Before she could even suggest it in jest, he asked, “So what do you wear to your debutante ball? Something expensive and beautiful, I bet.”
Ginger wet her lips; the moment between them passed. “Each Rosebud has to wear something white, like a bridal gown. And no one can wear the same thing, so there’s even a party where all the girls bring their dresses and register them. One of the Glass Slipper Club ladies keeps a list and photographs to make sure they’re all different.”
Javier shook his head. “You’re shitting me, right?”
“No.”
“And you would do all this because…?”
She picked at the grass that tickled her feet. “I think traditions are important,” she said, “but it’s more than that. I’m trying to carve a place for myself and have a voice so that I can stand up for something.”
“Honoring what’s come before you can be a good thing,” Javier said softly. “If it’s something you really believe in.” He tucked his thumb beneath her chin and made her look right at him, into his eyes. “It’s a rite of passage in itself to put yourself on the line and risk everything, even your family. Maybe you should tell your father to go to hell, because what he’s doing is the wrong thing. That would be standing up for something.”
What the heck was that about? she wondered. What did Edward Fore have to do with anything?
She was glad dusk was rapidly descending, as she hated the way he seemed to be searching her face for something that wasn’t there, maybe looking for a depth he didn’t think she had. She felt on the verge of telling him more about herself than most people knew: why she was always searching for a cause to believe in and how she’d nearly been cut in two by her father deserting her and her mother seeking solace in booze.
But she didn’t get the chance.
With a crackle of tires on gravel and the rattle of engines, a trio of media vans appeared, veering off onto the grass. Headlights flooded the descending darkness, causing Ginger to squint into the glare, blinded like a deer in headlights.
“Ah, perfect timing. Here we go,” Javier said, letting her go. “Lo siento…. I’m sorry if I hurt you, chica, but I didn’t have a choice.”
Hurt me?
Ginger wanted to ask what he meant, but Javier was already focused on the descending swarm of media.
He struggled to his feet one-handed, not offering to help her up.
So Ginger stayed on the ground, bracing her back against the tree as the reporters and their cameramen raced toward them, microphones at the ready, clearly anxious to get something for the ten o’clock news.
Before a single question had even been flung at him, Javier went off, like a verbal time bomb.
“They want to tear down this two-hundred-year-old piece of history to make room for a bigger parking lot for a school that caters to the most privileged girls in the city,” he spat out as the cameras rolled, “when this Sam Houston Oak has been here longer than all of us. Houston himself reportedly took shade here and carved his initials in the trunk, but does anyone care? It’s a travesty, a disgusting show of greed, tearing up a vital link to our Texas heritage to pave the ground with more asphalt.”
His voice was strong, impassioned, and devoid of the accent she heard when they conversed and he called her “amiga” or “chica.” He sounded like an Anglo, although he looked like anything but: dark eyes flashing fire, sooty hair slick against his face, one hand wildly gesticulating.
“What’s your name?” a reporter asked him, though Ginger couldn’t even see who it was with the lights from the cameras in her eyes.
“My name isn’t important,” he replied, and abruptly turned to Ginger, pointing down at her. “But hers is. This girl beside me, defending the oak as I am, she’s someone whose name should be very familiar. She’s the daughter of Edward Fore of E. W. Fore Development, the company handing over this land to Pine Forest Prep, where his daughter goes…his privileged little debutante.”
Even if she hadn’t been shackled to the oak, Ginger couldn’t have moved; she could barely breathe.
My father’s company owns the land? They’re the ones who are going to cut down the tree?
And Javier had known it all along?
Ohmifreakinggawd.
No wonder she was the only one he’d needed by his side this evening. It had nothing to do with respecting her as a comrade-in-arms or even wanting to spend time with her. He’d involved her in this particular mission so he could use her name, pit her against her father, and then throw her to the wolves.
She felt sick to her stomach. She closed her eyes as Javier went on and on, her mind spinning dizzily. She wished this could all be over and she could go home.
Does Laura feel like this every time Avery shows up wanting a piece of her, but not her heart? Does she feel betrayed and used?
Because that was exactly how Ginger felt. She hadn’t even slept with Javier, and he’d still managed to screw her over but good.
“Stop it,” she got out, but Javier either couldn’t hear her or wasn’t listening.
Besides, it was already too late.
She heard the sirens approach well before the swirls of blue and red filled the night. Car doors slammed and voices ordered, “Move aside, please.” Then the cops were right there in front of them. Javier told them, “Do you know who she is? She’s Ginger Fore. Her father owns the development company that’s razing the tree and turning over the land to the school. Her school! She’s here to protest the total disregard that her father and her exclusive prep school are showing for the planet.”
But the police didn’t seem to care whose daughter she was, not the way the reporters did.
While Javier continued to rant, the boys in blue used bolt cutters to free them and led them separately to waiting squad cars, the media filming every minute and Javier shouting, “iViva el árbol! Let the tree live!”
A strong hand settled on Ginger’s head, pushing it down and guiding her into the backseat, closing the door firmly behind her, the vehicle rocking underneath. It smelled of vinyl and deodorizer and vaguely of pee, but Ginger sat dazed, too numb to do anything but stare out the window quietly, watching the familiar landscape passing by beneath the streetlights.
It wasn’t long until they’d reached the Memorial Villages police station and she was marched inside and taken to a small room with a table and chairs. She wasn’t fingerprinted, though she dared to ask in a voice bordering on hysterical, “Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet, young lady, you’re just being detained,” said the policewoman who was apparently in charge of her. “I believe the chief called your father, and he’s on his way down.”
Her father was coming down to the police station to get her? Like she wasn’t embarrassed enough.
Oh, God, what have I done?
Ginger wasn’t sure she could face him.
It was both the longest and shortest ten minutes of her life before Edward Fore showed up, looking more worried than angry: his mouth tightly pursed, his pale eyes frantic, his faded red hair combed neatly over his freckled scalp. He was wearing a tux with onyx cuff links and polished Bruno Magli shoes, which meant he’d been torn away from a black-tie function. If he’d opened his mouth and ripped her head off, Ginger wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. Her mother would’ve started in on her the moment she’d walked through the door.
Instead, he opened his arms as he came toward her, asking only, “Are you all right, baby girl?”
“Daddy, I’m sorry,” Ginger said, and then she burst into tears.
* * *
Always be nice to other girls. If you don’t, they will find some underhanded way of getting even with you.
—Elizabeth Hawes
I can’t imagine anything lamer than being called nice.
—Jo Lynn Bidwell
* * *
Twelve
Jo Lynn didn’t drag herself out of bed until late on Sunday afternoon. Once she threw off the tangled sheets, she was tempted to crawl
back in again after catching her reflection in the full-length mirror. Talk about a hot mess. She squinted through puffy eyes ringed by raccoonlike smudges of dark mascara and tried to drag her fingers through her knotty hair. It was a good thing Dillon couldn’t see her now. Mixing the Xanax with margaritas wasn’t such a great idea, and neither was staying up until five a.m., doing her best to forget her disrupted seduction of Dillon. She had a banging hangover as a souvenir.
It was four p.m. when she emerged from the guesthouse’s master bedroom and shuffled into the galley kitchen, desperate for a cup of coffee. She completely ignored the detritus from the party, which filled the sink and covered the countertops as well as littering the living room. That was the housekeeper’s job, not hers.
When the coffee finally brewed, she swallowed two Excedrin with the first cup. She downed a second cup before she felt anything close to civilized. Sobered up, she checked her cell for messages, and there were plenty of them, mostly from Cam and Trisha, one from Danielle Bartlett, another from Kelly Harms.
But nothing from Dillon, not even a text. What was up with that?
She speed-dialed his number and let it ring until she heard his voice saying, “Hey, it’s Dillon. Whassup?”
Jo perked up. “Dill, it’s me,” she rushed to say, and then realized she was talking to his voice mail when she heard the ensuing beep.
She hung on a few seconds, finally blurting, “Hey, it’s Jo. Call me,” before she slapped her cell closed. What other message could she possibly leave? Something pathetic along the lines of Where are you? Why’d you leave me last night? Was that phone call really an emergency, or were you with someone else?
No, no, no.
Stop it, Jo, she told herself.
Playing guessing games only made it worse. She’d let Dill come to her if he had something to say. She wouldn’t nag him to death, since that never worked and was the surest way to drive a guy off forever.
That settled in her head, Jo Lynn showered and changed into a pair of Abercrombie shorts and a T-shirt, then left the guesthouse, taking her time walking back to the main house.
For a while, she sat on the pool’s edge with her legs dangling in the water, but she quickly found herself thinking of Dillon again and wondering what was wrong with him…or wrong with her. Why couldn’t they seem to get together anymore? He’d said that he loved her, right? So what was really going on? It was almost as though he was avoiding her, or at least avoiding sex with her.
God, it was all so depressing.
She got up and brushed the water from her legs, which was when she spotted the satin Christian Louboutin high heels lying on the tiles and backflashed on her run-in with Laura Bell the night before.
Has Big Dill stopped jonesing for you too, like every other guy does when he realizes you’re as hollow inside as a cheap chocolate Easter bunny?
Laura’s taunt ran through her head again and again, and Jo Lynn felt a burst of raw anger pulse through her. That poseur had dissed her?
Puh-leeze.
Laura was a fool for believing the in crowd would ever accept her, not at her size.
Talk about naïve. Jo Lynn had only been nice to her as a lark when Avery had first started bringing her around, because it had seemed like a really bad joke, like he was using the besotted Laura to prove that he could do whatever—and whomever—he wanted. Unfortunately, when Bootsie had learned that Laura was dating Avery, she’d gotten all excited. Just because Jo Lynn’s mother and Tincy Bell were such great pals, Bootsie figured it could be the same for their daughters. Like Jo Lynn and Laura becoming BFF was ever going to happen. Not even if pigs—or Laura—could fly.
At least Avery had come to his senses back then, chucking Laura for more suitable girls—like Camie, for one—until he’d dipped his toes back into the swamp waters. Sometimes guys were so damned slow.
Jo Lynn grabbed the Louboutins and tossed them into the pool. Then she stood and watched each one sink to the bottom, feeling vindicated as they settled near the drain.
Down the drain was exactly where Laura would be headed once Jo Lynn had her way. Camie and Trish were right. They had to do something to keep that debu-tank from getting on the Rosebud list. Imagining the lard-ass in white gloves and gown just didn’t sit right.
That decided, Jo Lynn marched toward the main house, letting herself into the kitchen. Nan was there, looking a little hungover herself, no surprise after the bottle of merlot she’d put down. She was yakking with Cookie about something, though they stopped talking the minute Jo Lynn entered.
“Could you have someone clean up the guest house,” Jo said, an order, not a question. She pulled open the fridge and grabbed a tub of yogurt. “It’s a little messy after my friends came by last night.”
“Yes, miss, of course,” Nan said, none too brightly.
“By any chance, did Dillon call on the landline?” Jo Lynn reluctantly asked, and she could swear Nan’s face got all smug when she answered.
“No, miss, no one’s called for you on the house telephone.”
“Oh, all right.” Jo Lynn grabbed a spoon and headed off.
“Um, miss,” Nan called after her, “your mother’s home and she’d like to see you upstairs.”
Jo Lynn stopped in her tracks. Great, she thought, suddenly losing her appetite. She left the yogurt and the spoon on the counter, squared her shoulders, and trudged from the kitchen, through the foyer, and up the winding stairwell.
Jo Lynn knocked on the half-opened door to the master suite, waiting for her mother’s coolly delivered “Yes, come in” before she entered.
Bootsie was unpacking and had clothes spread out across the king-sized sleigh bed. Jo’s father was nowhere in sight. Probably on the golf course, she figured, or at the office, catching up on whatever he’d missed. He was such a workaholic.
“Ah, it’s you, baby,” Bootsie said, and put down the blouse she’d been holding. She opened her arms, wiggling manicured fingers. “Come give your mother a kiss.”
Jo Lynn crossed the room and stepped into her mother’s light embrace, Bootsie’s hands barely grazing her arms. Her mother’s lips just brushed each of her cheeks before she drew away.
“You look tired.” Her mother reached out to fuss with her hair, tucking loose strands behind Jo Lynn’s ears. “I guess you didn’t get your beauty sleep, did you? Should I call the spa and have them fit you in? Your pores are looking large, sweetheart, and your hair has a funny tinge.”
“I went swimming last night,” Jo Lynn said, pulling away, not in the mood for Bootsie’s criticism.
“I hope you stayed in the shallow end,” her mother remarked, adding, “How was your party? Nan said you had some friends over.”
So much for the expensive wine making Nanny Nan keep her big mouth shut, Jo Lynn thought. Next time, I’ll give her a crappy bottle of Arbor Mist.
She shrugged. “It was nothing, really, just a few peeps getting together before school starts. But someone uninvited showed up too,” she mentioned, and felt her pulse quicken.
“Oh?” Bootsie arched a carefully plucked brow. “Who?”
“Laura Bell,” Jo Lynn tossed out, just to see how her mother reacted.
“Didn’t you girls have a tiff last year? Over a boy, if I remember correctly.” Bootsie stood stock-still for a moment, contemplating. She had not a hair out of place, as always, and her St. John summer suit was perfectly pressed, despite the brief flight on Daddy’s jet. “Does that mean y’all have patched things up?”
“Hardly,” Jo Lynn said, and decided to nix any attempt at suggesting to Bootsie that Laura be dropped from the Rosebud list. It would take too much explaining. How could she even begin to make her mom understand that every time she saw Laura Bell it was like looking into a funhouse mirror, seeing everything she never wanted to be? Everything her pageant days had taught her to despise. And the fact that Laura didn’t seem to care how she looked made Jo insane. The cow didn’t even want to change. Her mother had packed her off to
fat camp, and she obviously hadn’t lost an ounce of beef. What a worthless waste of space.
“So you and Laura still aren’t getting along?” Bootsie pried.
Jo Lynn avoided her mother’s eyes and murmured, “We’re just not into the same things, Mother, and she has different friends.”
“Oh, but that could change.” Bootsie clicked her tongue against her teeth and smiled, her Chanel Coco Red lips curving, though the skin on her face didn’t so much as crease.
“I’ve got a feelin’ that you and Laura will reconnect once you’re both Rosebuds. And it won’t be long, will it?”
“Does that mean the committee has the list made up?”
“The calligrapher’s on standby as we speak, waiting for the final names. It won’t be much longer, peaches. Just a few days. So hold tight,” Bootsie advised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get these things put away, and the rest Nan can take to the cleaners.”
“Sure,” Jo Lynn said, giving her mom a forced smile before she left the room. She paused in the hallway, worrying about the invitations, knowing they’d go out via private messenger in the next forty-eight hours. If she, Cam, and Trish were going to devise a plan to stop Laura from becoming a Rosebud, there wasn’t much time to do it.
As soon as she was well out of Bootsie’s earshot, she dialed her BFFs and arranged an ASAP confab at the Starbucks on Memorial Drive.
Jo Lynn had their favorite table on the far side of Starbucks and a grande nonfat Caffé Latte in hand when Camie and Trish appeared, both wearing Daisy Dukes, tight tank tops with their bra straps hanging out, and platform wedges. They spotted her and gave a wave before they got in line to order, and Jo Lynn glimpsed their backsides and the whale tails of their lacy thongs peeking out above the tiny denim shorts.
Was it Dress Like Twins Day and no one had told her? she mused, feeling snarky.
When Camie and Trisha each had a steaming cup of coffee in hand and chocolate biscotti to nibble on, Jo Lynn decided it was time to start plotting Laura Bell’s downfall.
The Debs Page 12
