The Lies They Tell(47)
“What happens when this guy expects you to follow through on what you’ve been promising? You think a Spencer who nails two, three girls a summer is going to be happy to hold hands until August?”
“Tristan says Bridges sees something in me.”
“And that’s all you need to hear.”
“Nothing’s going to happen that I don’t want to, okay?” She’d never seen Reese serious for so long, and she stood, pacing over to the boxes, pushing the shade aside to peer out at the day, where the rain had nearly stopped. “I’m not worried about Bridges. It’s like . . . I’ve got all these pieces, and I just need to figure out how they fit. David was a bully, a control freak, maybe worse. And Sloane was cheating on him, had been for a long time. Everything else is locked up inside Tristan’s head. If I can find a way to get in there, maybe . . .”
When he didn’t say anything, she turned back. He was starting to eat her croissant, looking thoughtful. “You know who you should talk to? Marilyn Whitley. She cleans for a bunch of the families on the Row. I’m pretty sure she worked for the Garrisons.”
“I’ve met a Marilyn.” Pearl remembered the woman from when she used to ride with Dad to check on his houses: small, bird-boned, carrying bags of trash or washing windows with newspaper and ammonia water. “My dad’s friends with her. Or they used to say hi and stuff, anyway. Do you think she’d talk to me?”
“I don’t know. I only met her once. She lives over in Winter Harbor.” Reese spoke around a bite: “She’s Indigo’s grandmother.”
Sixteen
WHEN PEARL GOT home, Dad was on the Beetle Cat, checking out the rigging and generally puttering around. She raised her hand to him as she started toward the house.
She was kicking off her flop-flops when she heard an engine. She looked out the screen door to see a silver Jaguar pull into the driveway. As she stared, Bridges got out, glancing over at Dad.
She was through the door and down the steps in an instant. “What’re you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to you. Your phone was off—”
“Did you follow me?” When he hesitated, her voice sharpened. “How did you find out where I live?”
Bridges put up his hands. “I asked around the club. Sorry. Was it supposed to be a secret?”
Dad was on his way over. Pearl’s entire body felt charged, intensely aware of how their one-story house must look, with scum from the elements clinging to the vinyl siding because Dad hadn’t pressure sprayed in a couple of years, the patches of dead grass in the yard, the rusty Fisher plow blade beside the shed.
“Everything okay?” Dad stopped at the edge of the driveway, his worn-out sneakers inches away from Bridges’s OluKai sandals.
“It’s fine.” Pearl couldn’t look at him.
“Hi.” Bridges put his hand out to shake with Dad. Pearl waited for some flash of recognition in his face, some sign of hey, aren’t you—?, but of course there was none. To him, Dad was just another faceless servant, trimming hedges and mulching gardens at the club. “Bridges Spencer. I’m a friend of Pearl’s. Good to meet you, sir.”
Dad shook with him. “Win.” His wariness was obvious, maybe waiting for this to somehow relate back to the club, to be told more trouble was coming down on the Haskins family, courtesy of the summer elite.
“He just stopped by,” she said lamely. Why hadn’t she stayed at Reese’s house longer? Bridges probably would’ve dropped this whole thing when he saw that her car wasn’t parked in the driveway.
“Okay. Well. Don’t let me hold you up.” With another quick scan of Bridges’s face, Dad made his way back toward the Cat, watching them go up the steps as he squatted down with his tools.
It had been a long time since a new person came into their house. Everywhere Pearl looked, humiliating things jumped into the foreground: dirty dishes in the sink, windows desperate for washing, faded hand towels, the general clutter on every surface. She went to the kitchen table immediately, stacking mail, sweeping crumbs into her palm, not looking at Bridges.
“Uh . . . sorry if this wasn’t”—he stood in the entryway, watching her—“look, don’t feel like you have to—”
“I don’t.” She shook the rattan place mats over the sink and straightened them in front of each chair with brisk movements. “So. What couldn’t wait until I checked my voice mail?”
“I wanted to say that what happened last night wasn’t okay. I know that. We never should’ve brought you guys out there.”
“You knew he was going to do that to us.”
“I hoped he wouldn’t. I figured we might check the place out and leave. I didn’t think, with Hadley there . . .” He saw Pearl reach for the broom, came over and touched her shoulder. “Stop. Okay? It doesn’t matter.”
Pearl barely resisted the impulse to shove his hand away, a reaction that surprised even her. She took a breath and faced him. “When Tristan turned off his flashlight, you didn’t hesitate. You say you’re sorry, but what about then? Why didn’t you do something?”
“That’s not how it works with Tristan.”
“You mean that’s not how it works with you when you’re with Tristan. You and Akil act like he’s God or something. It’s crazy. I mean, is that really what you guys do at night, cruise around finding new ways for him to torture you?” Bridges glanced away. “He tried the cave thing with you first, right? That’s what he meant when he said, ‘You managed to figure it out,’ about following the sound of water to the chamber pool.”