Until We Meet Again(11)

I’ve already heard from Charles. With a weary smile, I remind

myself to act surprised.

“See you later.”

I weave my way past the jubilant partygoers into my uncle’s

house. When Fay spots me approaching, her lips curl in an

irrepressible smile. I come up beside her. The fellow gives me a

dumb look.

“You got a problem, pal?” he asks. “I was talking with the lady.”

“You were trying. Here’s a hint for next time: her eyes are

up here.”

Fay laughs behind her hand. The rube bristles, but he can

read the writing on the wall.

“Ah, keep her,” he says. He fiercely smoothes his hair back

and sulks off. When he’s gone, Fay folds her arms.

“Well, I had to get your attention somehow.”

“Believe me, you have it.”

She smiles and straightens my tie, even though it’s perfect as

is. “Now,” she murmurs. “Where were we?”

“I believe you wanted to help me relax.”

“That’s right.” She turns and glides up the stairs with the grace

of a cat. I take a step after her, but something makes me pause.

The thought of the strange girl on the beach. Silly, perhaps. I

don’t even know her. But even that brief encounter reminded

me of everything I’ve let myself fall into this summer. The parties, the gang of friends, even Fay. They seem to be everything I want. And yet…why do I feel like I’m floundering and doing

nothing to stop it?

Fay pauses on the stairs, looking back at me. She tilts her

head just so, beckoning. Maybe it’s because I’m a weak man,

but I accept what Ned and Fay and my father place before me.

Self-loathing settles in my gut like a coiled snake. Thrusting

my hands into my pockets, I follow Fay into the whispering

shadows beyond the party.





Chapter 4





Cassandra


y the time I’ve dragged myself into the kitchen for

B



breakfast, the omelet Frank made me is cold. Mom’s

wiping the counters and calling for Eddie to pick up his racecar track. When she notices me, her eyes shadow with an

inscrutable look.

“I’m surprised you slept in so late. You went to bed pretty

early.”

I shrug and slump up to the bar. I stab a fork into the rocksolid omelet.

“Have one of these instead,” Mom says, sliding a raspberry

pastry across the granite bar. I accept the olive branch with a

smile. A half smile, really. It’s the best I can manage with the

mood I’m in this morning.

Frank glides in, the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm.

“Mornin’, Sassy Cassie. Have a good rest?”

I shrug, hoping my mouth full of pastry will excuse me from

having to make small talk.

Frank pours himself a glass of orange juice. “So, did you have

a nice time at the party last night?”

“Mmm,” I mumble noncommittally through my food. My

mind is pulled once again to my strange, ultimately frustrating

conversation with Lawrence.

“Keep getting to know the folks around here,” Frank says,

giving an optimistic wink. “Lots of really great people.”

“Mm-hmm.” I say again. I mentally calculate my fastest tactful

exit from this conversation.

“Some really important people too,” he goes on, thinking I’ll

be impressed. But his words do spark a question.

“That reminds me,” I say. “Someone at the party was talking to

me about Ned Foster. I’m guessing you know who he is.”

“Ned Foster,” Frank says, pondering the name. “Huh. Can’t

say that I do. But there is Foster family over near Weston. Old

stock. They’ve had relatives here since the eighteen hundreds, if

I’m not mistaken.”

Just as I thought. Crest Harbor royalty.

Mom points at Frank suddenly, her memory jolted. “Didn’t a

Foster build this house back in the nineteen twenties? I think I

remember the real estate agent telling me something about that.”

“Could be,” Frank says, sipping his orange juice. “You know I

don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff, Cuddle Bug.”

I’d normally roll my eyes at Frank’s nicknames, but my mind is

too busy turning over what Mom said.

“So, do the Fosters still own this land or something?” I ask.

“Are we renting from them?”

“Oh no,” Mom says. “No, the Fosters sold the property not

long after they’d bought it. Rather suddenly, I guess. Can’t

remember why.”

I stab my fork into the raspberry center of what’s left of my

pastry. What was Lawrence talking about then? Is he some kind

of expert on the old homes of Crest Harbor or something? I sure

hope not. That would make him both stuck-up and pretentious.