by Jayne Denker
This leaves me stunned. "Are you kidding? It's just Jack." Conn doesn't answer. "Is that why you appeared out of nowhere?" I laugh. "You rose out of the ocean like a Greek god to cockblock Jack?" When Conn still says nothing, I add, "He's your closest friend."
"Exactly. I know him too well."
"And I'm a big girl."
"I'm well aware."
"This had better not be another comment about me being fat."
"How many times do I have to tell you? I never—!" He checks himself and sighs. "Look, just…be careful, all right?"
He runs his hand over the top of my head to dislodge my hair from his whiskers. It's an intimate gesture, and it makes my heart race. Then his eyes lock onto mine, and my capacity for breathing abandons me. I can't keep staring at him, but I can't manage to look away either. I'm frozen again, even though the chill is gone from Conn's body and there's nothing but heat and a slight slick of sweat between us. I absolutely cannot move, but suddenly I wouldn't have it any other way.
So of course, at that very moment, Conn's gone in a flash. One blink, and he's on Jack's towel, leaving me with an empty space behind me and a knot in my stomach. I'm not sure what just happened.
Before I can even take the time to figure it out, Conn says gruffly, "Now, let's talk about this money thing."
Dammit. He did hear me talking to Jack about Your New Best Friend's profits. Time slows down, and I find myself thinking through my possible responses quite methodically, even as I feel a stir of panic. Denial isn't an option—not with him looking at me like that.
"What, uh, what did you hear?"
Glowery Conn surfaces. "Do you really think you're giving me all the money from your business? I hope I heard wrong."
"Oh, please. You know I don't need it, and I certainly had no intention of even starting a side business. But there it is, and it's doing well, so every penny from Your New Best Friend, of which there are now quite a few, is going to you, whether you like it or not. Don't sell your house, or your boat, or your…soul, or whatever you're doing for cash."
I watch his jaw working as he mulls this over. "Melanie, I don't know why you're doing this. What in the world makes you think I need cash?"
"Selling your house and your boat isn't a dead giveaway? Not to mention bugging me about paying my tab."
"Teasing you, you little drama queen."
"Lecturing me about taking too many napkins."
"Trying to be environmentally responsible. Do you know nothing about my restaurant? Also? Teasing."
"Then how in the world are you going to keep Deep Brew C from closing?"
"Wh—closing? It isn't closing!"
I stop to regroup then fire off, "The guy who came in, checking the place out. Banker, right? Assessing the value of the place?"
"Yes."
"Ah-ha!"
"To determine the risk factors of funding a second location."
You know how sometimes, when you're fairly fluent in a foreign language, like Spanish, and then someone says something in a similar language, like Italian, and you can almost but not quite understand them? This is one of those times. It's like Conn is speaking not-quite-English. I stop to parse his words, translate them into something I understand. "A…second location?"
"Expanding," he confirms quietly, leaning toward me, the ghost of a smile appearing behind his scruff. "Not closing."
I don't trust myself to speak yet. I have to think for a moment. Then I put everything together. "Provincetown?"
"I hear it's a happening place."
"Taylor…"
He nods encouragingly.
"…Is helping you look for a space there."
He nods again. Then he tips his head, studying me. "You were really going to give me all the money you made from Your New Best Friend? Just like that?"
"Well, you wouldn't straight up take any cash from me as a gift or a loan. What was I supposed to do?"
Now he's grinning. "I don't know. Talk to me about it, maybe?"
"Oh, because you're so approachable." I drop my vocal register and try to strike a manly pose, patented Conn frown and all. "'I'm fine, Melanie. Mind your own business, Melanie.'"
"I do not sound like Snuffleupagus." He shakes his head, disbelieving. "You'd really do that for me?" he asks again.
"Rethinking my priorities as we speak, so maybe you can just forget about it."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I'm grateful for this New Best Friend appointment tonight. I need to get my mind off my afternoon at the beach with Jack and Conn yesterday. It's turned me into a complete wreck. First I had to process the information that Conn's restaurant isn't in trouble. Then I had to figure out why I'm still doing Your New Best Friend if not to get money into his pockets. After much soul searching I determine my business will continue because I have a great capacity for helping people, and I like doing it. I'll set aside the money in case Conn needs it in the future.
And the other stuff that happened, namely my drooling over Conn like an idiot? As far as I'm concerned, it didn't happen. Yes, he's gorgeous. I'm well aware of that. I've always been aware of that. It's kind of hard not to be. But he's my friend, and I refuse to think of him any other way. He's a fixture in my everyday life. Like the ocean. Or the sky. Or wallpaper. One does not suddenly wake up one morning and decide to start licking the wallpaper, no matter how enticing. Unless one is visiting Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.
Okay, stopping that train of thought right there. Never again am I going to consider Connacht Garvey a sexual being. He's just Conn. Unlickable wallpaper. And I will find myself a decent guy to date to make sure I don't get distracted again.
Because I don't have any dating options at the moment, however, I'm focusing on work instead. Tonight's appointment: Louise Westwood, a summer person I've never met before…and still haven't, not yet. Claiming she was too busy to meet me at DBC or even talk on the phone, she scheduled our first meeting at her house by text. I'm not surprised she didn't have the time to chat; some quick googling has shown Mrs. Westwood is quite the prominent socialite from Chicago with an important, wealthy financier husband. As long as I have a minimal sense of what type of person I'll be dealing with and the basics of her request, which is to utilize my organizational talents and local connections to help plan a cocktail party for more than a hundred guests, I can kick some Best Friend ass.
I ring the doorbell and take in my surroundings. The Westwoods' place is ultra modern, gray angles of concrete backlit by small spotlights in the purple twilight, punctuated here and there with strange greenery forced to sprout tall and narrow from stone pots. No blow-up rafts, plastic sand pails, water shoes, or boogie boards by the heavy mahogany double front doors, no sir.
So I'm a little surprised when a kid answers the door.
I recover pretty quickly and say cheerfully, "Hi there. I'm Melanie Abbott. I have an appointment with your mom."
The dark-haired boy, who seems to be on the pre-growth-spurt side of thirteen, stares at me for a moment, his eyes serious behind trendy glasses perched on his freckled nose. Finally he backs into the house, opening the door wider. "Come in. You're expected."
That was sort of oddly worded for a kid, but all right. I walk into a tiled foyer with artfully placed track lighting, more potted plants, and very, very expensive yet spartan furniture. Classical music wafts from unseen speakers.
"So…" I venture, when the boy makes absolutely no move to get his mother. "I gave you my name—?"
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Abbott. My name is…" He swallows and then says, almost defiantly, "Vernon Westwood."
Ouch. That is one cruel set of parents. I can tell he's bracing himself for the laugh he's expecting to burst out of me, but that's not my style. Nodding, I ask, as casually as possible, "Family name?"
"Of course."
"Great grandfather? Great-great—?"
He stifles a sigh. "All of them."
"Of course."
"Please come in." He ges
tures almost robotically, ushering me farther into the house. "Perhaps you'd like to get some fresh air on the balcony."
I look out the French doors at the large slab of concrete overlooking the ocean. There's no one out there. And the house is suspiciously quiet. "Vernon—"
"Please." He gestures again. "There's a lovely breeze."
Okay, this kid is as odd as they come. I humor him for now and leave the air-conditioned comfort of the living room for the humid air outside. He doesn't follow me. I assume he's going to find his mother—I hope so anyway—so I have a seat at the table. More plants, more indirect lighting, a couple of redwood chaises, and a telescope in the corner. I wait a few minutes, impatiently tapping my fingers on the glass tabletop. It doesn't take long before I give up my pose and start to pace.
Vernon doesn't come back, and his mother doesn't show up either. Did Louisa forget about our appointment? Did she change her mind? Did Vernon kill her and is right now stuffing body parts into the subzero freezer?
Okay, he's not that weird. But this whole thing is kind of off, even without the psycho-killer angle. I lean on the balcony wall and tell myself to wait a few more minutes. The beach is beautiful this evening. The lights of the pier flash on the water, adults stroll along the shore, children shriek as they play Ghost in the Graveyard nearby, close to the pilings of the houses, just like Conn and I and the rest of our friends used to do years ago.
"Some refreshments." Vernon comes onto the patio carrying a tray loaded with cheese, crackers, fruit, and a pitcher of what looks like sangria.
"Vernon…"
Once he puts the tray on the table, he turns to me and fidgets nervously. "I—I have to apologize, Ms. Abbott. I'm afraid I brought you here under false pretenses."
"You brought me here?"
He nods, not meeting my eyes. "My mom doesn't need your help. I do."
"I don't accept underage clients, Vernon."
"That's why I used my mother's name."
"So there's no cocktail party?"
"Oh, there is, but my mother never needs any help with party planning."
I return to the table but only to pick up my things. "I don't like it when people waste my time." I look down at the spread he brought out. "And I told you I didn't want any refreshments." Hoisting my bag with one hand, I snag a cluster of grapes with the other. To tell the truth I'm starving, but I'm still out of here.
"I'm sorry!" the kid bursts out. "I…need…"
"A friend," I finish for him. "I know. Don't we all."
"No, I mean…" He sighs and plops into the seat I'd vacated before, resting his elbow on the table and rubbing his forehead while shielding his eyes. He sounds teary when he says, "I need several friends, actually. Because I don't have any."
Crap.
My bag slides off my shoulder and hits the deck with a thud as I slip into the chair closest to him. "Where are your parents, honey?"
"Out. Having dinner with friends."
"Do they know—?"
"They don't know anything. They don't know I asked you to come here or how. Or why."
"Maybe you should talk to them about this."
"No." He says this so emphatically it's obvious he's been dealing with this issue on his own for a long time.
"I'm sure they'd understand."
"It's not that. I don't want them to know I've…"
"What?"
"Failed. At anything. Even this. Especially this."
"So you're seeing the whole 'friendship' thing as something to pass or fail? Like a…science project?"
"Of course not!" he bursts out. "It's not the same at all—I know that."
"But you've done the research, observed your peers interacting in the wild, employed all friend-making recommendations, and none of it seems to be working?"
I know I've read him right when he doesn't answer. His silence says everything. The poor kid is approaching this from the head, not the heart.
Sitting back in my chair and crossing my arms, I do my best to sound stern. "I don't usually work with people who lie to me, Vernon."
As I expect, he seizes on the pivotal word usually. He brightens a little. "But—?"
"I might make an exception, just because you're breaking my heart."
"I'm okay with that."
"Honey, you are a hot mess."
"I know. It's why I'm asking you for help. I have the cash." He reaches into his pocket and comes up with an impressively fat wad of bills.
I don't hesitate for a minute. "Keep your money. Sometimes I work pro bono."
"I'm not a charity case. We either do this the right way, or the deal's off."
"Hey, that's my line." I study him for a moment. There's a little light in his eye that wasn't there before. He's hopeful. Can I help him? Without a doubt. Do I want to? More than anything. Way more than I'm letting on. "Okay," I say with a sigh, "here's the deal. I'm not meeting with you alone for one more minute. Liabilities and all that. First I talk to your parents, and if they give their permission, I'll help you. Got it?" He nods but with a concerned frown. "Don't worry. I can be very convincing. Once they say they're okay with this, I'll get your social skills up to snuff." I look him up and down. "And we're going to get you some decent clothes."
At the moment he's dressed in pressed khakis, a short-sleeved button-down shirt, socks, and soft-soled lace-up shoes. Not even nerd-chic. Just straight-up nerd.
Suddenly he's on his feet. "Wait. Please. I've got an idea."
I wander back to the balcony wall while Vernon's in the house. I can't believe Hannah and I fell for this. I'm glad we did, though. Vernon's problem is more interesting than all the adult clients' issues I've handled. Put together. If I help this kid now, it could affect the rest of his life. What could be more worthwhile?
"How about this?" Vernon is standing by the doors, dressed in a short-sleeved polo shirt and madras shorts. "My cousin left these behind over the Fourth of July holiday. They're a little big…" he says uncertainly, plucking at the shirt, which is indeed roomy but in a stylish way. His mother wouldn't agree, I'd bet, judging by his previous outfit, which was more along the lines of a prepubescent Bill Gates.
"They're perfect. You look cool."
"I do?"
"You do. Also cool: deck shoes without the dark socks. Make a note of it for later."
He joins me at the wall. "You really think you can help me?" he asks eagerly.
"I can help anyone. But I've got to warn you. I tend to be pretty blunt when I'm giving advice. Can you handle it?"
"Indubitably."
"Totally," I correct him.
"Sorry?"
"Say 'totally.'"
Now he's grinning from ear to ear. "Totally." He even puts a little dudebro-type spin on it, which impresses me. He'll take direction well.
"There you go. Is this your telescope?"
"Yes. You can use it if you like."
"Totally." I lean over and peer into the eyepiece on top. "You're an astronomer? Or do you peek into people's houses with this thing?"
"Ms. Abbott!"
I laugh softly at his pearl-clutching and wait.
Finally he confesses, "I'm not looking for…you know. Naked women," he whispers. "I just like being able to see what other people's lives are like. It's…interesting."
"You're a trip, Vernon." I look up at him. "Hey, what's your middle name?"
"Abraham."
"Ooh, maybe you should try going by your middle name from now on: Bram. Sounds tough, right?"
Vernon—Bram—finds this hilarious. I'm glad he's feeling more at ease. I return my attention to the telescope and don't even pretend I'm not swinging it toward Conn's house. My new friend doesn't ask any questions, bless him—he just shows me how to focus the thing. It takes me a few seconds to get a bead on the side window. Conn's not alone. I focus a little more and see it's not Jack. It's a woman. My stomach surging, I step back from the telescope. I don't know why I'm shocked to find out he might be spending time with so
meone I don't know about. What did I expect to see, a domestic portrait of Conn and Harvey sharing shot glasses of milk while watching Animal Planet? I feel my face heat up. I shouldn't be spying on him. But there's no question I'm going to take another look.
The woman is wandering around the living room with a glass in her hand. Tall, willowy, her blonde hair scraped back into a tight knot. Very Gwynnie. She's dressed all in white: slinky yet classy walking shorts, silk tank, open-weave cardigan. Oozing money. She's got to be a summer person, which isn't surprising. If Conn kept all the napkins with phone numbers scribbled on them that his vacationing customers nudged across the bar, he'd…well, he'd stop criticizing me for taking too many when I have a meal at DBC—that's for sure.
Shaking my head, I try to look away, but I'm drawn back the instant the woman walks up to him, throws back her head, and laughs, trailing her hand along his shoulder. Normally I'm not awed by wealthy summer people, but I have to admire this woman's style. The last time I was so bowled over by someone's vibe like this was…
Oh no.
It's Sasha.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"This isn't working."
"Shh. He'll hear you."
"I doubt it."
Hannah's right. There's no way Vernon—er, Bram—is going to catch our conversation over the noise on the street. The Up All Night festival, one of Abbott's Bay's big summer events, is in full swing, and hundreds of people are clogging the historic district. All the shops, art galleries, and restaurants are open, small bands and solo musicians are strategically placed throughout the town so their sounds won't overlap, clowns are making balloon animals. Quite a few partygoers will indeed manage to stay up all night, wrapping up the festivities by the town-sanctioned beach bonfires as the sun rises.
I'm enjoying the festivities, not only because it's the perfect setting for Bram to find a batch of friends, but also because it helps me keep my mind off what I saw last night. And what did I see, exactly? Sasha being back in town after all these years was enough of a shock, but what was she doing cozying up to Conn? He's always been quite clear about his post-divorce feelings for his ex. His favorite epithets, in fact, have included "harpy," "ice queen," and variations on "manipulative, stone-hearted, selfish super-bitch." That scene at Conn's, however briefly I spied on it, seemed to contradict everything Conn's expressed over the past five years.
