The Lies They Tell(16)
“Sweet Jesus. I think I just got frostbite.”
“Try wearing a shirt.” They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Pearl let a hint of a smile show. Bridges did the same. She stood. “Come on. I have to be at work by one.”
They towed the smaller boat behind the Talon, leaving Bridges no choice but to take it slow. Pearl looked back once. The boathouse gazed inscrutably back, standing sentinel over the same view of the harbor it had watched for more than ninety years.
Six
ONE HUNDRED AND fifty white wooden folding chairs stood empty on the eastern lawn, formed into two groups with an aisle down the middle leading to a rose arbor. The wind had carried red, pink, and yellow petals everywhere, some clinging to the plastic windows of the reception tents like thumbprints.
Wedding pace was about five notches faster than dining room pace, and Pearl had almost collided with another server twice already. There was a schedule to keep, speeches to be made, hokey traditions to be carried out, and nobody wanted to be the server who photobombed the wedding party because they couldn’t keep up.
At this point, guests were winding down on entrées and speculating about the cake. Pearl cleared her own tables—busboys were catch-as-catch-can in the tents—and hefted her tray through the open patio doors, almost slamming into Indigo coming out of the kitchen.
Indigo stopped short, blew a stray curl out of her eye, and threaded around her, saying nothing. Fine by Pearl. She dumped her dirty dishes and returned to the dining room, which had the gilded Closed for Special Event sign propped in the lobby entrance.
Somebody said, “Pssst.” She looked around, saw no one, kept going.
“For chrissake, I said pssst.” As she approached the bar, abandoned by Chas for a table under one of the tents, the top of Reese’s head appeared, then sank again.
She tucked herself in beside him, glancing back to make sure no one could see them from where they sat. “They’re going to cut the cake in a minute.”
“Cool. Save me a piece.” He flicked her cowlick. “Where were you last night? You didn’t pick up.” He propped the toes of his vintage wingtips against the back bar. “I called, like, once.”
“With a guy.” A little surprised at herself, she didn’t look away from the mirrored shelves of liquor bottles.
“Oh. Your dad again. Hey, you ever need help with that, you call me, okay? Doesn’t matter how late.”
She shut her eyes. Right. Not only was he throwing her an undeserved pity party, but he apparently couldn’t conceive of Pearl Haskins having Friday night plans with any man who wasn’t her father. “You’ll jump right on your white horse, huh.”
“You know it. I got a cape and some tights, too.”
She smiled. “Come on. Our tables probably think we died.”
“They wish. Salud.” As she watched, Reese reached down, picked up a shot glass, and tossed back the contents, wincing.
“Do you want to get fired?”
“Ooh, now there’s a question for the Magic Eight Ball.” Reese stood, rinsed the glass, then paused, fixing her with a look, one eyebrow raised. “Pearl, relax. Nobody’s going to get close enough to smell it.”
“I can.”
“That’s because you’ve got a nose for it.” She didn’t flinch; she didn’t have to. He was quiet a second. “Sorry. That was shitty.” He popped a couple of olives into his mouth as he passed her, gesturing to the room at large. “There. Virtually undetectable.”
She followed on his heels into the afternoon sunlight, where Indigo was being death-marched back inside by Meriwether.
The assistant manager was a small woman in her early thirties, her lips thin and colorless, her fine hair twisted into a chignon. As always, her look was one of grim focus, her hushed tone that of someone who’d spent her entire life operating behind the scenes. “You and you. Come.” Her gaze flicked between Pearl and Reese, lingering on him, perhaps detecting the junipery smell of whiskey as Reese looked blandly back at her and did what he was told.
Meriwether steered them into the kitchen, where the wedding cake sat on a lace-draped cart, five massive tiers covered in ivory fondant, piping, and sugar flowers. “I need you to take it straight through to the doors to the center of the main tent.” She crossed her arms. “Do not jiggle the cart. Do not fraternize. This is a major photo op. Nobody wants to see your mouths moving.”
Somehow, it made perfect sense that Pearl ended up steering, gripping the edges of the cart while Indigo and Reese walked point. With painstaking care, they rolled the cart out of the kitchen and through the dining room, Meriwether following. They hit the slope of the lawn, and their trio closed in, close enough to share breath.
“Slow down.” Indigo’s lips barely moved.
“I am.” Pearl.
“People.” Meriwether.
One of the cart’s wheels snagged on a rut—Pearl thought divots and had to bite the inside of her cheek—and the cake trembled. Indigo swore. “It’s slipping.”
“If Pearl says she’s got it, she’s got it.” Reese’s voice was flat. “Relax.”
Indigo glanced at him, a sharp, private look, then away. A warm feeling—was it schadenfreude?—spread through Pearl as the shadow of the tent fell over them, oohs and aahs and camera flashes erupting from the crowd.