“I gotta go—my flight for Austin leaves at six.”
“Okay.” I said. Not okay. But what could I do?
Seconds later he was gone, and only my bag remained by the door, taunting me. Julia’s door opened and seeing her made the tears finally flow. I whimpered and she came and hugged me. I cried and told her what he said.
“It was really sweet of him to come by,” she said, hugging me.
“I know!” And that made the tears flow even harder.
“I’m not going,” I said the next morning, swirling my oatmeal around the bowl.
“You have to,” Julia said.
“I’ll say I’m sick. I went to Abby’s party with a black eye and a head injury—they’ll believe it’s serious if I don’t go.”
Julia drank her coffee and I ignored my breakfast. Let down didn’t express it. I felt . . . empty. Woebegone and sorry for myself and on the verge of a tantrum. I considered chucking my oatmeal on the floor, like a two-year-old.
“I know how you feel,” she said, “but—”
“Nobody knows how I feel!” This boyfriend thing brought on a lot of shouting. “I’ll be a train wreck, and everyone will know, and it will be, oh God, it will be horrible.”
For something like the twelfth time since Hank had left, hot tears scalded my cheeks. I had nearly emptied a box of Kleenex.
“Megan—you have to go.”
“Dad’s not going.” I sounded like a petulant teenager.
“I know. It worries me. Do you know anything new?”
“Just that it’s weird and bad.”
Julia sighed.
She was right, of course. I had to go. So I dried my tears, again, and loaded my bag and she drove and I sat, feet on the dash, head against the passenger window, in a funk of epic proportions. All my plans lay in ruins, and I was so determined not to have a good time, I packed my history textbook and planned on staying in the cabin and working on my term paper, alone.
“So we’re agreed it’s either Enchanted Forest or Venetian Masquerade?” Julia asked as we skirted downtown.
“I guess.”
“I’ll tell Mom. Let’s talk about our charity because we need to decide that too.”
“If you want.”
“How about breast cancer?”
“Obvious.”
“How about the SPCA?”
“Ashley’s doing that.”
“Which Ashley?”
“Does it matter? And Lauren’s doing Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital—sick kids. So expected and above reproach. It’s like, why don’t we do ‘no clubbing baby seals.’”
Julia let me vent without responding.
“Well, Megan, what would you like to do?” she asked.
“How about the Texas State Historical Society?”
“It’s not very—sexy.”
“Why does it have to be sexy? That’s what I hate about this whole thing—like it’s not really about what matters, it’s all about the props. Sad little kittens in cages, kids in wheelchairs. Please!” I took a breath. “Besides, I think we’d do really well with this. Texans are proud and we could pick a building or a park, raise money to preserve it.” I saluted Julia and called out, “For Texas!”
This sounded lame even to me. But Julia was the peacemaker, always avoiding conflict and confrontation, so she pretended to think about it and when enough time had passed, responded.
“Okay, we’ll look into the historical society, but keep thinking of options. We have to sell a lot of tables.”
We curled onto I-35 and headed north, past American Airlines Center. The traffic was light and ten minutes later we were beyond Northwest Highway. Still an hour to go.
“Zach says Lauren thinks Andrew is going to propose over the weekend,” Julia said.
“I thought they were already engaged,” I replied. I knew she was just distracting me with gossip, but I didn’t have anything better to do.
“People just think that. The Battles and the Gages are old friends. I think their dads went to Exeter together.”
“He must be older, right?”
“Yeah, a few years I think. They started going out after Zach and Andrew started their business.”
“Why does she think it’s going to be this weekend?”
“His mom is coming down on a private jet. And the whole Denim to Diamonds thing was Lauren’s mom’s idea.” She held up her ring finger. “Get it—diamonds?”
“Subtle as a semi,” I said.
I couldn’t explain why but this conversation made me feel worse, about the weekend and my own situation with Hank canceling at the last minute, and I retreated into my shell for the rest of the car ride. Julia tried several times to nudge me out of it, but my terse, one-word answers made it clear I wouldn’t be budged. Finally, just a mile from the main gate, she pulled over, put the car in park, and looked at me.
“You know, he wanted to come, he sounded really sorry, but he had to work,” Julia said. We were sitting on the shoulder of a two-lane blacktop north of Denton in a little town called Pilot Point. This was horse country, all clapboard fences and rolling grass.
“It’s not that,” I said churlishly.
“Just because it’s Lauren’s party doesn’t mean it won’t be fun. Abby will be there, and you always have fun with her.”
“I guess . . .”
“Well, I really appreciate you coming for me—I need you here.”
“I know.”
“I’m sure he’s going to call you next week.”
“I know.”
“Well, what is it then?” She was exasperated. “I’ve tried this whole ride to cheer you up, and give you space . . .”
I wanted somehow to express what this weekend had meant to me, how I had planned for it, hoped for it the whole week. I wanted to explain to Julia just how much I had been looking forward to it—to giving in to romance.
“I, I . . .”
“What?” she asked, coaxing. “You can tell me—anything.”
“I, oh God . . .”
“What is it?”
“I shaved!” My eyes dipped toward my lap. “You know—down there.”
She looked at me and I looked at her. Suddenly we both fell over laughing
“Oh, Megan . . .”
“Not like the whole thing, just a—you know—a landing strip.”
This started us all over again, and it was a full minute before she came up for air. She gazed at me lovingly, and I was grateful I had someone I could share absolutely everything with.
“Now that’s commitment.”
Julia drove on, and then, as we crested the final hill, we saw them—a flock of paparazzi camped in front of the gatehouse. A few lifted their heads at the sound of a car, but a blue Subaru didn’t spur them to action. They had bigger prey in their sights.
“Oh, he’s heinous.”
Sixteen
In Which Megan Sees How the Other Half of the One Percent Lives
“WHEN YOU TWO GET HITCHED, I GET THIS PLACE!” I said, leaning over to look down into the kitchen.
“It’s yours,” Zach answered from below. Julia sat on a stool at the kitchen counter while Zach rummaged in the cupboards. I liked him more and more. He wore his obscene wealth as casually as anyone I had ever met. And he was cute, and funny, and clearly crazy for my sister.
We had driven from the guardhouse up a road framed by white fencing six feet high, beyond which were meadows and meadows of knee-high grass so deliciously green it might have been wheatgrass. The fit and majestic horses grazing on it certainly seemed to like it. When we had gone far enough without seeing any building that I thought a gas station might appear, we saw the main house, with the barn adjacent. It was a tossup which was more palatial, but in the end I went with the barn. We passed through the por
t cochere, and Zach met us on the other side.
He drove a good-sized Gator with six seats and room for the bags, the kind a hunting party might use. He was his usual carefree self, and he was impishly pleased to see Julia, like a little boy expecting Santa on Christmas Eve, peeking through the curtains when we pulled up. He tossed in our bags, then swung in behind the wheel.
“Hop in and I’ll take you down to the cabin.”
We loaded in and he took off, gunning the peppy engine down a paved path behind the house, large enough for bikes and such but too small for a car. We passed a helipad, then the lagoon he called a pool, then we zipped in and out of a forest of Texas live oaks and cedars, Zach expertly managing the twists and turns. It was clear he enjoyed driving the thing, and had come this way before.
We emerged to see the guest cabins—if you can call a three-thousand-square-foot, three-bedroom, three-bath wooden structure a “cabin.” Perched on a hillside, they offered shade and comfort and a good deal of privacy.
Downstairs was a central living room, with a leather sectional couch facing a wood-burning fireplace. Neatly stacked wood, fireplace gloves, tongs, and a poker were nearby. Zach went around opening doors, as if he wasn’t quite sure what he would find. He pointed out the powder room and a closet, and made his way to the well-stocked kitchen, where he opened the fridge and informed us there was wine, beer, water, sparkling water, strawberries, blueberries, Greek yogurt, and milk, and to let him know if we needed anything else.
I went upstairs to check out the bedrooms, which was when I decided that, should they try for a life together, I would very much appreciate the run of one of the cabins.
“Seriously nice digs,” I said, coming down the stairs. He was leaning on the counter, and had poured Julia a glass of wine, and opened a beer for himself. “Thanks for letting us stay.”
“No problemo,” he said, still staring at Julia. “Hey, I was wondering—you wanna go for a ride? There’s a great trail that goes out and around the lake.”
“Sure,” Julia said.
“You wanna come?” he asked me. I knew Julia wanted alone time with him, and I had no desire to be the third wheel.
“No thanks. I’ve got to get some work done on my term paper. You guys go—I’m gonna stay here and read.”
“Give me a few minutes to change?” Julia asked.
“Whistle if you need help,” he offered.
She blushed and waved before disappearing upstairs. I poured myself some sparkling water and sat down next to Zach.
“You should go up to the pool,” Zach said. “It’s quiet, the water’s heated . . . there’s towels and everything up there, and you’ll find water and whatever in the fridge in the cabana.”
“It won’t be too crowded?” I asked. “I hate to mingle with the riffraff.”
“Nah,” he said. “Off season.”
I laughed. I would have been hot for him too, if not for Julia. This thing is gonna be good for her, I thought. He’s Tyler’s total opposite.
Julia came down rocking hip-hugging, worn Wranglers, a green button-down shirt, and brown leather Nocona boots the color of toffee, just scuffed enough to prove they’d been used for more than traipsing around a honky-tonk. And her raffia hat was a work of art—I should know, since it was mine, and I’d spent years getting the creases just right, the brim curved just so. As she sauntered down the stairs, the net effect was one smoking-hot country girl. Zach noticed.
“Nice hat,” he said.
“Thanks.” She smiled at him and then glanced at me, and I kept quiet. Hey, if my hat helped land this place, she was welcome to the credit.
“I’ll have her back before dinner,” Zach said, and held the door for her. I nodded and they left. I watched them from the window walking toward the barn. Fall was a lovely time to ride in North Texas—the sun slanted more from the side rather than beaming down directly overhead, any heat would be broken up and scattered by the trees, and along the lake there was sure to be a breeze. Zach had probably ordered a breeze, come to think of it. He could afford it.
Now alone, I considered my options. Here? Or the pool? No-brainer.
I changed into a yellow bikini, then added a long blue SMU Soccer T-shirt and my flip-flops. I carried my book up the path to the pool, aka the lagoon, found some towels, and settled in to read the history of the Roman Empire in hopes of sparking an idea for my overdue term paper. I hadn’t finished the first paragraph when I heard voices, then the jangle of the gate latch.
Lauren Battle appeared, and behind her Andrew Gage. So much for an afternoon alone by the pool. Lauren walked toward me, but when Andrew saw me, he froze. He stared at me, and I stared back—he clearly expected to have the place to himself. What a jerk, I thought, remembering him ducking the photographers he had called.
“Is this reserved?” I asked icily.
“No, of course not,” he said, and came over. Lauren set her bag on the table.
“Hi, Megan.”
“Hello, Lauren.” I checked her finger, but no new ring. He was probably saving it for the big night with the big crowd, for maximum effect.
“Where’s Julia?” she asked.
“Out riding with Zach.”
“So romantic,” Lauren said, her voice as sweet as treacle. “And when does Hank arrive?” I felt Andrew grimace at his name. She must have known they didn’t like each other, but she asked all the same, right in front of him.
“Last-minute work thing. He couldn’t make it.”
“Oh no! So sad. Who’s your date then?”
“I’m not sure—Ann said she would get back to me.”
“Well, I’m sure she can find someone.”
Lauren removed her cover, revealing a teeny white bikini in perfect contrast to her long, blemish-free legs and arms. She tossed the cover aside, primped her hair, and gave me and Andrew time to appreciate the goods. I had to give her credit: she was hot and she knew how to make the most of what she had.
I shrugged down into my T-shirt and thought about the body underneath. Lean, muscular arms, reddish brown to the bicep, then beluga white to the neck, with another ring there. My legs were scarred and mannish, and I trembled at the thought of being compared to Lauren, especially under the intense scrutiny of Andrew Gage. In one move Lauren had shown me who was who, and what was what. Swimming was no longer part of my afternoon plans.
Satisfied that she had been polite, Lauren lay back on a deck chair and turned her face toward the weak November sun, determined to leech what radiation remained.
I had closed my book over my hand and waited as Andrew settled, thinking of how Ann would want me to do my bit in the idle chitchat department. But he never looked over. He took out an expensive fountain pen and stationery and without a word began to write a letter, by hand. Well, I guess I’ll just read my book then! They were both so easy to dislike—Lauren the overnice rich bitch and Andrew the Proud, silent and aloof. They certainly deserved each other, and would no doubt spawn cold but perfectly formed children.
I struggled with my book for at least ten minutes. My eyes read the words, but my brain would not comprehend their meaning. I was distracted by my own discomfort, Lauren’s insouciance, and most of all the annoying scratch of Andrew’s sharp pen on linen paper. I focused yet again on my book.
“You like history?” Andrew’s question startled me, and I realized the scratching had stopped, and he was looking at me.
“It is my major.” I held up the book. “This is a story you’d like—it’s all about pride before the fall.”
He laughed off my playful dig.
“Have you read Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”
“Gibbon? Are you nuts? It’s, what, six volumes and, like, five thousand pages?”
“Seven volumes, at least originally.”
“Even worse.”
He paused as h
e thought about it, looking off as if back in time somewhere.
“In the second century after Christ the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilized of mankind.” Now he looked at me. “The frontiers of the monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valor, and the gentle but powerful influence of laws and manners had subdued the provinces.”
“You memorized it?”
“Just the very beginning. My dad read it to me—it was his favorite.”
He smiled shyly and I thought briefly that Andrew Gage was, well, nerdy and bookish and sentimental—in a good way.
“It’s catchy,” I said. “But this is gonna have to do for now.”
“I get it.”
He went back to his letter, and I went back to ignoring my book. Lauren eventually sighed and turned over. I imagined her as a grilled cheese sandwich, turning to brown the other side.
“No Wi-Fi out here?” I asked a few minutes later. He raised his eyes. I nodded at the pen and paper.
“I have no idea.”
“Technophobe then?” I asked, and he laughed, the first genuine laugh I’d ever heard from him.
“No, not at all.” He considered the pen poised in his hand, the paper in front of him. “But real letter writing, by hand, there’s something special about it. I love the feel of the paper, folding it, sealing it, finding a stamp, and actually putting it in the mailbox. I like to think of it on its way, and someone receiving it, opening the envelope. It’s visceral, so different from an email. It’s also becoming a lost art, and I’m determined not to lose it.”
“Who are you writing to?”
“My sister Georgie.”
For the second time that afternoon he caught me off guard, and I tried to wrap my head around Andrew Gage. He held my gaze, no doubt expecting some wry comment. In a rare occurrence none came and we continued to look at each other unblinking, as two fish might.
The Season Page 15
