Unexpected Arrivals(36)
When the giggles subsided, and the line quieted, the weight of her tone rested firmly on my heart. “Are you really going to be all right there, James? I hate that you’re going alone.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just my parents…and like a hundred of their closest friends.” I tried to keep the situation from turning deep. She didn’t need to worry about me, at least not this.
“Call me if you need me, promise?”
“Sure. But I’m a big boy, Cora. I can hold my own with my parents and the other socialites of Geneva Key.”
“I miss you.”
I longed for her to replace that middle word with one she’d used a thousand times. One day, I’d hear her tell me she loved me again. Until then, I clung to this as if the sentiment were the same. “I miss you, too, Cora.”
8
Chelsea
I hadn’t been in this town long enough to be familiar with it. Even though the island was small, there were times details escaped me. It was easier to have Dottie drop me off than to risk getting lost. When I stepped inside, the flurry of activity startled me. Before I could get caught up in the anxiety that lingered in unfamiliar places, Jared—the guy who hired me yesterday—stepped out of his office.
“Hey, Chelsea. You’re right on time. Everyone is loading up so go grab a seat in the van.”
I’d bartended back home while I was in college, and it was an easy gig to fall back on. The tips were good without an abundance of hours, and while this job wasn’t in a club, the owner of the catering company assured me their high-end clientele tipped well and made the obscure hours worth the effort. Yet money wasn’t really a driving force. It gave me something to do and people to interact with, and there weren’t many career choices available in Geneva Key.
I didn’t speak to anyone during the ride. Instead, I took note of how we all looked similar in our tuxedo shirts and black slacks. The others had met before, but no one made conversation with me, so I watched the beach pass until we pulled up to a palatial home that made my own feel like a shoebox. Once we entered through the back door and were assigned to stations, I realized the vast opulence in this place left me cold. Dottie’s house was nothing in comparison—it felt lived in, not preserved. Her little three-bedroom bungalow breathed life into anyone who walked through the door and quickly became a place I never wanted to leave.
The bar had been set up and stocked before I arrived, leaving me with nothing to do other than wait for a customer. Then before any of the guests arrived, the host paid me a visit. I plastered a smile on my face and willed my hands not to shake in her presence. She looked familiar, although wealth had a way of making things obscure. The woman looked like every other millionaire I’d seen here since I arrived.
She didn’t wait for me to greet her before she informed me of her expectations. “My guests will be arriving shortly, so let me get you familiar quickly. We only serve top shelf, you’re not to accept tips, and if anyone has the audacity to request a beer, it needs to be served in a chilled glass. Under no circumstances do I care to find empty bottles littering my home. Understood?”
A tremor shook my right hand, and I stuffed it in my pocket, hoping she hadn’t seen it. “Yes, ma’am.”
Jared made sure I knew that all hosts and their guests should be addressed with respect. The woman who’d never bothered to introduce herself gave me a quick nod and moved to the next employee, likely giving him a similar welcome. It shouldn’t have bothered me. I was being paid to do a job, though I didn’t think it would hurt if she smiled or even said hello.
I noticed with the arrival of the first party goer, the hostess had a different face—and likely personality—for those in her circle. Her plastic expression never dropped, and I watched her with interest until someone under the age of fifty came into view. He was attractive and definitely tall, but it wasn’t his good looks that held my interest. The way he carried himself told me he was no stranger to this type of gathering. He had a part to play, and he did it well; however, his eyes gave away his unhappiness.
The blue-eyed boy with mussed hair was clearly the adult son of the host I’d met earlier. And since no introductions had been made, I just sat back and watched his social torture unfold while I filled drinks for his parents’ privileged friends. That was until I lost track of him when a wave of thirsty old men created a line in front of me.
By the time he’d made another appearance, the night was nearly over. My legs had grown stiff, and I desperately needed to move. Without anyone to relieve my post, I distracted myself by eavesdropping on the conversation a few feet away.
When his father clapped his shoulder, I expected him to smile. Instead, he appeared bored and maybe even irritated.
Then his father spoke to the other man standing with them. “He’s making the old man proud, Doug.”
There was no recognition that crossed his son’s face.
“Following in his father’s footsteps in the Financial District in New York.” His father laid it on thick.
So he lived in New York. It didn’t surprise me. He had the air of a city dweller—Chicago had been full of them. Wealthy yuppies who had escaped their parents’ world only to start one of their own in another town thinking they were different than the privilege they’d grown up in. While he didn’t give off the arrogant vibe, there was no denying he wasn’t here on his own accord.