Spencer had looked down at her clunky sneakers and childish-looking tennis skirt, suddenly feeling sweaty and young and all wrong.
“That’s right,” Colin said with an easy smile. “Spencer’s a great player. We’ve just been sitting here chatting, cooling down.” He’d spoken in the same upbeat, condescending tone Spencer’s father used when talking to the five-year-old twins who lived down the street, as if Spencer had been nothing more than some annoying child begging him for tennis tips.
She dropped her head in her hands. She had been so sure he’d been flirting with her, so sure that they’d had a true connection. How had she so completely misinterpreted Colin’s behavior?
Spencer’s mother appeared, perching herself in the seat next to Spencer. She checked the Cartier watch on her wrist and let out a frustrated sigh.
“What time are our reservations again?” Spencer asked. The family had made arrangements to go to Culpeper’s, the very same steak house Colin and Ramona were eating at tonight. Spencer could only hope they would be seated far away from each other.
“Eight-thirty,” her mother said testily. “We really should get a move on if we don’t want to lose our reservation. I’m going to kill your father.” She stabbed his number into her cell phone again, but when she hung up a few seconds later, Spencer knew the call had gone to voicemail. “He hasn’t picked up all day.”
“Maybe he’s on the golf course.”
“He wasn’t playing today. I called the clubhouse.” She pulled a wineglass from the cupboard and poured herself a pinot grigio. She had that look on her face that said she was in a mood and should just be left alone.
Spencer beat a hasty retreat to let her mother sulk in peace. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and noticed that Nana’s door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. When Spencer was little, she’d loved snooping in Nana’s bedroom—she kept her amazing jewelry collection in a crystal-encrusted box on her bureau. And the navy slip dress Spencer was wearing could use a little extra something.
She pushed into the room. The enormous king-sized canopy bed was piled with tons of fussy froufrou pillows. There was a silk-upholstered chaise in the corner, and Nana’s vanity, which contained more creams, lotions, powders, shadows, and lipsticks than a Sephora store, stood by the dramatically draped windows. To Spencer’s disappointment, the jewelry box, which was usually positioned in the center of the bureau, was gone. She padded into the en suite bathroom to see if Nana had moved it.
Nana’s bedroom rivaled a spa’s. The bathroom counters were covered in long slabs of marble, a built-in sauna was tucked into the corner, and all the floors were heated. The soaking tub was deep, oval-shaped, and didn’t have a grab bar, plastic seat, or any of those other old-person accoutrements to prevent slips or falls—Nana was much too proud and vain for that kind of thing. Nana stocked the fluffiest, plushiest towels money could buy, and she even had her own massage table set up—she got rubdowns every two weeks.
Spencer inspected her appearance in the enormous, gilded-frame mirror. Her blue eyes were wide. Her skin was clear. Her blond hair, which she’d washed during her post-match bubble bath, gleamed, and she looked sophisticated in the sleek Tibi dress she was wearing to dinner. But she didn’t look nearly as glamorous as Ramona.
Tears welled in Spencer’s eyes. The bedroom door creaked, and Spencer spun around. Melissa peeked into the bathroom. “What are you doing in here?”
“Nothing,” Spencer said quickly, wiping her eyes. “Just looking around.”
Melissa leaned on the counter, noticing Spencer’s red cheeks and nose. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.” Spencer pretended to be fascinated with Nana’s perfumes. They were mostly classic scents society ladies wore: Joy, Fracas, Chanel No. 19, and a handmade blend from a parfumier in Paris. But then she noticed Britney Spears’s Fantasy at the very end of the line. She couldn’t imagine Nana going to a drugstore and actually buying it.
“What’s with all these toothbrushes?” Melissa asked behind her, gesturing to an open drawer. There were fifteen or so toothbrushes inside, each of them clearly used. Initials were written on the handle in black Sharpie—JL, AW, PO, and so on. Spencer didn’t see the same initials twice.
“Oh my God,” Melissa blurted, pulling out something else. It was a small bottle full of blue pills. The prescription was for Edith Hastings, and the label said VIAGRA.
“Put that back!” Spencer hissed, grabbing the bottle and dropping it back in the drawer, as though Nana might walk in any second and catch them. She slammed the drawer shut quickly and shuddered. “Do you think Nana takes that, or do you think it’s for Lawrence?”
“Who knows?” One corner of Melissa’s mouth rose. “I guess Nana’s wilder than we thought.”