The Lies They Tell(17)
Once the cart was parked, the three of them broke in opposite directions, Pearl ending up in the far corner of the tent by the member lot. A flash of St. James Red caught her eye, and she watched the Bentley Continental GT pull in and claim one of the last open spots. Tristan got out, slung a sports bag over his shoulder, and went into the fitness center entrance.
The sight of him stayed with her as she served paper-thin slices of cake and poured coffee from silver pots, moving on autopilot until a woman said, “Hello, Pearl.”
Beth Zimmitti, resident of Millionaires’ Row. Her slightly protuberant eyes were wide, and she fiddled with her bracelets as she looked at Pearl.
“Hi.” Pearl’s voice was faint.
“I hadn’t seen you yet. Around the club, I mean. So I wondered . . .”
What? If the Haskins had been exiled to Siberia? Much less awkward for the Zimmittis, no doubt, who, after seven years employing Dad as their caretaker, had fired him in a one-paragraph letter, simply stating that his services would no longer be required at 112 Cove Road, though they wished him much luck in his future endeavors. And Beth was one of the few who’d always gone out of her way to ask after Pearl, to send a Christmas card with a little bonus in it each year. Pearl heard the click in her throat as she swallowed. “Would you like more coffee?”
“Oh—please.” Another pause; then, in a lower tone, “How is Win doing?”
Pearl thought Beth might actually reach out and squeeze her hand, at which point she’d be forced to dump the coffee into her lap. “Fine.” What was she supposed to say? You know, he really had the drinking in hand until you people got through with him. Thanks for that.
Beth nodded in the increasingly painful silence; the cup seemed bottomless, like some nightclub magic trick.
“Young lady?” The Texas accent was unmistakable. Mimi Montgomery-Hines hallooed from five tables away, flapping her napkin in Pearl’s direction. “SOS, honey.”
Pearl felt her body unlock, and she left Beth Zimmitti with a brief “Thank you.” Even that tasted bitter.
“Oh, hell’s bells, I’m a mess, aren’t I?” Mimi, smelling powerfully of Chanel Misia, dabbed at a spill on the tablecloth. Mineral water, by the look. “You’d think a lady my age would be able to drink from a glass, but you’d be wrong.”
“Told you we should’ve kept her away from the bar,” one of her friends said.
“Hush.” Mimi gave Pearl a nudge in the ribs as she helped Pearl dry the spot. “How they treatin’ you around here, dumpling?”
Pearl flushed slightly. “Not bad.”
“Not so good, either, I bet. Any time you need somebody to throw their weight around for you, let me know. Weight I got, and plenty of it.” She dropped Pearl a wink. “Tell your daddy I said hello. My roses are gonna be prizewinners again this year, I just know it, and it’s thanks to him.”
Emotion sealed Pearl’s throat; she smiled, nodded, and took her leave.
Not long after, the guests migrated to the ballroom for music and dancing. Servers started tearing things down: linens were balled and carted to laundry, furniture was carried inside, the PA system was dismantled.
After Pearl dropped the last stray table number into the trash, she slipped through the dining room into the lobby. If the rumors were true about how Tristan worked out, he might still be in the fitness center. She passed the front desk, the stone fireplace, the overstuffed chairs. Photos taken at the club over the decades hung in the corridor: men in antiquated golfing garb, couples in costume dress. There was a recent group shot from a fund-raiser; Sloane Garrison smiled down from the upper-left corner, blond and sleek in a white linen shift and wide-brimmed hat.
The fitness center was in the renovated ell, decked out with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and TVs flashing muted CNN.
Tristan was using the treadmill in the far-right corner, facing the mirrors. The center, otherwise deserted on a Saturday evening, was consumed by the pounding of his steps.
He had an erect running stance, but at just shy of the two-and-a-half-hour mark, he was losing form, a dark V streaming down the back of his T-shirt to the band of his shorts. His breath sobbed out of him.
Pearl edged to the doorway, watching until he finally fell, landing heavily on one knee. The safety key clipped to his shirt popped free of the machine, cutting the power. He knelt there, gasping, head hanging down. Finally, like an act of prayer, he touched his brow to the track and sat back, tossing his drenched hair out of his face.
She let Tristan find her there, deep down in the mirror. Their reflections watched each other. It wasn’t clear if he recognized her at first—puke or pass out was still in question—but then his gaze sharpened. With effort, he gripped the railing and pulled himself up, turning to face her. His legs were trembling.
Pearl went to him. No thought, all instinct. She held out her hand.
The tableau held for a moment, Tristan looking down at her hand as if it were something foreign and unreliable, as if he’d never seen the gesture before.
“Do you need help?” It was the wrong question; his expression was remote, unyielding. She tried again: “Where do you want to go?”
He hesitated, looked like he might throw up. “The locker room.”
She held his arm as he stepped down from the treadmill. They crossed the room together. Once they entered the men’s locker room, their balance was dependent on each other.