sporadic, and I didn’t get to travel with his team like I used to. Part of the reason is that after he retired from racing, Dad has been looking for the right sponsor to start his own MotoGP team and that meant he had less time for anything else. That included spending time with me.
Heather sighs, setting her half-eaten scone back onto her plate. “I wish I got to go, too. I was going to follow Atlas everywhere he got to race as soon as I graduated high school and we’d get married. But we all know that wasn’t meant to be.”
Heather’s sadness is like a tangible presence between us.
“I can’t even imagine how devastating it was to lose Atlas,” I say, squeezing her hand under the table. “But is he what you want?”
Her gaze follows mine to Cal’s younger brother, who has loaded his plate with sandwiches, pastries and cakes. Rather than eating, Dave is inhaling the food in front of him.
