by Julia London
“We have to tell Harry,” Mallory said.
“I have a glass for him, too,” she said, and looked past Mallory, her face nearly breaking open with her smile.
She spotted Harry at once. He was taller than most, and there he was, standing with Melissa, Birta, and Cyrus, while Lola held a flute of champagne for him. She watched Cyrus gesture toward the barbecue tent. Harry glanced around, as if looking for her, but when he didn’t see her, he turned back to the group. Melissa reached for his arm for an assist in navigating the next few steps down onto the lawn, with Birta and Cyrus following behind.
“Isn’t that Harry?” Mallory asked, following her gaze. “Let’s catch up!”
“Ah . . .” Lola’s heart was fluttering crazily, on the verge of complete destruction with all the stress of Harry, the excitement about her book. “Let me just . . . this glass feels warm. I’m going to get Nolan to refill it.”
“I’ll save us a seat,” Mallory chirped and went off in the direction Harry and the others had gone.
Lola turned back to the bar, set both glasses down, and braced her hands against it, sucking in her breath. Okay, get a grip. She wasn’t going to let disappointment win this time. No matter what else, she had Cyrus Bernstein’s card. She had his card.
Lola snapped out of it. She lifted her head . . . and looked directly into the gaze of the man standing next to her.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi.”
He looked to be about forty, with a pronounced paunch and thinning hair. He was leaning on one arm against the bar and nibbling from a little plastic skewer of olives. “Dobbs Harvey,” he said.
“Lola.” She smiled absently and picked up the champagnes, prepared to make a quick getaway.
“I heard you talking to your friend,” he said, and ate another olive. “I could have sworn I heard you say you are staying at Zach Miller’s lake house.”
No. Nonono. This was the last thing she needed tonight. “Do you know him?” she asked, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, even though she was suddenly feeling a little ill.
“Yeah. Zach and I go way back,” he said, and ate the last olive on his skewer.
Crap.
“I didn’t know he had anyone staying at the house.”
“Just temporarily,” Lola said. Everything is fine. It was amazing how quickly she slipped back into the twelve-year-old girl, smiling and happy so that the social worker wouldn’t dig too deep.
“I thought it was off-limits to him and his wife until the divorce is final. Didn’t they file an injunction or something?”
She was going to die right here with Cyrus Bernstein’s card in her bra. “That’s right, they did,” she said. “But it’s been dragging on for a while, and he . . . well, everyone knows Zach is a generous man,” she said, borrowing a line from Mallory.
“He’s definitely that,” Dobbs agreed. “That’s a nice place,” he added. “They used to have some wild parties up there. Not as fancy as this,” he said, gesturing toward the Cantrell house with his olive skewer. “But boy, they were wild, if you know what I mean.” He grinned.
Lola laughed nervously. “I know what you mean.” Someone touched her arm and Lola started so badly she spilled some of her drink. She twisted around to find Harry staring at her strangely. “Are you okay?”
“There you are!” she said, her voice sounding breathy with nerves. She glanced back at Dobbs Harvey. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and backed into Harry, managing to step on his foot.
“Ouch,” he said.
“Yeah, nice meeting you,” Dobbs Harvey said distractedly . . . he was looking at Harry. He had a funny expression on his face, too, as if he recognized Harry. “When you see Zach, tell him I said hello, and to get his ass out here so we can play some golf.”
“I sure will,” Lola said cheerfully and turned away from the bar. “Run,” she said low. “At least walk fast.”
“Who was he?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know!” she said frantically, and shoved one of the glasses into his chest. “But whoever he is, he knows Zach, and he knows that no one is supposed to be at the house.”
Harry looked back toward the bar.
“Don’t look at him!” Lola cried in a whisper.
“Take a breath,” Harry said, caressing her back. “What did you say?”
“The party line.” She groaned. “This is a disaster.”
“I doubt that,” Harry said. He sipped his champagne as he thought about it. “Look, it’s going to be okay. Zach won’t be out this summer, and that dude is not going to run into him and tell him about you. And even if he does, you’ll be long gone by then. Zach’s got a new girlfriend. He’s not hanging out with the boys, trust me.”
“God, I hope you’re right,” Lola moaned.
“Don’t worry,” he said, and put his arm around her shoulders. “We’re fine.” He tapped his glass against hers. “I have some good news. Mr. Cantrell set up a meeting with the guy who is putting out the bridge bids for the toll road project.”
Lola momentarily forgot Dobbs Harvey and gasped with delight. “No way!”
“Yep,” he said, grinning. “Called him while I was sitting there. I have a good feeling about this Lola, I really do.”
“That’s amazing,” she said. “Guess what? An amazing thing happened to me, too. I met Cyrus Bernstein. He read some of my pages and he wants me to send him the book when I’m finished.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “Lola . . . that’s fantastic.”
“I know, right?” she said, and impulsively threw one arm around his neck. “How the hell did we manage to pull this off?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Harry said laughingly, and kissed her.
It was a celebratory kiss, a New Year’s Eve kind of kiss, but it stoked a flame in Lola immediately. All the mixed-up emotions she’d been feeling about Harry began to bubble up, quickly frothing to a head. She and Harry both swayed back from one another; he looked as surprised as she felt.
“Damn it,” Lola whispered. The joy began to leak out of her. Here it came, the nauseating swell of disappointment, riding high on the agony of wanting to celebrate this moment with her casual sex partner.
Harry must have been feeling something similar, because they stood there, looking at each other. Harry’s gaze moved over her face, his expression pained. For a slender moment, it felt as if there was no one else but her and Harry on that dock, no movement but the longing that was pulling at them. Lola couldn’t look into his green eyes without feeling the longing curl around her heart and squeeze.
She was the first to look away. “I should find Mallory.”
“Please don’t run away from me, Lola.”
She wasn’t running. She wasn’t running. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and smiled. “I’m really happy for you, Harry.”
He touched the earring dangling from her ear. “I’m really happy for you, too.” But he didn’t look happy; he looked sad.
So many thoughts crowded into Lola’s head, so many things she wanted to say. Come on Harry, let’s get out of here! Let’s go celebrate! “Hey, what would you say if . . .” A familiar laugh managed to catch her attention. Lola paused and looked to the left. Melissa was coming up behind Harry.
“What would I say to what?”
“Melissa is here,” she said.
“I know.”
“I mean here,” she said as Melissa reached them.
Melissa touched Harry’s arm and gave him a dazzling smile. “Hey, you,” she said, and then to Lola, “Hi! Wow, another amazing dress, Lola. You look great.”
“Thank you,” Lola said. But she was looking at Harry.
“So,” Melissa asked, leaning into Harry’s side. “What’s up?”
“I was just telling Lola that I had a great conversation with Albert Cantrell. He was awarded a huge toll road project and will be bidding out the bridges.”
“Harry!” Melissa said, turning her full attention to
him. “That’s wonderful! All your hard work is finally paying off—I am so proud of you,” Melissa said, and cupped his face. “You’re amazing.”
Jesus, the woman was beautiful and glowing and she loved Harry, and Harry would be a fool not to see it. Lola took a step backward. “I’m going to find Mallory.”
Harry reached for her, trying to catch her hand, but Lola shifted slightly so that he couldn’t. “Fill her in, Harry!” Lola said gaily. “She’s dying to know.” With a little wave of her fingers, she turned around and walked away.
If she had paused to look back, she would have seen Harry standing there, watching her go. She would have seen the look of longing on his face, too, and how he didn’t seem to see Melissa at all.
But Lola didn’t look back.
Twenty-six
Harry was more than ready to go—his mind was racing around all he wanted to do to prepare for the Monday meeting. He wanted to find Lola and get the hell out of there, but instead, he found himself trapped at a picnic table with Birta, Cyrus Bernstein, and Melissa, who had begged him, “Please don’t leave me alone with Birta. She’s so intense.”
The crowd had seemed to swell, and now there were too many people at the barbecue. Harry could hardly hear the conversation at the table, which was fine with him. He was looking for a flash of yellow dress, listening for that sunny laugh. He wanted to talk with Lola about his meeting with Albert Cantrell, to hear everything Bernstein had said to her. But Lola had disappeared.
He began to wonder if she’d left the party altogether.
Melissa pressed into his side, propped her hand on her chin, and smiled up at him. “What’s on your mind, babe? You’re kind of quiet tonight.”
“I’m just thinking about all I need to do for this meeting Monday.”
“Harry!” she said and laughed. “That’s so you, thinking about work at a party. What I want to know is, when are you going to think about us?” She trailed her fingers up his arm, smiling into his eyes.
There had been a time Harry had not been able to keep his hands from her. He’d been a different man then—a confident, self-assured man who had arranged all his chess pieces. He was a humbler man now who was trying to keep his chess pieces from falling off the board. “There is no us, Lissa. All those issues that kept us apart are still there—that hasn’t changed.”
Melissa blinked. “No, they’re not. It was all me, babe. I know what I did, I know how I behaved. I’m so ashamed of it now, but you have to believe me—I’ve changed. I’m so proud of you and what you’ve accomplished. You know what? We should have a drink to celebrate. Where did your date get off to, anyway?” she asked, and sat up and looked around.
“Who?” Birta asked, noticing Melissa.
“Your assistant,” Melissa said.
“I don’t know how you’ve missed her. She’s there,” Birta said, and nodded to a point behind Melissa and Harry. “Heavens, will you look,” she said disapprovingly.
Melissa looked in the direction Birta had indicated. “Oh,” she said.
Harry couldn’t see around Melissa, so he stood. There was a commotion across the lawn where three people were happily following a fourth, who was teaching them what looked like some sort of hip-hop dance. Those people included Mallory and Lola. Harry moved a step or two away from the picnic table to have a better view, and he smiled as he watched them. God, they were awful. But they were laughing, holding onto each other, and dissolving into fits of laughter when Lola accidentally kicked Mallory.
“Oh, wow . . . she’s making a spectacle of herself,” Melissa said.
Lola and Mallory grabbed each other’s arms and pulled themselves out of the dancing queue. That was when Mallory happened to see Harry and waved. Harry waved back.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Birta said. “You ought to read the book. What an unmitigated disaster! The structure is all wrong and the prose is so overwrought. I was absolutely shocked when Cyrus said it wasn’t bad. I had to point out to him just how bad it was.”
“Harry, can you give me a hand?”
Harry glanced back; Cyrus had returned to the table juggling drinks in his hands. Harry took some from Cyrus’s hands and set them down on the picnic table before the ladies.
“What did you point out to me?” Cyrus asked.
“My assistant’s book!” Birta said. “It was awful. Just a train wreck.”
Cyrus shrugged. “It could use some work, as all books can. Still, I liked the premise.”
Birta laughed incredulously. “You like a book about a psychopath who murders the men who reject her? And with all that alleged humor so tragically woven in?” she added, fluttering her fingers.
“I said it could use some work,” Cyrus repeated. “But I see promise.”
“I think it would be a publicity nightmare,” Melissa offered. “How would you promote a book like that?”
“Oh!” Birta said suddenly, and reached across the table to grab Melissa’s hand. “Remember the passage I read you where she changes her clothes at least three times, uncertain what to wear when she stabs her boyfriend, and she’s thinking all those ridiculous things—”
“Like if blood would be better disguised by the dark red mini, or the long black halter?” Melissa eagerly added.
“And then she fusses with the shoes!” Birta crowed, and she and Melissa laughed.
Harry stared in disbelief at the two women. They had amused themselves with Lola’s book? It soured him. They might not like the book, but at least Lola had tried. She damn sure didn’t deserve their ridicule. “I don’t find anything funny about a person striving toward her goal. I thought the book was clever,” Harry said.
“But the dialogue, Harry! It was the worst,” said Birta. “So stilted!”
“I’m sorry you didn’t like it.”
Birta blanched at the sound of Lola’s voice; they all jerked around, none of them having noticed that she’d walked up to the picnic table.
Lola looked stunned. And pissed.
“I think it has promise, Lola,” Cyrus said. “My offer still stands.”
Lola flashed a thin smile at him. “Thank you. I can never express how much I appreciate it. I hope that doesn’t sound stilted,” she said, and shifted her attention to Birta. “Please. Go on,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt your discussion of my horrible writing. Which would be the same writing you praised to my face, by the way.”
Birta groaned. She stretched her arm out across the picnic table, as if reaching for Lola. “All right, darling, I did tell you I liked it. But I was trying to be encouraging.”
Lola was shaking. One hand fisted at her side, and Harry had the impression she was working to keep from punching Birta in the mouth. “It was truly a pleasure getting to meet one of my favorite authors,” she said. “But now I really wish I hadn’t. I liked the idea of you better than the real you.” She whirled around and strode away.
Melissa snorted and said, “Well that was awkward.”
Harry glowered at Birta, not bothering to conceal his contempt. “What gives you the right to destroy someone’s dream?”
Birta rolled her eyes. “Someone has to be honest with her, Harry. You were the one who wanted me to look at her book. You were the one who opened her up to criticism.”
“There is a difference between constructive criticism and being a bitch,” Harry said.
Birta gasped with anger and surged to her feet, bracing her hands against the picnic table as she leaned across it. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that,” she hissed.
“I’ll do you one better,” he said angrily. “I’ll never speak to you again.” He put his glass down onto the table and went after Lola. He hadn’t gotten very far, however, before Melissa caught him, latching on to his arm. Harry tried to shake her off. “Not now, Lissa.”
“Don’t leave—”
“You were horrible back there,” he snapped, jerking his arm from her hand. “You have a mean streak when you’ve had a couple of drinks, you know
that?”
“I’m sorry!” she said, casting her arms wide. “I know I was horrible, but I can’t help it, Harry. I’m just so envious of her.” She pressed her fingertips to either side of her head and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I feel like I’m competing for you, and I’ve never . . .” She sighed and dropped her hands. “I don’t want to like her. I want to hate her, because she has you.”
“She doesn’t have me,” Harry said impatiently. She wouldn’t have him—she’d made that clear all week.
“Yes she does,” Melissa said morosely. “You may not know it, but she does.”
Harry scanned the upper deck. He couldn’t see Lola any longer.
“Please, Harry,” Melissa said, grabbing his hand. “I’m so sorry. I’m just going crazy with wanting you and needing you. I don’t know how to get you back.” She moved closer, slid one hand up his chest, around to the nape of his neck. “I would give anything if I could just go back and do it over, you know?”
“Okay,” he said, and moved to take her hand from his neck, but before he could do it, she kissed him.
“Just give me another chance,” she murmured.
Her kiss was as unsettling as the churning in his gut. There were many things he wanted to say to Melissa. But not here, not now. His only concern was finding Lola, and he pushed Melissa back. “I’ll call you,” he said, and walked away from her.
Twenty-seven
Lola wasn’t hurt—she was furious.
She was furious with Birta for being such a raging bitch, and furious with herself for having allowed that to happen. She had to take ownership in it—she had pushed down her instincts about Birta so that she could “apprentice” in the hopes of some of the magic rubbing off on her.
Lola knew better than that. She knew that the only way anyone ever got ahead in this world was to work hard and pull themselves up, one rung at a time. Writers didn’t sell books on the basis of who they knew—they sold them on the basis of a really good story.
She’d fled the party after that major disappointment—fortunately leaving before the magic hour when all the cabs disappeared—and had come home, flung off her dress and heels, yanked down her hair, and pulled on one of Harry’s hoodies that just barely covered her ass. It was the closest thing at hand.
