The Lies They Tell(54)
Dinner shift. Indigo was in Pearl’s way. She placed slices of the same cheesecake the Davidsons had just ordered from Pearl onto plates, not seeming to notice Pearl’s presence until she’d finished. Indigo gave her half a glance and stepped away from the fridge.
Pearl moved in, pulled the plastic wrap from the next cheesecake dish, wondering if she should say something. As if they were friends now because Indigo had made a two-minute phone call to her grandmother. Anything she’d done had been for Reese, who was now out there working the room while Pearl was in the kitchen, angsting about decorum. “Thanks,” she finally blurted, keeping her gaze firmly on the pieces she was slicing, “for yesterday. With your grandmother and everything.”
She could feel Indigo standing close, watching as Pearl parceled out servings. No mystery where the girl had learned that unreadable quality, the tough shell that deflected countless pickup lines and come-ons from middle-aged men in golfing getups throughout the course of the day. Like it or not, there was no going back to thinking of Indigo as bursting into spontaneous existence just to thwart her; thanks to Marilyn, Pearl knew better. “Reese said you’re going after those guys,” Indigo said.
It was the first time she’d heard it phrased that way. She stopped, still holding the pie server. “Yeah, I am.”
Indigo picked up her tray, balanced it, and said, “Good,” before heading back out the swinging kitchen doors, prep cooks and dishwashers nearly knocking heads as they turned to watch her leave.
At closing, Pearl went out to look at the little club again. Someone had added a display of photographs from the ball, and there was a filigreed sign on a stand advertising the upcoming charity golf tournament, the last hurrah of the centennial celebration before July faded into August.
Knowing Meriwether, she was keeping a keen eye on the club’s latest prize, so Pearl leaned close but didn’t touch, examining each room. The amount of money and time required to make such a thing, haunted or not, was boggling. The attic even had stacks of little cardboard storage boxes, large enough to hold maybe a cotton ball, and furniture odds and ends. All the drapes in the house looked handmade, and Pearl tried to imagine Cassidy’s fingers making the tiny stitches, sinking the needle, tugging thread through cloth. Controlling a small world because her own had become uncontrollable. But why the club? Why not her own house, or something generic, where she could decide for herself how things should look?
Pearl’s phone vibrated in her pocket, and she pulled it out without taking her eyes from the house, assuming it was Reese back in the dining room, sending her some ridiculous emoji. Instead, it was a text from a number she didn’t recognize, caller unknown.
Do you run?
It took her a second to catch the meaning, to understand who she was talking to. Only when chased.
That can be arranged.
Biting the inside of her cheek, she hurried back through the deserted dining room, chairs upturned on tables, floor damp from mopping. Bridges must be handing out my number. Nice.
A pause. Ocean Ave in an hour. If you can keep up.
Pearl looked around the kitchen, but Reese wasn’t among the last of the kitchen help stripping off aprons or punching their time cards. She made it outside in time to see the passenger door of the Skylark closing, and the red flash of brake lights as Indigo headed off down the drive.
It was nine thirty when Pearl got home. Dad wasn’t there, although this time he’d left a lamp on for her and a tinfoil-covered dinner plate in the fridge. After their talk this morning, she’d seen him off to work, shaky but fueled up on triple-strength coffee and what little breakfast she’d been able to push on him. There’d been no further discussion of laying off the drinking or steering clear of the Tavern; they were beyond that now. She was scared for him, and he didn’t know how to stop. At least they knew where they stood.
Her body was restless, and she picked at her food, glancing over at her phone. Who knew what was really waiting for her on Ocean—another hazing, another test to see how far she’d go? She’d be crazy to show up. But he’d challenged her. And she had to know what he had planned.
She dressed in mesh shorts and a white T-shirt, hoping for some visibility in the headlights, then drove to Ocean. It was nearly ten o’clock, and the streets had quieted considerably. She was so busy looking for his car that she hardly registered the shape that ran by, dressed in dark clothing, unconcerned with being seen. Pearl parked and got out, watching as Tristan slowed and turned, jogging back to where she stood. “You ran here?” she said.
“It’s not that far.” He took a few backward steps. “Are you coming?”
“I don’t know. Is this when Akil and Bridges throw a bag over my head and push me into traffic or something?”
“They’re not here. I don’t run with them.”
“But you’ll run with me. Why should I go anywhere with you? You put Hadley and me through hell Friday night.”
“But you’re here now. You came. Why not run?”
He was leaving now, and she followed, slowly at first, then picking up speed when she saw that he’d be gone in a minute if she didn’t. Pearl rarely exercised on purpose, and her body was unaccustomed to the staccato pounding of her sneakers on pavement, the shock each step sent through her frame.
Tristan could’ve left her behind easily, but instead, he slowed his stride enough so that she could stay with him, while still having to push herself harder than she had in a long time. They crossed the street to Forest Drive and continued uphill, breathing together, running through pools of orange arc sodium streetlight glow.