God, Ginger suddenly thought, wouldn’t it have sucked if I’d ended up in River Oaks, going to St. John’s and never seeing Mac or Laura?
“Dear, are you listening to me?” her grandmother said from the head of the table, and Ginger looked up. “I was telling your mother that I wish you hadn’t wasted your summer in New Orleans.” Rose Dupree’s slim nose wrinkled as she added, “Such a filthy place even before the hurricane, although your grandfather and I did have a lovely weekend in the French Quarter once.” She waved the memory off with a wrinkled hand. “I would’ve been happy to speak to the Garden Club about your helping with tree planting at the wetland ecology pond near the equestrian center.”
“Why, Grandmother, that’s so thoughtful of you,” Ginger said, and smiled what she hoped looked like a gracious smile. “Maybe next year,” she offered, though she didn’t really mean it.
Rose Dupree would never understand why Ginger liked getting her hands dirty working for Habitat in New Orleans any more than she’d ever grasp Ginger’s distaste for meat of any kind—the reason Ginger had skipped the appetizer altogether, considering it was pheasant ravioli smothered in brown sauce.
Ugh.
At the moment, they were in the middle of the soup course, which was more to Ginger’s liking: black bean with chopped onions, though she’d had the chef hold the sour cream.
“All right, then, I’ll talk to the Garden Club next year and find a suitable summer project for you,” her grandma said in her commanding drawl as she set down her soup spoon and wiped her mouth daintily with a lace-edged napkin. “At least I won’t have to worry about you consorting with inappropriate girls when you’re a Glass Slipper debutante,” Rose Dupree went on, frowning as she turned to look at Ginger’s mother. “Remember, Deena, when the selection committee unwisely elected that liberal woman to chair and she nearly allowed a colored girl in? Thank heavens Bootsie Bidwell’s in charge, so Ginger won’t have to deal with anything like that in her class of debs.”
Colored girl?
Dear God.
Ginger choked on a spoonful of black bean soup, quickly drawing her napkin to her mouth while Deena Fore exclaimed, “For heaven’s sake, Mother, Amanda Cleverly was hardly a liberal!”
“She was a Democrat, wasn’t she?” Rose said accusingly, waving a hand in the air. “Same difference.”
Ginger’s mom rolled her eyes and let the subject drop, obviously used to hearing her mother’s archaic comments and clearly aware that arguing with Rose Dupree was an exercise in futility. The older woman was set in her ways, and nothing anyone could say or do would change that. Ginger had tried on more than one occasion until she was red in the face.
As if nothing disagreeable had been discussed a mere minute before, Rose shifted her attention to Ginger, her age-worn face softening. “So, my angel, your momma tells me you’d like to wear my gown for your debut. Is that so?”
Ginger glanced across the table at her mother and saw Deena’s slender shoulders stiffen beneath her silk Chanel blouse. That alone told Ginger plenty. Deena was all too good at hiding how she really felt behind a pasted-on smile. Her perfectly made-up features betrayed nothing, though Ginger noticed how she kept reaching up to tuck her short blond hair behind her ear.
“Well?” her grandmother pressed, peering down at Ginger from the head of the long table as Deena watched her daughter, waiting to hear what she had to say.
Ginger set her spoon on the small plate beneath her soup bowl, cleared her throat, and replied, “I would kill to wear your gown, Grandmother, if that’s okay. Mom’s a little worried I might mess it up or something.”
“Is that true, Deena?”
Rose Dupree shifted her gaze from Ginger to Deena without moving her head. Even at seventy, Ginger’s grandmother looked stylish in the way of proper Southern ladies, with her white hair neatly bobbed, a double strand of cultured pearls at her throat, and slashes of pink lipstick across her broad mouth. Rose Dupree always said a well-bred woman never went anywhere without her pearls and her lipstick.
“Well, I hadn’t given Ginger any real answer, Mother, not yet,” Deena Fore confessed, and set down her soup spoon to snatch up her gin and tonic. Ginger had already seen the drink replaced several times. “I’m merely worried she’ll spill something on it or tear it, or otherwise ruin it forever.”
“My dear, what’s the point of savin’ the thing if my own granddaughter can’t use it? You figurin’ on having it preserved in a museum?” Silver eyebrows arched over hazel eyes, and Deena backed down.
“Well, no, I…of course, I wasn’t,” her mother replied, practically stuttering. “But I had expected you might want to donate it to the Glass Slipper Club’s archives one day.”
“Then we’ll do it after Ginger’s debut.” Rose Dupree waved a wrinkled and beringed hand dismissively. “I think it’s a grand idea, sweet child,” she said, and bestowed a smile upon Ginger, the kind that Ginger noticed Deena rarely received.
“Thank you, Grammy.” Ginger used the pet name she’d used as a little girl, and Rose beamed.
“Then that’s that”—Rose clapped silently—“so now we’ll just have to decide who your peer escort should be, and if we should allow that heathen of a father of yours to participate after he walked out on your mother to marry that trollop.”
“Mother, please!” Deena choked on her cocktail.
Rose ignored her. “And, of course, we’ll have to get you a new wardrobe for all the luncheons and teas, and we’ll have to talk about your choice of philanthropy.”
Ginger chewed on the inside of her cheek rather than responding, because she knew by now it would do no good. Her grandmother had a way of mowing over everyone and everything, if she had a mind to; the only way Ginger could get what she wanted was to subversively do it herself.
So she let Rose and Deena argue back and forth about escorts and wardrobe and charities while she nervously fingered her Razr phone, set on vibrate and stuck in the pocket of her sundress. Mac was supposed to call any minute to get her out of there so she could run home, change, stuff her knapsack with Luna Bars, and fill a Nalgene bottle with water before she met Javier. Thank God her mother had driven to Rose’s straight from a house showing so that Ginger had her own car. Otherwise, she would’ve had to make Mac zip over to River Oaks and retrieve her.
C’mon, girlfriend, she thought, do your thing!
But the soup bowls were being cleared and the salad was being served already, and the clock on the mantel chimed softly once, indicating it was a half hour past six.
What is holding Mac up?
Another agonizing five minutes ticked by before she felt the phone vibrate against her thigh. She knew her grandmother would think her an ill-mannered boor for answering her cell at the table, but she didn’t care.
She flipped it open and whipped it up to her ear, making horrible faces as she said a bunch of “ohmigawd’s” and “oh, no’s,” though Mac had hung up already. Ginger scooted back her chair and stood, her napkin falling from her lap.
“For heaven’s sake, Ginger,” Deena said, looking horrified, “put that thing away and sit down.”
“But it’s Mac,” she shot back, making herself sound as upset as possible. Then she went to her grandmother’s side and kneeled beside her chair. “You know Mac Mackenzie, Grandmother, she’s been one of my very best friends since kindergarten, and she’s in trouble.” Ginger began spewing out the lie she’d made up earlier. “Mac’s car broke down on the freeway, and her parents aren’t answering their phones and she can’t find Laura anywhere. She’s got a tow truck coming, but it’s taking her car somewhere downtown, and she’s all freaked out.” Ginger paused for breath.
Rose Dupree’s forehead wrinkled with concern. “My goodness, child, we’ll have my driver go fetch her. It’s no problem.”
“No!” Ginger yelped, not having seen that one coming.
“She specifically asked if I’d come get her, Grammy, and I promised I’d go. I can’t leav
e her there waiting for your driver. She’s crying and everything.”
“Dear Lord,” Deena murmured. “You’d think she could call a cab.”
Deena’s eye-rolling response was apparently all the motivation Rose needed to instruct Ginger, “Go, sweet girl. Go on and help your poor friend. Your momma and I will finish dinner, and maybe you can bring Miss Mackenzie back here for dessert, if all goes well.”
“Thanks, Grammy! I knew you’d understand,” Ginger said, breathing a huge sigh of relief. She snatched her purse and took off before Rose Dupree could change her mind.
“So you’re going to be a debutante? I’m no rich boy, so I don’t know all the crazy things you blue bloods do. Is it anything like my sister’s quinceañera?” Javier asked beside her.
They were each handcuffed to the heavy chain he’d wrapped around the two-hundred-year-old oak tree in the private park adjacent to Ginger’s school, which meant they could do little but sit side by side, their backs against the bark, swatting at mosquitoes with their free hands and watching the sweat stains on their clothes expand.
So much for Ginger’s goal of impressing Javier as a serious environmentalist, since the first thing he’d done after she’d shown up was to critique her outfit—“Why’re you wearing shorts, chiquita? And sandals? You want the bugs to eat you alive?”—and loan her his bottle of Skin-So-Soft.
Two hours had passed since then, according to the clock on Ginger’s Razr, and nothing even remotely exciting had happened. No one had even seemed to glance twice at them, save for a few joggers brave enough to withstand the heat, and even they had only quickly looked over, panting as they staggered past, the perspiration dripping down their faces probably blinding them. Or else the sight of a man and woman chained to a tree just wasn’t the shock it should’ve been.
The sun had begun to set, and the sky was finally less a blazing blue and more a cotton-candy pink. If they were lucky, it might start to cool down into the eighties. At nine o’clock, it still felt closer to triple digits.
Ginger had already downed half the water from the Nalgene bottle and was starting to feel the need to pee, which might be a tad complicated, all things considered.
“Did you hear what I said?” Javier nudged her.
“Quinceañera,” Ginger repeated, feeling stupid, because she didn’t even know what that was. “Is that like a birthday party?” she guessed.
“Yeah, it’s sort of a birthday party,” he said, and smiled at her. “It means fifteen years, but it’s more like a sweet sixteen party over here.”
“Over here? Like west of the Loop?”
“No. I mean, the U.S.,” he laughed. “I wasn’t born in Texas, you know. We came from Mexico City when I was a kid. Does that bother you, chica estropeada, hanging out with a dude like me?”
“What’s estrop…whatever you said?” she asked, since the term wasn’t in her limited vocabulary of Spanish (though she had a pretty good idea that it wasn’t complimentary).
“Estropeada,” Javier repeated, and grinned even wider. “It means ‘spoiled,’” he said. “Because that’s what you are. You live in a big fancy house with a big fancy yard, and your father’s name is in the newspaper every other day. You’re like the H-town Paris Hilton.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She got a little tired of him tossing words like “blue blood,” “princess,” or “spoiled” into every conversation. Now he’d just majorly dissed her by comparing her to the biggest piece of debu-trash on the planet?
“Okay, so you’re not like Paris. You damn sure don’t dress as hot. I don’t figure they make miniskirts and peekaboo lingerie in hemp, do they?”
She opened her mouth to say something back, but ended up biting her lip and saying nothing.
Well, hell. Not only is he basically stating outright that I’m not hot, but he’s patronizing me because my family has money. Like it’s my fault I’m spoiled.
“Aw, don’t get upset.” He took her free hand in his and squeezed it. “I’m just teasing, amiga. Paris Hilton’s such a puta. You’re much better than she is, even if you are as stinking rich.”
“Stop it,” she snapped, jerking her hand away and sticking it between her sweaty knees.
She suddenly felt dirty and disappointed that this wasn’t going anywhere near as well as she’d imagined. No camera crews had shown up, no one even seemed to care that they were there, none of Javier’s ecoconscious friends had joined them, and Javier had pretty much treated her like a little sister since she’d arrived, mostly bossing her around, instructing her on where to sit and how to cuff her wrist so her arm wouldn’t go numb, and eating all four granola bars she’d brought.
Now he’d insulted her, and she was hot and pissed off and beginning to question her judgment about showing up at all. Staying at her grandmother’s and watching Rose and Deena go at it would’ve been more fun than this.
“If I’m such a spoiled brat, why am I here, huh? ’Cuz I don’t see anyone else sitting with you, chained to a damned tree in ninety-five-degree heat.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Why don’t you just take the key and unlock my cuffs so I can go home to my big fancy house?”
“Ah, but you’re the only one I wanted with me tonight, debutante,” he assured her, but he said it “day-boo-tan-tey,” which sounded almost romantic, especially the way his voice purred.
Ginger sighed, her insides threatening to turn to mush. Javier knew just how to twist her snugly around his little finger when he wanted to.
“Please, stay? I need you here.” He grabbed her hand again and held it more firmly this time, so she couldn’t easily slide her fingers from his.
For a moment, she didn’t respond. She sat there and stared in the other direction, squinting at the yellow earthmover equipment silently waiting about five yards away. It reminded her why she was here—why she was supposed to be here—and it had nothing to do with convincing Javier she was dateworthy (although that had certainly weighed heavily on her decision to come in the first place).
Mac and Laura had both accused her of being half-assed about her passion for green causes, and this was a chance to prove them wrong. Even if it meant being chained to a guy she’d thought she cared about who was acting like a total dick.
“I’ll stay,” she finally said, still not looking at him.
He breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“But it has nothing to do with your apology,” she added, only half-lying. “I’m here for the tree.”
“Of course you are, chica,” he cooed. “You’re very special. You care about important things, not just the labels in your jeans.”
So she was special, huh? Okay, so she wasn’t hating him quite so much anymore. He was probably just stressed out, worried that the Sam Houston Oak would be bulldozed in the morning, despite anything they did.
“I like you, Ginger,” Javier said, surprising her with the admission. “Don’t you like being here with me?”
She shrugged. “A little.”
“Well, that’s a start.” He squeezed her hand again. “Hey, don’t worry so much about nothing happening yet. I’ve got friends working on things, making calls and sending e-mails and text messages. There’ll be action, very soon. You trust me, don’t you?”
She nodded, feeling the electricity from his touch coursing through her. If he couldn’t sense the chemistry too, then he was completely oblivious.
Javier nudged her with his shoulder. “Now tell me about this debut of yours. My sister’s party was at the parish hall at St. Cecilia’s, after a special Mass. I’ll bet your party’s nothing like that, huh?”
Ginger loved the way his eyes crinkled and how white his teeth seemed against his dark skin. She leaned her head against the bark. “It’s kind of like a rite of passage, I guess,” she explained. “But it’s more of an introduction to society.”
“Ah, so the rich boys notice you,” he said.
“It’s a tradition, like if your mother debuted, then you’re supposed to follow
suit. Besides, what makes you think I like rich boys?” She watched his dark eyebrows arch.
“Maybe I’m doing it because I figure I can use my position for something important.”
Javier actually looked interested. “So what do you have to do before you can go through this rite of passage?”
“They make you take classes in etiquette and ballroom dancing, even if you’ve done it before, and they teach you how to write thank-you notes and how to use all the spoons and forks in a place setting, though my grandmother drilled that into my head since the time I was old enough to sit up straight.”
“Anything else?”
Ginger didn’t know how much he wanted to hear. “There are teas and luncheons and all kinds of functions so the debs get to know each other, and get to know the guys who’ll be everyone’s escorts, although it’s our fathers who present us, sort of like giving us away at a wedding.”
“I see.” Javier shifted positions, turning slightly toward her, resting his free arm on his knee; the other remained awkwardly cuffed to the chain around the tree. “So who gets to choose your date for you? Your parents?”
“God, I hope not. Not my grandmother, either.” Ginger laughed, glancing over and meeting his gaze, holding it long enough to make her blush.
Was that a hint, perhaps? Did he want to go with her? Ohmigawd! Wouldn’t her mother and Rose Dupree just die if she took him?
The Debs Page 11
