“A little.” Everyone must be looking at them now, wondering what possible reason Frederick Spencer would have to shake his server’s hand. “I’m a novice. Not like Bridges.”
“Don’t listen to her. She knows her way around a boat better than a lot of the guys in sailing club ever did,” Bridges said.
“Sounds like we have a mutual admiration society here.” Mr. Spencer smiled. Something in the expression hinted that lady-killing might be a family tradition. “Will you do us the honor of joining us for breakfast?”
“Oh. Um—”
But Bridges spoke up. “Come on, she can’t do that. You’ll get her in trouble.”
“Well. Another time, then. When you’re off duty.” He continued to study her, then broke into another smile. “Do you happen to have any of those currant scones this morning?”
Pearl leaped on the segue, taking their orders and walking swiftly away. Everyone might not have been watching, but Reese was; she locked eyes with him for a moment. His expression lingered somewhere between disbelief and disgust before he turned back to the table he was serving.
Imagine his face if she’d pulled up a chair across from Old Man Spencer and his golden grandson, right here in the same room where she and Reese had scrubbed hardened lobster bisque off tabletops and returned meals two, three times for members who didn’t feel that their swordfish was “blackened” enough. Pearl got it; at the same time, she resented the hell out of it, gripped by that same why not me feeling she’d had in Dark Brew Saturday afternoon. Was it so unbelievable that these people would want anything from her other than bowing and scraping, that she couldn’t possibly have anything else to offer?
When she delivered their breakfasts, Bridges said, “So. Tennis?”
She was aware of Mr. Spencer’s bright gaze. “I’ll be a terrible partner.”
“No worries. It’s not like any of us will be making the US Open anytime soon. I just want to hang out with you.”
She thought of the invitation to the ball, swallowed her questions for the time being. “See you at the courts.”
She didn’t expect to find him there, reclining in one of the patio chairs, a tennis racket dangling from his fingers as he waited for her.
Pearl hesitated in the doorway, looking back at Tristan, then stepped the rest of the way out of the dining room and shut the door behind her. “You’re not Bridges.”
He balanced the racket on the floor on its handle, picked it up again. “I was told you don’t know how to play tennis.”
“Guilty.” She hoped she sounded as blasé as he did. She’d changed into street clothes in the staff restroom right after she’d punched out, her tan shorts again, the nicest T-shirt she’d been able to find.
“You’ll learn.” He straightened up. The decision had been made to move, and they were moving, Pearl pulled along as if by inertia, down the steps and around the building, past the pool where summer kids lounged in swimsuits and played with their phones, soaking up the midafternoon rays. Some of them stared at her, then cast speculative looks at her company; she could hardly believe it herself. Tristan Garrison, not only walking beside her, but seeking her out. “If you can control how hard you hit a ball,” he said, “you can play tennis. You might not be great at it, but you can participate. Watching is for the Hadley Kurtzweils of the world.”
Pearl kept her expression deadpan. “Being Hadley Kurtzweil. A fate worse than death.” As soon as she said it, she wished she’d chosen any other turn of phrase.
“That depends. Here.” He put the racket in her hand. “It should be the right grip size for you.”
She looked at it. It wasn’t club-issue, rented from the sporting equipment counter. She didn’t want to ask where he’d gotten a girl’s racket. She casually swung it back and forth, acting like it meant nothing. Her mind was full of the video in the Islander’s head, of Cassidy’s hard breathing. I saw your sister scared to death. I saw her running for her life. And what did he know about it? Watching his still profile, it was possible to believe everything or nothing.
There were three tennis courts, and Bridges had reserved the one on the far left. He stood, smacking the ball lazily back and forth with Akil while other summer kids hung around, mostly girls, leaning against the fence to watch the matches in play. Pearl was surprised to feel Tristan’s hand graze her arm as he held the gate for her, then saw what he was indicating: Hadley and Quinn, sitting with their backs against the fence, watching the action.
Bridges’s face went blank at the sight of Pearl and Tristan together.
“Look who I found,” Tristan said mildly.
“She was going to meet us here.”
“And she has.” Tristan went to the fence, retrieved his own racket from his bag.
He stretched his left triceps, gripping his elbow. “Pearl and I against the two of you.” Bridges’s gaze went to him. “We need to even the odds. I’m the strongest player, she’s learning.”
Akil looked at her. He wore sweats with one pant leg pushed up to his knee, a Puma tank with his aviator shades hooked over his collar. “You’ve never played? You work, like, ten feet away from the courts.”
“Yes. She works here.” Tristan approached the net. “When exactly would she be playing tennis?”
Akil shrugged. “Well, you can’t suck any worse than Bridges.”
“Shut up, man.” Bridges pegged the ball at him, and Akil let it bounce off his shoulder. “You’re as bad as I am.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have an excuse. You should have tennis in your genes. Your grandfather was practicing his backhand when mine would’ve had to carry somebody’s golf bag to get into a place like this.”
“Come on,” Tristan said. “Flip a coin. We call heads.”
Bridges and Akil won the first serve, but Bridges was subdued, watching as Tristan showed Pearl how to hold the racket properly for a beginner—grip at the bottom of the handle, fingers spaced apart—and helped her with her swing. His touch on her forearm was sparing, his body close enough that she could sense his proximity, but not feel him; if she made a misstep, he was there, correcting her again with his touch, not words. From the corner of her eye, she could see Hadley and Quinn watching.
Preparing to serve, Akil said, “Thirty, bitches. Hey—look who’s coming.”
Bridges glanced toward the parking lot, and when Pearl swatted the ball back, it bounced out of his service box, forgotten.
Indigo crossed the side parking lot, her designer-imposter bag over her shoulder, her mass of sandy curls hanging loose down her back. The boys took in her rolling hips, the way her slacks clung to her. “No handicaps for boners.” Akil grinned at Bridges and Tristan. “Don’t even ask.” He went to the fence, calling, “Hey. Hi.”
Indigo turned to him, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. Once recognition set in, her body language changed, all the lazy panther looseness that Pearl associated with her tightening, tensing. “Hey.” She didn’t come over.
“So . . . are you going to hang out this summer?” Akil worked his fingers into the chain link, rocking back on his heels. “Because the invitation’s open. Anytime, anywhere.”
Indigo moved her gaze to Tristan, who’d retrieved the ball and now tossed it, caught it, tossed it again. She finally seemed to notice Pearl standing off to his left. The girls stared at each other, Indigo frowning slightly, revealing nothing. “Yeah. Maybe.” She turned away and continued toward the club, tossing her hair over her shoulder. If the word wasn’t out that Pearl Haskins had been seen with the summer boys, it would be now—how long before Indigo made this kitchen gossip, before she made sure Reese found out all the details?
“Don’t be a stranger.” Akil gave an exaggerated wave, speaking too loudly. “‘Bye!”
Bridges shook his head, smiling ruefully. “That was evil.”
“Hey, somebody’s got to let the girl know she’s wanted.”
Quinn sighed, calling, “You guys are pathetic.”