“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“You should come. Tristan’s racing his dad’s Islander. We’re his crew. We’ll just hang out, drink, whatever. It’s Tristan’s show. You know if it was anything like work, Akil wouldn’t be there.”
She ran her fingers over the step. “Tell me something. How did Akil’s family manage to keep their club membership after he stole that golf cart last year?” Bridges laughed, ducking his head. “Seriously. Last summer was the Malhotras’ first season here. I’ve heard about new members getting kicked out for wearing socks with sandals.”
“Hey, you know how it works. You abuse the club, they hit you in the wallet. His dad paid for a new cart and made a huge donation for pain and suffering or whatever. Plus, his dad’s business partners with Timothy Frazier. That carries a lot of weight. Fraziers have been summering here forever. They recommended the Malhotras for membership, even though some people think their color kind of clashes with the scenery, you know?” He shrugged. “Akil didn’t exactly steal it, anyway. He borrowed it. Took a joyride.”
“Too bad that telephone pole ran into him.”
“So he was wasted. Go easy. He was nursing a broken heart.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Cassidy Garrison.”
Pearl’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”
“Weird couple, right? It only lasted a few months, but he was crazy about her. Really messed him up when she ended it. After what happened . . . he’s having a hard time.”
Beautiful, slender Cassidy, fingers on the keys, the deep blue luster of her dress under the lights. Not weird; unimaginable. “Why’d she dump him?”
“She said it was because of the long-distance thing, with summer ending and all. Akil blamed her dad. He thought David made her break it off.”
“Did he?”
“Probably. It was the kind of thing he’d do. Power play.”
“Was David one of those people who didn’t like Akil’s color?”
“Maybe.” Bridges paused. “But Cassidy . . . she was different. Smart and talented and everything, but kind of fragile, too, you know? I think she hung out with her little brother more than anybody else. Couldn’t really blame David for being overprotective when it came to her.” He flicked sand from the hem of his cargo shorts. “She needed somebody to look out for her.”
“Are you always this fair?” When he shrugged again, she said, “Sounds like you knew them pretty well. The Garrisons, I mean.”
“Some. We used to hang out at their house. Up in Tristan’s room.” Some of the color had left Bridges’s face beneath his tan. He set his cup down, giving himself a shake. “Holy caffeine rush. Okay, now you tell me something. Why are they like that?” He gestured to her eyes.
“Oh. It’s called heterochromia. It’s a genetic thing. I’ve got a cousin with one green, one blue.”
“But that’s not as cool. I mean, yours are totally different.” He considered her face so steadily, so frankly, that she was compelled to look back. “Almost like they belong to two different people.”
She reached up, touching the skin near her right eye. “Really?”
Bridges leaned in. This time, she closed her eyes, too, feeling his lips part against hers, moving deeper, her body responding without waiting for permission. She finally put her hand against his chest. “Bridges . . .”
“Too soon, right. Damn it.” He sat back, giving her a sidelong look. “Did you mind?”
Pearl bit her lip, then shook her head. No way was she getting into Reese with him, or the real reasons she’d said yes to the party last night, or why she was here right now; not with his body heat still on her. “You know, you’re not making a very good case for yourself.” She nodded toward the boat with its clouded slur. “Maybe Quinn and I should compare notes.”
For an instant, she was sure she’d gone too far. Then his face relaxed, and he leaned back on his elbows. “You seem like you can make your own decisions.”
“Ha. Nice technique. You’re all set for Psych 100 next semester.”
“Sweet Jesus. I think I just got frostbite.”
“Try wearing a shirt.” They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Pearl let a hint of a smile show. Bridges did the same. She stood. “Come on. I have to be at work by one.”
They towed the smaller boat behind the Talon, leaving Bridges no choice but to take it slow. Pearl looked back once. The boathouse gazed inscrutably back, standing sentinel over the same view of the harbor it had watched for more than ninety years.
Six
ONE HUNDRED AND fifty white wooden folding chairs stood empty on the eastern lawn, formed into two groups with an aisle down the middle leading to a rose arbor. The wind had carried red, pink, and yellow petals everywhere, some clinging to the plastic windows of the reception tents like thumbprints.
Wedding pace was about five notches faster than dining room pace, and Pearl had almost collided with another server twice already. There was a schedule to keep, speeches to be made, hokey traditions to be carried out, and nobody wanted to be the server who photobombed the wedding party because they couldn’t keep up.
At this point, guests were winding down on entrées and speculating about the cake. Pearl cleared her own tables—busboys were catch-as-catch-can in the tents—and hefted her tray through the open patio doors, almost slamming into Indigo coming out of the kitchen.
Indigo stopped short, blew a stray curl out of her eye, and threaded around her, saying nothing. Fine by Pearl. She dumped her dirty dishes and returned to the dining room, which had the gilded Closed for Special Event sign propped in the lobby entrance.
Somebody said, “Pssst.” She looked around, saw no one, kept going.
“For chrissake, I said pssst.” As she approached the bar, abandoned by Chas for a table under one of the tents, the top of Reese’s head appeared, then sank again.
She tucked herself in beside him, glancing back to make sure no one could see them from where they sat. “They’re going to cut the cake in a minute.”
“Cool. Save me a piece.” He flicked her cowlick. “Where were you last night? You didn’t pick up.” He propped the toes of his vintage wingtips against the back bar. “I called, like, once.”
“With a guy.” A little surprised at herself, she didn’t look away from the mirrored shelves of liquor bottles.
“Oh. Your dad again. Hey, you ever need help with that, you call me, okay? Doesn’t matter how late.”
She shut her eyes. Right. Not only was he throwing her an undeserved pity party, but he apparently couldn’t conceive of Pearl Haskins having Friday night plans with any man who wasn’t her father. “You’ll jump right on your white horse, huh.”
“You know it. I got a cape and some tights, too.”
She smiled. “Come on. Our tables probably think we died.”
“They wish. Salud.” As she watched, Reese reached down, picked up a shot glass, and tossed back the contents, wincing.
“Do you want to get fired?”
“Ooh, now there’s a question for the Magic Eight Ball.” Reese stood, rinsed the glass, then paused, fixing her with a look, one eyebrow raised. “Pearl, relax. Nobody’s going to get close enough to smell it.”
“I can.”
“That’s because you’ve got a nose for it.” She didn’t flinch; she didn’t have to. He was quiet a second. “Sorry. That was shitty.” He popped a couple of olives into his mouth as he passed her, gesturing to the room at large. “There. Virtually undetectable.”
She followed on his heels into the afternoon sunlight, where Indigo was being death-marched back inside by Meriwether.