Reese filled the glasses. “Bet he leaves a killer tip. Buh-bum-bum.” Indigo and Pearl made identical sounds of disgust. “Jesus. Warn me before you go all highbrow, girls. Indy, what do you need?”
“I’m still waiting for my surprise.” Pearl hoped she sounded light and breezy.
Reese mixed cola and grenadine, garnished with a maraschino cherry. “Roy Rogers. Unless he’s ninety, he’s never heard of it.”
Pearl loaded her tray and left, straining to hear what was said in her wake. Indigo: “Pitcher of mimosas and a sex on the beach. Just make it,” before Reese could say anything. Possibly a good sign. Those two were notoriously on-again, off-again, though they’d never been officially on, and if they were off now, Pearl doubted she’d be notified.
She set the glasses down in front of the boys. The Spencer grandson bit into the cherry immediately. Tristan didn’t glance up at her; he had his phone out. “Have you decided?” she said. Tristan continued with the touch screen, letting the other boys order before him. Whatever he chose, she knew he wouldn’t eat it.
When she turned to go, Pearl paused to let the ma?tre d’ lead a party of two past her. The couple spoke in low tones, casting looks Tristan’s way. He seemed unaware, or maybe he was used to it by now, his new normal. Pariah.
Tristan had always garnered stares, but originally it was because he was a Garrison, a National Merit Scholar, already a first-string lacrosse star in his freshman year at Yale. Tall, strikingly dark-eyed, brown hair carefully maintained to a half inch above his collar. Now his hair was longer, ignored, his style off-the-rack, though he possessed more personal wealth than most of the members would ever know, which was no small statement. It seemed everyone felt fascination-meets-revulsion in Tristan Garrison’s presence, followed by but the police cleared him; they let him go, didn’t they? Somehow, it wasn’t a comfort. Not at all.
When Pearl brought the boys their entrées, the Spencer grandson said, “Well, damn. You’re amazing. How’d you remember all that?” as she set his plate in front of him, a Reuben on panini bread, spicy mustard and dill spears on the side.
“I can read without moving my lips, too. You’d be surprised.” She bit the inside of her cheek. She could almost hear Reese say, Your filter, Haskins. It’s broken.
Instead of looking embarrassed, Spencer grinned, lopsided and guileless. “If that’s an invitation to get to know you better, I’m up for it.”
She cleared her throat. “Would anyone like another drink?”
Akil snorted. “Burn.”
“She’s just doing her job.” Spencer’s ease was unshakable as he held up his glass. “This is great, by the way. What’s in it?”
“Roy Rogers.” She tucked the collapsible stand and tray under her arm. “Enjoy.”
She snuck a peek back. He’d turned all the way around in his chair to watch her go. Heat creeping into her cheeks, she did a little bobbing and weaving to lose herself in the crowd.
Chas was back behind the bar, hopefully none the wiser that the underage waitstaff had been at the helm, and Reese was at Mimi’s table, which at that moment exploded with hooting laughter. Hard to tell what was going on, exactly, but Reese had a cocktail umbrella tucked behind his ear, and everyone’s glasses were almost empty. Pearl studied Mimi, a small, plump woman in a purple linen short set, her gray hair curled under her chin. Mimi was one of the only club members who’d kept Dad on as a caretaker after what happened to the Garrisons; she’d simply called from Texas around the end of April to ask him to open the cottage for her and slap on a new coat of paint while he was at it. It was the first work Dad had gotten in almost a month, the first paycheck they’d seen other than Pearl’s in two weeks.
The boys ate quickly, economically, no time wasted in conversation. When Pearl returned, Tristan had angled himself toward the door, rubbing absently at his left arm. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she said.
“Yeah.” Spencer leaned forward. “Your number.” It had to be the oldest pickup line in the history of food service. Akil groaned, tugging his hat low.
Pearl withdrew the check from her apron pocket and set it on the table, patting it lightly. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”
Once they’d left, she went back to the table. Tristan’s plate was a psychological study: everything had been shifted to the right, picked at, barely touched. He’d signed for the whole bill. The tip was calculated at 15 percent to the penny.
In the corner of the slip, a phone number was written, along with the name Bridges Spencer. Beneath it, he’d drawn a smiley face with devil horns.
Three
AT THE END of her shift, Pearl stepped through the patio doors into evening heat and held her breath, listening. In the distance, a motor hummed. One of the zero-turn mowers, somewhere near the golf course’s ninth hole. Dad.
As always, the club seemed to observe her as she crossed the western lawn toward the golf course. Measuring her, taking stock. It was Pearl’s habit to keep her tie knotted until she was over the cobblestone bridge spanning the pond, well out of range of the many gleaming windows.
The club was an imposing three-story block of New England architecture, all white clapboards and Victorian-style gingerbread trim. It was due to turn one hundred years old in July, celebrated by a monthlong series of gala events that had the members buzzing. It was a determined sort of buzz, white noise to cover the steady pulse of unease. Six months had passed since tragedy had soiled their summer playground; not nearly time enough for the dead to rest easy. Better to bury the Garrisons in talk of formal balls and silent auctions, of ladies’ teas and regattas on the bay.
Usually, you had to be ready to duck and cover on the links, but at this time of day most of the golfers had headed home or to the bar. The groundskeepers’ main building was off to the left, silver-shingled and gambrel-roofed. The guys were locking up for the night, but Dad wasn’t among them.
Dickie Fournier saw her coming, hooked his thumb toward where the links curved off into invisibility. “He’s way the hell out there. Take a Gator.”
“Thanks.” Grabbing a set of keys, she tossed her bag into the passenger seat of one of the utility vehicles and put the pedal down, loving the shock of breeze through her hair.
Around the bend, the links opened into a panoramic view of Frenchman Bay and Little Nicatou Island, which sat a mile offshore from their corner of Mount Desert Island. Living on an island sounded romantic, but MDI was the second largest on the Eastern Seaboard, and easily accessible by bridge—no storm-tossed ferry rides required. It was starkly beautiful here; academically, Pearl knew this, but she’d also lived the other side, post–Labor Day: shutters on most of the shop windows, the single stoplight blinking yellow, the whole world buried under feet of suffocating snow.
Most of the course had been freshly mowed lengthwise, green to the tee and back again, but here, the lines ended. She spotted the zero-turn abandoned near a sand trap, Dad nowhere in sight. She hit the horn lightly and parked. “You here?”
No answer. Pearl climbed out and walked the ragged edge of the bluff, running her hand along the wire fence. She finally spotted him, out there on the embankment, standing on the ledge, facing seaward.
She gripped the fence posts, afraid to speak and startle him. After a moment, he sensed her and turned, a man torn from a dream. “Hey, Pearlie.” He sounded fine, same old Dad, but the late haunted nights had seamed his face, already full of sharp angles, like her own. He was responsible for all of it: her small build, the slight wave in her hair, her habit of biting her lips whenever she was nervous or upset.