“Finley, I’ve got some calls to make,” my mom said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay,” I said. When she hung up, Liz’s screen reverted to a shot of her with a man I assumed was Travis, posing by a Christmas tree.
“FYI, we’re going out tonight,” Lana announced. “You’re single. Time to mingle.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Pavilion.” She eyed my suitcase, open against the wall opposite. “You have anything cute? Put it on.”
From the name, I’d expected something grand. Instead, when we pulled into a gravel lot ringed with chains facing the lake, all I saw was… ruins?
“Your face!” Lana chuckled. “The Pavilion never fails to disappoint.”
“What is this place?”
“The area’s premiere outdoor venue,” Clark, who was driving, said. “Or it was. Until a hurricane basically destroyed it.”
I took another look. Leading from the lot was a wide concrete walk with weeds and brush poking up here and there. At the other end was a raised platform with a partial roof, the back side of which was half sunk in the sand. Facing it was what Ithought at first was scattered lumber, or maybe driftwood. It was only as we got closer still that I saw it was—or had been, at least—a few rows of curved seating for an audience. Now it was broken into pieces, more sand covering them. People were scattered throughout, some standing, others perched on whatever was protruding.
“You guys hang outhere?” I asked.
“Not a lot of viable alternatives,” Ben replied.
We were in the back of Clark’s car, an older Audi. Clearly his pride and joy, it was immaculate and smelled of cleaning products. When he picked us up, he’d made a point of telling us to keep our feet on the floormats and grubby fingers off the windows.
“There are two other places to go here,” Lana said now, dabbing some lip gloss on with one finger. We were still bumping across the lot, braking more than moving as people darted in front of us. “But only this one is considered neutral.”
I was confused. As we again came to a stop, Clark turned to face me. “Us locals hang out most of the year at the pond across from Blackwood Station. At the Tides, there’s Campus, the employee quarters. The staff has parties there. But either one gets dull pretty fast. If you want to meet anyone new, this is your only real option.”
“Mostly because this is where the tourists come, who are neither localorstaff,” Lana added. “They’re never around for long, though. A week. Two, max.”
“Marguerite,”the boys said in unison, unprompted.
“Who?” I asked.
“Au pair from this time last summer.” Lana turned to glance out the window as another group pushed past the car, their voices rising and falling in conversation. “She was French and chain-smoked whenever she wasn’t on the clock. Très exotique. When she left, I was devastated.”
“For about a day,” Clark added.
I looked at Lana. “Then what happened?”
“I came back to the Pavilion and found someone else.” She pushed open her door, turning to swing out her feet. “Come on.”
I was used to walking up to parties with Colin, who had an easy charisma that immediately made him welcome no matter what. Here, though, I felt like the stranger I was as I followed Clark and Lana through the clumps of people—mostly in their late teens or early twenties, a bigger mix of ethnicities than I’d seen so far at the lake.
As we got closer to the platform, I saw a keg was wedged under one side, barely covered by some crisscrossed planks. A tower of red cups was stuck in the sand adjacent, a few empties scattered around it.
“Beer?” Clark asked me, adding a crumpled bill to a bucket with a sign that saidPAY UP.He filled one cup, then another, which he held out to me. “Just keep it low. The cops come around once in a while.”
I shook my head. “Not right now.”
Lana took it instead before using her free hand to pour a second. Once double served, she took a quick scan of the seating nearby. “Usual suspects tonight.” She nodded at a heavysetguy in a collared shirt just off the walkway. “Scott Crawley.”
“Went to high school with us.” Clark told me, then took a sip of his foamy cup. “He’s here purely for the tourists, who he can count on not to know about his absolute lack of game.”
“It’s true. If he finds out you have any kind of local connection, he’s out. Too lazy to try to prove himself any different.” She indicated a gaggle of girls on the other side of the seating, several of whom wore bright athleisure skirts, all colors, and baggy tees. “Those are also Bly High grads. But they ignore everyone except yacht club guys.”
“Those you can spot by their sunglasses,” Clark added. “Which they always have on their person, even at night.”
