“The things you learn in food service.”
“What’s it like?” She glanced at him. “I mean, working at the club.” He took a few steps, hands in his pockets, checking out his shoes. “I’ve never done anything like that. Do you guys, like, totally hate us?” He laughed quickly, but there was vulnerability there, something very un-Bridges in his look.
“Hate you?” She moved to the coffee table, picking up an urchin shell from the bowl, pressing the spines gently into her fingertips. Kitchen talk came back to her, a thousand snarky remarks, plenty she’d made herself, an attitude she’d settled into. She pictured Dad hunched in the Garrisons’ gatehouse that night, hands numb with cold even with the space heater going, just trying to get through until morning and earn his under-the-table two hundred bucks to take the edge off the usual Christmas cash drain. “It’s just . . . you know, there’s a line. Staff on one side, members on the other.”
“Is there a line between us?” He came up behind her, slid a finger under one of her straps, smoothed it out. “I don’t want there to be.”
She couldn’t find any answer that he’d want to hear. “Don’t get deep on me, Bridges.”
His smile was slow in coming, but then he chuckled, shaking his head. “One of these days, you’re not going to have a smart-ass remark. It’ll happen. I’m going to get you.”
“Never.” She led the way outside.
It was strange to have Bridges in her car, his legs filling the space where only Reese and Dad had ever stretched out. “Can you pull in for a sec?” Bridges pointed to the circular drive in front of the main house. “Gramps wants to see us off.”
Pearl’s nervousness returned in full force. She parked and followed Bridges through the gleaming foyer into a parlor, where Mr. Spencer stood by a liquor table, pouring himself a glass. He was already dressed for the evening in pale summer-weight flannel, a brightly colored handkerchief peeking out of the breast pocket. He turned in mid-sip and smiled, gaze keen and interested. “Don’t you two look dapper. Pearl, I hardly recognized you. You look like a vision in that pink.”
A vision of what, she wasn’t sure. “Thanks. Nice hankie.”
Mr. Spencer insisted on pictures despite Bridges’s groan. The old man withdrew a smartphone from his inner pocket and snapped a few times, hardly giving Pearl a chance to smile before he vanished it into his coat again.
“Are you leaving soon?” Bridges picked up a snow globe from a nearby end table, rolled it from hand to hand, sending glitter into cascades.
“Once I’m properly lubricated. It isn’t safe to attend these things sober. You run the risk of realizing what crashing bores they really are—” He cleared his throat, took another sip, made a sound of exclamation. “You should take the Mustang. Absolutely. I’ll have Gus bring it around.”
Bridges glanced at Pearl. “Is that cool with you?”
“Uh, sure.”
Mr. Spencer raised his glass in cheers, downed the contents, and came over to squeeze Bridges’s shoulder. “I only get to see you a couple times a year. God knows I wish it was more. Thanks for stopping by and giving an old man a thrill.” Then he took Pearl’s hand and kissed it, something she’d never experienced before; somehow, coming from Mr. Spencer, the gesture didn’t seem contrived. “Pearl. A pleasure.” He made his way back to the table. “Enjoy the Mustang.” He nodded, gaze traveling to the ceiling. “I always had good luck with that car.”
Pearl and Bridges waited outside until the gleaming black 1966 Mustang appeared, driven by a tall man who said, “Good evening,” and nothing else as he climbed out, handed Bridges the keys, and held the passenger door for Pearl. He continued to stand there after she was seated. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if she was supposed to tip him, if she had any cash on her at all.
“Give him your keys and he’ll park your car in the garage,” Bridges said softly.
“Oh.” She dug into her clutch bag. “Sorry.” As Gus folded himself into the Civic, she saw her hard-won car as it must look to the Spencers: ancient, dented, sagging on nearly bald tires. She cleared her throat. “Wow. An actual manservant.”
“Gus has been around forever. He kind of runs the place.” They headed downtown, following the tree-lined Harbor Road to the club. “This was Gramps’s car, back when he was a little older than me. He almost never takes it out of the garage.” Bridges smiled a little. “I’m guessing he made some pretty good memories in the backseat.”
So that was what he meant by luck. Pearl looked out the window at the deepening night, unconsciously smoothing the hem of her dress. When Bridges’s hand found her knee, she let it stay there.
Thirteen
WHITE JAPANESE LANTERNS hung in a luminous solar system above the front walkway and gardens of the club. Nets of twinkle lights glimmered on the hedges, and every window was lit. A banner reading Tenney’s Harbor Club: One Hundred Years hung across the porch, and Pearl could already hear big band music drifting across the front lawn as they parked.
She and Bridges joined the couples walking arm in arm toward the entrance. She hadn’t expected this sudden grip of anxiety, entering the club for the first time without the anonymity of her uniform and station. She and Bridges were on display together, and the doorman’s gaze rested on her, knowing her face if not her name as he said, “Good evening, Mr. Spencer. Miss,” and let them pass.
The lobby was swarming, people having their photos taken in front of a centennial backdrop, stopping to greet friends before going through the ballroom door, the air charged with energy. When they entered the ballroom, Pearl’s eyes were dazzled by light. Gradually, dozens of white Japanese lanterns solidified in her vision like ghost orbs, drifting among the tulle canopy strung across the ceiling.
Everything was black, white, and silver, the room itself resembling one of the old ballroom photographs from the corridor, allowing the ladies’ dresses to provide the color: scarlet, turquoise, peach. Servers were dressed in black tie, both men and women; Pearl noticed Indigo moving through the crowd with her serving tray held high, dressed in a fitted tuxedo shirt, bow tie at her throat.
Bridges took Pearl’s hand as they cut through the crowd, people hobnobbing with drinks, shrilling laughter, some watching them pass with momentary interest before spotting somebody else they recognized.
Bridges put his lips close to her ear. “Insane, huh?” She nodded, releasing a breath, and he laughed, leading the way through the tables. He rapped his knuckles on one as they passed, where a group of summer kids had congregated, eating hors d’oeuvres and looking supremely bored. Quinn and Hadley sat there, Quinn in a body-hugging strapless dress, cozied up to a big guy Pearl vaguely recognized from around the club, a linebacker type with short-buzzed hair. Hadley wore teal, a pink rose tucked behind her ear, her chin resting on her fist as she watched the crowd. “Hey, ladies,” Bridges said.
Quinn slid her hand to cover the linebacker’s and said flatly, “If you’re looking for the idiot, he’s over there.” She indicated a nearby table occupied mostly by adults, where Akil lounged with his chair pushed out from the table, people casting him annoyed looks as they were forced to squeeze by.
“Oh my God, dude, where have you been?” Akil wore a sport coat over a T-shirt, baggy tuxedo pants, and white athletic sneakers right out of the box.
Bridges raised his eyebrows. “They let you in like that?”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Akil’s father spoke, his voice smooth and faintly accented. He slowly turned a flute of champagne on the tabletop. “I see that your friends managed to dress themselves properly for the evening.”
“I don’t wear ties.”
“So you’ve said.”