But this is a special set of circumstances, and if I have to stick my head through every door in Wallace Hall until I find Saintly’s, so be it.
But, as it turns out, I don’t have to. Saintly’s dorm room is only on the second floor and it’s clearly marked: There are paper comedy and tragedy masks taped to the door with the smiling one labeled “Delia” and the frowning one labeled “Mariana.” The rest of the door is decorated, too, with a postcard from Mexico and a few newspaper clippings of smiling actors in costume.
But what I’m interested in is the picture of Saintly. It looks like it was taken a while ago. She’s standing beside a boy with a thick, dark shag of hair and an infectious smile, and she’s smiling, too. I haven’t seen her smile much, and it transforms her. Beautiful though Saintly is when she’s serious, she is stunning when she smiles. I wish I could take the picture with me somehow, but I think we’ve seen how awful I am at carrying pictures, so instead I close my eyes and take a step through the door, letting the photo pass straight through my head, as if that will somehow imprint the memory of that smile in my mind. I wish I would find Saintly on the other side of the door, smiling just like that.
Instead, I find the blond girl I saw with her in the student union. This must be Delia, the roommate, I guess. She’s sitting at her desk, twisting one of her pigtails thoughtfully around her finger as she writes something in a pink notebook. At a glance I can tell it’s not schoolwork: the margins are filled with doodles, her writing loopy and little-girlish, the i’s dotted with little circles. I lean over her shoulder to read it, so close that our faces are almost touching.
It’s clearly her diary, but most of it’s not that exciting. She’s worried about an exam she thinks she failed, debating which costume to wear to the New Year’s ball, rehashing an argument she had with her mom about returning a Christmas gift. I’m about to give up and try searching the rest of the room for clues when Delia writes “But that’s not the reason I’m upset. Dev and Saint went away together.”
“I know,” I say. “But where? And when are they coming back?”
Delia pauses to take a sip of her coffee and I bounce impatiently on my toes behind her. Then she writes, “I was pretty shocked when she called to tell me she was going. Obviously, no one can blame her for falling for Dev, but I just didn’t think they were that serious. Her mother would shit a cow! Saintly sleeping with a guy! She held off so long, I was starting to think she was a lesbian.”
A little prickle of excitement moves through me, but I squash it. Obviously Saintly isn’t a lesbian. Didn’t Delia just say Saintly was planning to sleep with Deveraux? And besides, what would it even matter if she were queer? It’s not like I could ask her out…
Jesse, focus. The point is, she’s sleeping with the enemy and trying to save her doesn’t make me her girlfriend. It makes me her well-intentioned supernatural stalker, at best.
“I know I shouldn’t be jealous,” Delia writes, her words echoing my thoughts so perfectly, for a second it’s like she read my mind. “I mean, she’s my bestie and I should be happy she found someone she’s into, especially after all the crap she’s been through, and I’m trying to be happy for her, I really am, it’s just…” She pauses, tapping the end of her pen against her pink-painted lips.
“It’s just what?” I demand. Is Delia just put out, knowing her best friend has a boyfriend and she doesn’t? Is she just feeling left out? Or does she have some misgiving about Dev? Some reason to mistrust him?
Her phone rings. Delia reaches to grab it. “No!” I yell, “You can’t stop writing!” But I shut up quick because it occurs to me it might be Saintly on the phone.
It isn’t. It’s some girl talking about music for the New Year’s ball. She must need Delia to do something, because in a minute she’s up and putting on her coat, the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she pulls on her boots. Then she’s out the door.
The diary lies forgotten on the desk.
Well, I think, there may still be a clue in there somewhere. Maybe I can read the rest of it while she’s gone. But my tired hands slip through the pages when I try to turn them, and the effort seems to max out my energy at last. I feel myself start to fade, as if someone is slowly turning a dimmer switch. The last thing I see as I fade to black is the diary, still open on the desk, but with all its secrets closed to me.
Chapter 17
Saintly
A few hours later, I’ve gotten used to Dev’s driving—his need to be at least fifteen miles over the speed limit at all times, his casual interpretation of things like stop signs—but I’m no closer to knowing where we’re going. Not that it matters much. For once, I’m focused on enjoying the ride. Talking about Enrique with Dev seems to have taken a load off my soul. Campus and therapy and ghosts feel far away. Dev stops at a tacky little convenience store for bad coffee and snacks, and we spend the whole drive tying string licorice in knots and comparing the prizes at the bottom of our Cracker Jack boxes. (He gets a temporary tattoo heart, and I get a tiny plastic compass.) We sing with the radio (Dev has an effortless voice) and get off on a long conversation about our favorite types of dog (Dev wants a Newfoundland, while I prefer pugs). I’m feeling pretty proud of myself for not freaking out about where we’re going, but as we turn off the highway and onto more residential streets, I feel my anxiety creeping back.
“You know,” I say, forcing myself to stay casual, “it isn’t nice to keep secrets.”
“It’s not a secret,” Dev says, mock-hurt, “It’s a surprise. A secret is something you keep forever. A surprise is something that’s meant to be revealed when the time is right.”
“And when will the time be right?”
He winks at me. “Soon. Just a little bit farther.”
I glare at him. “You’re not going to even give me a hint?”
“A hint…” He mulls it over. “Okay, I’ll give you a hint. You are the one who gave me the idea to come here.”
“Really?” I give him a quizzical look. “I don’t remember saying I wanted to come up this way.”
“Do you even know where ‘up this way’ is?”
“Well,” I say, “I’ve been paying enough attention to know we’re headed north, and I’ve caught enough glimpses of the ocean to guess that we are in…the Mojave Desert.”
He laughs. “I see now why you get such good grades.”
“Okay, fine. Northern Maine. Which is cool, because Maine is beautiful, but I don’t remember telling you I wanted to visit there. When did I say that?”
“You didn’t. You said you wanted to go somewhere else. Somewhere romantic.” Dev is smiling at the road ahead, clearly enjoying teasing me.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You like secrets way too much.”
He shoots me a grin. “Live for them.” he says. “Now shut your eyes. We’re getting close.”
“I mean it. I can’t do surprises. My mother tried to plan a surprise birthday party for me once. I walked in and everyone yelled surprise and I burst into tears.”
Dev shrugs. “All little kids cry at loud noises. How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
He laughs. “Okay, you’re a little high-strung.”
I want to point out that was before I started seeing dead people walking through walls. If I was high-strung then, imagine me now! But of course I can’t say that. “I’m just trying to tell you, I do better with a little forewarning, that’s all.”
“Well then,” says Dev, as we turn off the road onto a tree-shaded driveway, “consider yourself warned that I intend to kiss you under the Eiffel Tower tonight.”
“What…?” I begin, then catch my breath as we round a curve in the drive and a beautiful Victorian house comes into view, as white and ornate as a wedding cake. The wooden sign that hangs from the wide front porch is carved with an image of the Eiffel Tower and the gold-painted words Por Toujours.
Dev pulls the car to a stop. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,�
�� I breathe.
He beams at me. “I thought you would. The second floor is a little inn. The first is a French restaurant. And don’t be fooled by the out-of-the-way location,” he adds, “the food is first rate. The chef is from Paris. Very authentic.”
“But...” I look around at the snowy woods that shelter the house on all sides. “How did you even know about this place?”
“The owner is an old family friend. I’ve been meaning to come up here ever since I got into town, but showing it to you makes it more, you know,” he smiles, “special.”.
Will I ever get used to that smile? Dev gets out of the car and comes around to my door, opening it for me before I have the chance. As we walk hand in hand up the snowy brick path to the polished front doors, I wonder what it’s like to have old family friends from Paris. Funny that Dev never mentioned this place. But then, there are so many things we haven’t had time to talk about yet.
Dev opens the wide front door and I step through it, but as soon as I’m inside, I hesitate.
“What?” Dev says. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” I gaze around in awe. Warm candlelight glows off the polished wood paneling and glitters off the cut crystal glasses. A baby grand piano anchors one end of the room, a bar with polished brass fittings sweeps the length of the other. A chandelier sparkles above the intimate little tables draped in white linen tablecloths.
I look down at my puffy parka and snowy boots. “You should have told me we were going someplace fancy.”
Dev waves my worry away. “You look beautiful. And besides, this isn’t fancy.” Dev is dressed casually, too, in dark jeans and a cable knit sweater, but on him it looks effortless and chic. “Come on.” He goes to take a step in.
I catch hold of his arm. “But I’m not sure it’s open. I mean, there’s no one here.”
He chuckles quietly. “Saint, there isn’t supposed to be. I hired the place out for the night.”
My eyes widen. “You mean, it’s just us?”
“I told you,” he says, “Old family friend. And look,” he smiles across the restaurant, “here she comes now.”
The woman striding out of the kitchen is not at all what I picture as an “old family friend.” For one thing, she isn’t old. She barely looks older than I am, although she’s endlessly more sophisticated in her sleek white cocktail dress and her elegant blond updo. She catches sight of Dev and smiles, her dramatic red lipstick making her look like a starlet from an old film. “Deveraux!”
“An!” He smiles and opens his arms for an embrace. She rushes to him, swiftly kissing each of his cheeks, then holds him at arm’s length, looking him up and down admiringly. “Oh, such a pleasure to see you again!” she coos, her French accent turning pleasure to play-zhur.
I notice a smudge of lipstick on Dev’s cheek and feel a flash of jealousy. “How long has it been?”
They exchange a smile. “Too long,” Dev says. “Antoinette, allow me to introduce my girlfriend, Mariana Santos.”
Girlfriend. The word wipes the jealousy away. I haven’t heard Dev introduce me that way before, and it sounds good.
“Mariana.” Antoinette holds out her manicured hand for me to shake. She’s looking me over in an appraising way, but her smile never falters. “So this is the lucky girl. I’ve heard so much about you.”
She has? I’m not sure what to say, since Dev hasn’t mentioned her at all, so I just smile awkwardly.
Dev gives her a warning look, like he’s afraid she’s about to cross a line. “I would say I’m the lucky one.” He smiles at me.
Antoinette says something in French. I know just enough French to know she’s asking if I speak it and, although she directed the question at Dev, I answer it for him. “Un peur.”
“Ah, tres bien!” Antoinette looks delighted, as if I’m a dog who just did a trick.
“Mariana just started studying French,” Dev says, “but she speaks fluent Spanish, and the languages are so similar. I’m sure she understands much more French than she speaks.” Again there’s a warning tone under his voice, like he’s afraid she may say something wrong, or give away a surprise. But what other surprise could there possibly be? Isn’t coming here surprise enough?
Antoinette angles her body toward Dev, effectively cutting me out of the conversation, and speaks in French that sounds intentionally rapid. I only catch a word here or there, not enough to understand what she’s saying, but her hushed tone, her secretive smile, the mischievous glances she keeps cutting in my direction—all those speak volumes. Dev looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable, and I can’t help wondering if she’s flirting with him right in front of me.
I’m relieved when Dev cuts her off. “Well, I’m sure Mariana is hungry after our long drive. If we could have a moment with the menu?”
“Of course.” She smiles at me pleasantly. “I will leave you to make your decisions.” She turns and heads for the kitchen, heels clicking on the polished wood floor.
Dev smiles at me apologetically. “She’s a talker.”
“So I noticed.” I smile back at him. After all, it isn’t his fault Antoinette was flirting. I mean, it’s not like he was encouraging her. “She seems…nice.”
Dev laughs and rakes his fingers through his hair, nervous. “Nice is one way to put it. Let’s sit down.” He leads me to the nearest table and draws out my chair. I sit as he tucks me carefully up under the white linen tablecloth, and I marvel for the millionth time at the contradiction that is Dev. How does someone who breaks into a building for fun feel equally at home in a fancy restaurant? Where does my rebel get his old-fashioned manners? Most of the guys at school seem like they would be happiest at a kegger, and Dev would probably be fine there, too, but he seems equally comfortable perusing the gold-lettered menu. “I’m sorry we went off just now,” he says quietly. “It was rude of us. But you know how the French can be.”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t really know. “I understand.”
“And honestly,” he lowers his voice a little further. “I think she’s a little jealous of you.”
“Of me?” I glance toward the kitchens in surprise. “Why in the world would someone like that be jealous of me? I mean, aside from the obvious reason that I’m sitting here with you?”
“Oh,” he says quietly, “I’m not sure being with me is something to envy.”
But I think it is. Watching the candlelight play over Dev’s face as he studies his menu, I feel like any woman in her right mind would kill or die to be me right now.
I scan the menu but barely understand a word of it. I’m still puzzling it out when a short man in a dark suit emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne cradled in his arm like a baby. “Monsieur?” He presents it to Dev, who nods his approval. The man uncorks the bottle and pours a little bit into Dev’s glass. Dev breathes in the scent of it absently, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, then takes a sip.
“Is it to your liking, monsieur?”
“Yes,” Dev nods. “It’s fine.”
“An excellent year.” The man glances at me curiously, “May I ask, are we celebrating something special tonight?”
Dev smiles up at him. “Life. That’s what we’re celebrating. Now, if you could please tell Antoinette we’re ready to order…”
“Yes, sir.” The waiter turns on his heels and heads back to the kitchen.
“You know,” I say, “I don’t blame him for asking if we’re celebrating something. Private dining room, good wine. This is awfully fancy for an ordinary meal.” I smile at him hesitantly. “You aren’t, you know, going to propose or something, are you?”
“You sound so scared!” Dev laughs. “Well, I do have a question for you, but it will wait” He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “And trust me, when I plan to ask you to marry me, you’ll know.”
When, not if. I smile. I don’t know if I want to be with Dev forever, but, looking at him now in the candlelight, it’s a nice thought. I watch him pour m
e a glass of champagne before pouring one for himself. Carefully, I take a sip. It’s perfect—crisp and sweet, like tasting a cool fall day—but the bubbles feel redundant. I already feel like my heart is effervescing in my chest. Is this what love feels like? I wonder. If it is, I’m beginning to understand what all the fuss is about.
The meal passes like a dream. Antoinette returns to take our order, me pointing out what I want, Dev ordering for both of us in seamless French. We chat until the food comes, and then we barely say a word, because the food is so decadent it demands our full attention: scallops in creamy sauce, lamb as soft as butter, candied yams and crisp baguette fresh from the oven. I’m hungrier than I realize—licorice in the car doesn’t exactly satisfy. By the time we are sharing thick spoonfuls of crème brulee, the champagne has completely gone to my head and I feel more relaxed than I have in months.
But I sober just a little when I notice Antoinette watching us from the kitchen. Silhouetted in the doorway, she looks more like a picture from a magazine than a real person, too perfect for the real world.
Sipping his wine in the candlelight, Dev looks like he could have been clipped from the same pages.
“Where do you know Antoinette from?” I ask, scooping up a last bite of crème brulee.
“Summer music conservatory, mostly. We met when we were kids, but our families go way back.”
Great. She’s not only beautiful, she’s talented, too.
Dev laughs. “What’s that disgruntled expression for?”
“You never told me you studied music,” I say, although listening to him sing with the radio in the car should have made me guess as much. I remember joking with Delia about how we would swoon if Dev were a musician.
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