by Libby Howard
Stanford. I searched my memory. “Stanford Paving?”
“Yep.” Matt grimaced. “Stu’s really counting on winning that contract with the state for the work on I-95. Put in a prayer for him, because he really needs that contract.”
I wasn’t exactly the person to turn to for prayers, given that I rarely went to church, but I promised to put in a good word for Stanford Paving, and turned to listen to the band’s second set.
By the third set, Holt Dupree and his followers had made their way to us. At the band break, they burst into our little group with all the finesse and welcome of a swarm of ants at a picnic.
No, not ants. They were like those religious evangelicals knocking on your door at dinner time, forcing their way into your house to tell you the Good News about Holt Dupree.
Then just as quickly as he’d blown into our midst, he’d left, picking up Henry, Madison, and Chelsea in his wake.
And Daisy.
I blinked in surprise when my friend got up and headed after the gaggle of teens and twenty-somethings following the football player, but when she turned to me with a wink and a grin, I knew what she was up to.
“Daisy’s on it,” I told Judge Beck. “And trust me, nothing is going to happen on Daisy’s watch.”
My best friend had dedicated her life to helping at-risk teens. She’d taken every underprivileged girl that came through those doors into her heart, and she did her best to protect them, to make them see that they had choices and opportunities beyond the pile of doo-doo that life had handed them. She’d counseled mothers as young as thirteen, helped fourteen-year-olds kick their drug habit, and held the hand of rape victims as they filed their police reports. Holt Dupree would find himself with a concussion if he so much as laid a hand on one of those girls.
Still, I was very aware of the tension in both men that sat on either side of me. Their eyes followed Holt Dupree everywhere. I could understand Judge Beck, he had a young daughter who had made at least one foolish decision in the past six months, but Matt’s concern surprised me. I knew he and Judge Beck had been playing the occasional round of golf together, but I hadn’t really thought their acquaintance-friendship was at the level where Matt would be watching out for Madison, especially with her father right here.
Finally, Matt leaned over, his mouth again disturbingly close to my ear. “Buck’s in that crowd with Holt Dupree, and I don’t see anything good coming of that.”
Drat. I looked over at the group and quickly picked out the boy from Matt’s description shouted into my ear. Buck Stanford was a few inches shorter than Holt, and looked to be lighter by about thirty pounds, but he was still what I would call ‘buff’. For a second I thought maybe the father’s resentment wasn’t a reflection of his son’s, but then Buck turned and I saw his face.
The hate practically rolled off the young man. I winced, agreeing with Matt that nothing good was going to come of this.
Buck followed on the outskirts of the crowd, and as the band finished their last set to loud applause, I lost sight of him. Henry had returned earlier, but with the close of the concert, Madison came racing back, breathless with her hazel eyes sparkling and a rosy glow on her cheeks.
“Dad, oh Dad! There’s a party tonight. Chelsea is going and so is Miranda and Babette and Maria. Can I go? Can I go?”
There was a world of information in the lack of information Madison had conveyed. I knew this, and so did Judge Beck. His jaw set and one of his eyebrows raised as he regarded his daughter.
“Where is this party? And who is chaperoning it?”
Madison’s face fell. “Persimmon Bridge Park. I promise that I won’t drink any alcohol. Lots of adults will be there, too.”
“Like Holt Dupree?” the judge asked.
She flushed a bright red. “He’s an adult. And so are his friends. Please Dad? Chelsea is going. And Miranda, Babette, Maria, and Peony.”
I could immediately see that the inclusion of Peony Smith in this party did nothing to advance Madison’s case. Judge Beck was a very fair man, and I’m sure in his courtroom he would never harbor assumptions about someone based on where they’d grown up or the circumstances of their life, but he was also a father. And as unfair as it was, a father sometimes didn’t want their child hanging out with a girl whose family included those with drug and alcohol addictions, criminal records, and a history of teenage pregnancy.
“No, Mads. You’re not allowed to attend this party.”
“Dad!” the girl wailed. “There won’t be any drinking or anything. And all of my friends are going.”
“I can pretty much guarantee there will be alcohol at a party hosted by Holt Dupree and his friends,” Judge Beck announced. “No. You’re not going.”
“I won’t drink any,” Madison pleaded. “I swear I won’t drink any alcohol. Please, Dad!”
“No.” There was the weight of finality in that one word.
Tears sparkled in Madison’s eyes and she spun around to hide them from her father. I gave her the privacy she needed and helped pack up the drinks and blankets, handing Henry the extra chairs. I said my goodbyes to Matt and Suzette then fell back to walk with Madison as we made our way to the car.
“I’m sorry honey,” I told her. “Before you know it, you’ll be an adult and going to whatever parties you want, but for now try to respect that your father only has your best interests at heart.”
“He invited me,” she choked out. “He actually smiled at me and asked me to come to the party. I’ll never get a chance like that again.”
I looked back at the young celebrity in question and halted. Holt’s crowd of followers were standing back a safe distance while he and Buck Stanford were engaged in what was quickly becoming a shouting match. Then with surprising speed, Buck’s fist shot out and nailed Holt in the face. The crowd closed in, obscuring the fight and I turned around to catch up with Madison and the others, hoping that she was right and that she’d never get the chance to party with Holt Dupree again.
Chapter 4
“Where’d you run off to after the concert? Should I worry that you’ve fallen victim to Holt Dupree’s charms?”
Daisy sniffed, relaxing into her child’s pose. “Right. Like he wouldn’t notice a fifty-five-year-old woman hanging out at his party at Persimmon Bridge Park, drinking beer from a red Solo cup and trying to blend in with people less than half her age.”
“I thought maybe you’d decided to give the cougar thing a go,” I teased.
“Like Kari Macintosh?” She snorted. “Hardly. I followed them around a bit at the concert, taking note of who he was paying special attention to and who seemed to be actually friends of his instead of just hangers-on.”
“And?” I urged. Daisy was just as much of a snoop as me. I was dying to know what the aftermath had been in the fight between Holt and Buck as well as who might be getting cozy with our local celebrity. Just as long as it wasn’t Madison or any of her young friends.
“You know, the guy is really charming.” Daisy stood into a Vriksasana, and I did the same. “He’s arrogant as all get-out, but charming. I guess I’d be arrogant too if I’d just scored a major NFL contract, though. He’s not dumb. He’s chummy with all the guys—even the young boys who came up for autographs. He makes them feel like they’re really something special, not just a fan pestering him when he wants to be left alone. The guy can really work a crowd. If he can stay injury-free, he’ll land a ton of sponsorship contracts.”
I thought of Madison and how her aloof I-don’t-care-about-football-guys had done a one-eighty last night. “And the girls?”
“Every one of them gets special attention. He remembers their names, and flirts just enough to get them all giddy without crossing a line. He seems careful to keep anything that might be sexual-innuendo to those who are clearly his age or older.”
“See? You’ve got a chance with him.”
She laughed. “Not that much older.”
“I’m still glad Madison didn’t go to th
at party. Judge Beck stayed up late and actually left his bedroom door open last night. I think he was worried that Madison might try to sneak out.” I focused on the horizon, trying to hold my tree pose with the same level of balance as Daisy.
“After the grounding she got from going to that party with Chelsea? I don’t think she’d try something like that.”
I mirrored Daisy’s transition into a chair pose. “You said yourself that the boy has charisma. Madison’s at a tough age. She’s so tall and she’s comparing herself to the curvy petite blond girls that are getting the boys at school, and feeling insecure. Holt asked her personally to come to the party. Think about it. A hot grown-up guy who is going to be playing for the NFL this fall looked her in the eyes, smiled, and asked her to come to this party. What would you have done?”
“Me? I would have made a rope ladder out of my bedsheets and been in Persimmon Bridge Park before they tapped the keg,” Daisy replied. “But from the outside looking in, I saw that Holt Dupree asked every single girl and boy at that concert to the party. Like I said, the guy has some serious mojo going on.”
I sighed. “Well, he’ll be gone in another two days and I doubt he’ll ever be back to this little town again.”
Daisy slid effortlessly into a half-moon pose. “Which means you’ll need to deal with a sulky teenage girl for the next two days.”
I wobbled, dropping my upraised leg a bit lower for stability before I replied. “Possibly longer than two days. Chelsea, Maria, Babette, Peony, and Miranda all went to that party last night. It’s going to be salt in the wound because they’ll be rehashing the excitement for months.”
Daisy shot me a sympathetic glance. “I saw that a couple of my mentees were going. I’ll ask them today what went on there.”
“Probably underage drinking, and making out.” I commented wondering if Holt had kept everything strictly professional, or if he’d decided to take one of his admirers home with him. I wasn’t sure what set me off about this guy. I’d read about his skill when he was part of the local high school team and hadn’t really thought twice about him before this week. What was it about his celebrity status that bothered me?
I thought of Madison, and had a sudden flash of self-awareness. I’d never attracted the attention of the football players either. If I’d been fifteen, I doubt Holt Dupree would have even bothered to ask me to that party. I probably would have been invisible to him. And I’m sure that was my issue with the young man, not any of his actions. Outside of what Matt had alleged, I could see that Holt had done nothing wrong. He’d been very savvy about taking a talent and using it to get ahead, and with his friendly demeanor and looks, he was ensuring that even after that talent faded, he’d have established himself as enough of a name to continue to ride the success the rest of his life. There was nothing heinous about that. It was smart business—far more savvy than I ever would have expected from someone who was only twenty-two.
“Madison kinda sealed her fate when she said that Peony Smith was going,” I commented, grateful that we were winding down into a hero pose. “I get the feeling Judge Beck isn’t a fan of hers.”
Daisy grimaced. “Peony Smith’s main crime is being born poor.”
“She does have a reputation for being a bit wild.” At least that’s how it seemed to me from Madison and her friends’ conversations.
“That’s a whole other story. Kids like her have little parental supervision. They grow up in neighborhoods where illegal activity is the norm, and in her case, two out of three of her sisters isn’t the best role models. It’s a wonder she’s still in school with no criminal record.”
“That bad?” I had no idea what her family life was like, only that kids from Trenslertown usually didn’t have much in the way of opportunities.
“Yeah, that bad. Although the only ‘wild’ I’ve heard of Peony Smith is that she parties and tends to be less than discriminating when it comes to alone time with other boys.”
I winced. “That’s probably what the judge worries about. He doesn’t want Madison hanging out with kids who are out until two in the morning drinking and making out with equally inebriated boys.”
We finished off with an appropriately named corpse pose, then Daisy stood and helped me to my feet. “The drinking is a problem, but it drives me nuts how girls get shamed for the exact same behaviors that everyone celebrates in boys.”
I nodded. “Why as much social pressure isn’t put on boys to remain celibate, I’ll never know.”
“The trend is going the opposite way from celibacy for both boys and girls,” Daisy replied as we headed to my kitchen and the lovely siren song of fresh brewed coffee. “There’s pressure to not be ‘uptight’, and there’s a sort of cool factor now about having sex early.”
“I’m sure our grandparents lamented the same way over our morals,” I told her. “Not waiting for marriage. Letting boys kiss us goodnight on the porch. Good heavens!”
“And you’d get a reputation if you were one of those girls who French kissed,” Daisy complained. “I don’t think kids now even know what French kissing is.”
“That’s because it’s all French kissing. Anything closed mouth is chaste, like you’re kissing your grandmother or something.”
I liked chaste kisses. They were soft and tentative, or lingering and filled with promise. There was something to be said for a slow courtship instead of tumbling into bed a few hours after you’d met. Although maybe I was just being nostalgic. Eli and I had certainly hurried things along, but back then ‘hurried’ had been after six or seven dates. Ugh. Was I turning into one of those old women who forgot what it felt like to be on fire for someone? I hoped not.
Daisy sighed. “If only French kissing were the worst thing I dealt with each week. I swear working with teenagers is the most challenging thing I’ve ever done. That stage of their life… it’s like sending them down a hall with slamming gates and spinning knives. I breathe a sigh of relief every time one makes it out alive, or clean and sober, or not pregnant.”
I thought again of Madison and how lucky she was. “So many of them don’t have the best parental role models. For all the divorce nastiness, I think Judge Beck and Heather are doing a good job.”
“Madison is lucky. But then you get kids that manage against all odds to pull themselves up out of the hole, like Violet Smith.” Daisy shrugged. “Sometimes it takes more than good parenting. Kids fall in with the wrong crowd, or get their hearts broken, or suffer from undiagnosed mental illness. I’ve seen exemplary parents shocked at how their child managed to hide an addiction from them. Sometimes I think it takes luck to survive.”
I nodded in agreement. “Luck or divine intervention.”
Chapter 5
J.T. had set up an elaborate spread for his ‘VIPs’ on the banks of the Piwa River for the regatta. There was a pavilion with chairs and a buffet table that held elegant sandwiches with the crusts removed as well as chips and other less high-falutin fare. I’d done a double-take as we arrived, wondering if guilt over his lack of involvement in his company’s raft entry had spurred him to put on such a spread, but then I realized what his motive was the moment Daisy appeared.
His face lit up. Next thing I knew there were champagne corks popping. Oh Lord, this was all my fault. I’d made a joke one day about Daisy’s interest in knife rests, and my boss had totally misconstrued the comment. Now he was crushing on my friend like he was back in high school.
Daisy had turned up her nose at every mention I’d made of J.T., but the moment the man broke out the champagne and the plastic, fake-crystal flutes, herded her to the best seat for viewing, and raced back and forth with sandwiches and cocktail wieners like a waiter, I realized my error. As quirky and feminist as my best friend was, she liked to be wooed. Inviting her to be an actress in his unpaid YouTube series hadn’t done it. A million hints about how he should be invited to dinner hadn’t done it. This might just do it. Daisy was in her element, daintily munching on a sandwich that looked l
ike something the Queen of England would eat at a polo match, while holding expensive bubbly in the other hand. I was pretty sure all of this had bumped J.T. up a few notches in her very selective evaluation scale.
It made me wonder once again what was in their past. Daisy had known J.T. before I’d taken a job with him. She’d hinted that she’d known him for a good part of her life. And from the snark, the eye roll that happened every time she talked about him, I’d gotten the feeling there had been something there once—something that hadn’t completely vanished.
But that was none of my business. I could gently pry. I could hint and nudge. But at the end of the day, if my best friend didn’t want to confide in me, then I’d accept that. In the meantime, I smirked and kept my thoughts to myself as she lorded it over we peons, soaking up my boss’s attentions while the rest of us got situated and awaited the start of the race.
Judge Beck was with our group, as were Suzette, Carson and Maggie, Kat and Will Lars, Bert Peter, Bob Simmons, Jeanette and Paul Tennison, and Deanna, the judge’s paralegal, with her husband Steve. I waved over Reverend Lincoln, and Matt Poffenberger who were both roaming the banks with their lawn chairs, looking for a spot.
“Your father couldn’t make it?” I asked Matt as I snatched the chair from his hand and sat it next to mine.
He sighed. “Dad is having a rough day. I came by this morning to pick him up, but it just wasn’t going to happen. I hate that he’s not here. He hasn’t missed the regatta since he was a kid. My only consolation is that he’ll never remember he couldn’t come.”
Matt went off to help himself to the buffet, only to his have chair moved aside as Judge Beck scooted it over and plopped his own chair in its place. He had two champagne flutes in his hand, one of which he handed to me.
“I’m only drinking the one,” he told me. “I’m pretty sure I’ll need to dive into the river and rescue my kids, so I better be sober.”
