Of course Tucker lives in the Garden District, one of the wealthiest, most respected neighborhoods in town and the perfect embodiment of Southern aristocracy. The quiet street is full of giant period mansions, pristine gardens, and huge live oaks weeping Spanish moss, all of it hemmed in by an intricate wrought-iron cornstalk fence.
Mom pulls the car to a stop across from the address Tucker gave me and shifts into Park. “I’m not sure this is such a great idea.”
I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes. That might as well be the title of her memoir: Debbie Callahan: I’m Not Sure This Is Such a Great Idea.
“We’re just working on a project,” I say. If she thinks this is bad, what would she say if she knew what I did last night? That a stranger was in our house?
“I know,” she answers. “But it’s been a big day for you. It seems like too much.”
“Mom, I’ll be fine. I’m not going to be playing basketball. I’ll be sitting at his kitchen table working on homework, which is exactly what I’d be doing at home.”
She chews on her lip. “Does he have any pets? Because something as little as a flare-up—”
“No, he doesn’t have any pets,” I interrupt, even though I have no clue if that’s true. She doesn’t have to know I’ve pet our neighbor Mrs. Boudreaux’s Yorkiepoo every chance I’ve had and lived to tell the tale.
Mom looks up at the house, a sprawling Greek Revival with huge white pillars, covered balconies on both floors, and professionally manicured lawns. I guess she doesn’t see anything overly offensive there, because she finally says, “Well, okay,” and I release a long-held breath.
“Thanks, Mom.”
As I start to climb out of the car, she calls, “Wait!”
She pulls me into a hug. I almost forgot. I could die planning this history project.
“I love you, Hope.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She grabs my face and kisses me lightly on the forehead, thumbs the freckles across my cheeks. Jesus, I hope Tucker isn’t watching through the window.
“Mom,” I complain.
“Okay, okay.” She releases me, and I climb out of the car and shrug on my backpack.
“Call when you’re done,” she shouts after me. “And keep your phone on!”
I wave.
She starts the car but idles next to the curb. I realize she isn’t going to drive away until I go inside. So embarrassing.
I ring the doorbell.
There are footsteps, and then a small, dark woman opens the door, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Oh, hi. I’m—”
“You came.”
Tucker appears behind the woman. He’s changed out of his school clothes and is wearing a pair of khakis and a plaid dress shirt unbuttoned over a white tee. His hair is clipped short on the sides, with the longer top swept up and back like a ’50s greaser. I guess that’s what passes for dressing down when you’re rich.
“Martina, this is Hope,” Tucker says. “Hope, this is Martina. She’s practically my second mom,” he adds, slinging an arm around her shoulders. Martina beams at him.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking her hand.
“You too. Come on in.” She opens the door wide to let me pass.
I step inside. The foyer empties into a sitting area full of gold furniture that looks as if it would break if anyone actually sat on it; gilt-framed paintings span the length of creamy white walls. I search them for any sign of the rose insignia the Society is so fond of plastering on everything, but the paintings are roseless.
I follow Tucker up a wide staircase to a door at the end of the hall. When he opens it, it takes me all of two seconds to figure out we are about to enter his bedroom. There’s a rumpled duvet at the end of his bed, the bookshelf headboard is overflowing with novels and trophies and picture frames, and there are piles of dirty laundry everywhere.
I freeze at the door. Mom would kill me. Ethan’s allowed in my bedroom only because we’ve been friends forever and she doesn’t remotely suspect that anything is happening between us.
Tucker misinterprets my hesitation and kicks underwear beneath his bed. “Sorry. I should have cleaned before you came.”
It makes me strangely happy he didn’t. Tucker St. Clair isn’t perfect. He kicks a pile of clothes toward a laundry basket and mutters more apologies. It’s hard to believe he could be the mastermind behind the Society at the current moment, and it makes me suddenly less uncomfortable in his room.
I cross to a telescope by the window, bending to take a closer look. “You into astronomy or just a Peeping Tom?” I ask.
He chuckles. “It was sort of a fad I went through. Astronomy, that is.”
From the looks of it, his fad could feed my family for a month. One hundred thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket for the St. Clair family but a new life for mine. I leave the telescope and pad over to a giant map of Europe on the wall that has tacks pinned all over it.