Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulled onto Narragansett Way. Pearl drove past the road, continued for a few minutes, then turned around and went back.
Narragansett was a new road on land recently clear-cut to make way for the housing development. The homes were identical: two stories high, a cobbled-together architectural style resulting in odd angles and many windows. The streetlamps winked on as she drove past number 23, where the Bentley sat in the driveway. There were no lights on inside the house yet, and no curtains, only featureless blinds in the windows. What would it be like having an entire house to yourself, all those empty rooms surrounding you at night as the clock ticked down the minutes until dawn? Given the choice, she’d rather be waiting up for Dad.
She turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and left, taking one last look back at the blank facade of Tristan’s house, where he had yet to turn on a light.
The week passed, though Pearl never would’ve thought it possible. Every shift, she’d think she couldn’t stand another day of being ignored by Reese, of spending her breaks alone at the picnic table beneath the patterned shade of the maple tree, but then Tuesday faded into Wednesday, into Thursday, and still nothing changed. She did receive a voice mail from Mom, though: What I really wanted to tell you the other day was that it’s not your job. Fixing Dad, I mean. He’s a grown-up, he’s responsible for himself. Please call me when you have a chance. Love you, honey. Pearl almost called back, but she couldn’t face that conversation right now, dissecting Dad piece by piece. Not with how the rest of her life was going.
She caught Indigo watching her a few times; Pearl gazed back, trying to feel some measure of triumph over what the summer boys had said—everybody knows her, comes to all the parties—but what really separated the two of them at this point? A nickname, maybe some rumors. They were both townies, blue-collar in a white-collar paradise, allowed entrance to the summer world because the boys were tired of hooking up with the same girls they’d seen every school break since third grade. How much did Reese know about Indigo’s rep? Pearl guessed not much, which gave her some leverage, if she was interested in using it. She hadn’t made up her mind yet. Stupid, really; like Indigo had wasted any time telling Reese all about seeing her at the tennis courts on Monday.
Preparations for the ball continued: the floor buffer hummed steadily through the lunch hour on Thursday, and the voices of the staff charged with decorating the ballroom echoed back and forth. Pearl peeked through the doors at one point and glimpsed dozens of circular tables, shimmering white tulle drapery streaming out from the chandelier.
Then it was Friday.
Pearl had one dress. Bright-pink raw silk, spaghetti straps, a hem that ended just above the knee. Mom had mailed it to her for graduation, said she’d gotten some great deal at one of the outlet stores in Kittery. Pearl had worn it under her graduation gown because Dad made her, even though it was so not her, not even close, and Mom should’ve realized it the second she saw it on the hanger.
After work, Pearl showered with care, rinsing away the cooking smells and sweat, taking more time with the razor than usual. After a couple of swipes at her lashes with a mascara wand she’d forgotten she had, she studied the results in the mirror, decided she could live with it. Put in her birthstone earrings, citrine chips, another present from Mom. Better memories connected with that one: a tenth birthday party, just the three of them, a lopsided cake decorated with strawberries, Mom and Dad laughing over something. Outside the window, the anchor wind chimes clanged, tangled in their lines.
She left the empty house, carrying a backpack with street clothes to change into before she came home, in case Dad was back before then. Bridges had offered, but she’d insisted on driving herself. Next stop: the Spencer compound.
A long, paved driveway sloped down to lawns burnished in fading sunlight, the bay glittering beyond. The main house was set slightly off to the left. It had a wraparound front porch dotted with hanging flowerpots and deck furniture, cozy, more like a typical summer home of the less-endowed except for the little touches of extreme wealth: a massive stained-glass window with an S set above the entrance, professionally manicured flower gardens, and of course the little village of guest cottages below.
Feeling like a trespasser, Pearl drove down to the cottages. Bridges had told her it was okay to come right in, but part of her still expected alarms to go off, a row of spikes to rise from the pavement and shred her tires.
Bridges was staying in the last cottage, the one with Delta-Echo-Foxtrot nautical flags flying from the pole out front. Pearl parked and went up the steps, catching a wavy, distorted reflection of herself in the glass pane in the door, all peony pink. She was forced to choose her steps carefully, thanks to the matching stack-heeled sandals Mom had sent along.
Bridges opened the door before she could knock, his tie hanging in two ribbons down the lapels of his gray tattersall suit. The contrast with his untamed hair and deep tan was striking, and whatever she’d been planning to say died on her lips, and she simply looked at him.
“Whoa. Pearl.” He stepped back to take her in. “Amazing. Seriously. That dress is you.”
She almost laughed. “Thanks. You look pretty okay, too.”
“Come on in. Want something to drink?”
She shook her head, following him into the spacious main room of the cottage. The interior was “weathered beach house,” everything painted white or dove gray, a huge impressionistic watercolor of a dory with lobster buoys hanging above the fireplace, bleached shells that didn’t look like they’d come off any Maine beach arranged artfully on the mantel and filling a bowl on the coffee table.
Bridges leaned in front of the mirror, knotting his tie, making a frustrated sound. “I suck at this.”
“I can do it.” She stood in front of him, crossing the wide end of the tie over the narrow end, tucking it through the neck hole. He smelled good, fresh out of the shower, like expensive shaving lotion and sporty deodorant. It didn’t feel strange being so near to him now.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when his hands found the small of her back, but she didn’t expect the intensity of his touch, almost desperate. His fingers slid south, and he gripped her there, lifting her slightly to him as he leaned against the back of the couch. Her breath caught—she should say something, put on the brakes—then held as he kissed her. She didn’t remember putting her arms around his neck, but when they finally came up for air, she was eye to eye with him.
He didn’t let go, so she finished the Windsor knot with their noses touching, snugging it up to his collar and patting his lapel. “There.”
“You know”—he kissed her again, softer, just beneath the jawline—“we could blow this whole thing off. Stay here.”
She breathed out, gaining a little equilibrium, as his lips slid to her throat. “You said your grandfather really wants you to go.” She moved back a little, but he was still holding her; she was almost straddling his leg.
“I’ll tell him you got sick or something.”
She laughed a little—she didn’t know what else to do—and pushed away from him, walking over to the windows, which looked out on the cliff and water, a wooden stairwell allowing passage to the beach below. “Nice view.” She kept talking, words shoring up her defenses. “I can totally see it. Handsome young socialite Bridges Spencer swirling a snifter of brandy as he looks down on his private world.” She turned back. “Tell me you’ve got a velvet smoking jacket around here somewhere.”
He stared at her. “Where do you get this shit?”
She shrugged, flicking a carved sandpiper figurine on the windowsill. “Too many books.”
Bridges straightened, checked out his tie in the mirror. “Sweet. How’d you do that so fast?”