Chapter Eighteen
So we’re ready for the sale?”
I walked in with the pizzas to find my aunts at the table, a phone on speaker between them.
“Yep,” Kasey said. “I just checked in with Angela. She said they were good to go.”
I’d just seen Angela, in fact, as well as her partner, Janine, when Ben and I passed by the Egg. They’d been leaving the vacant space next door, where the sale was happening.
“And I’ve got the updated contract paperwork,” the phone said. It was only then I realized it was my mom’s voice. Which was not surprising, considering that her talking business was one of our few constants. “I’ll be there by dark.”
Just then, Liz caught sight of me. “Oh, Cat, here’s Finley. Let me give you to her.”
With that, she picked up the phone, holding it out. I took it.
“Hi. Did your appointments go okay?”
“Just fine. I’m on my way back now.” She sounded assured and confident, but then she always had whenever she called me, which was about every month or so, usually on a Saturday morning.
Like the well-organized trips, it always felt like she was checking an item off a list more than really wanting to catch up.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her now, as much as wonder what might be behind her words, unseen. “How are you?”
“Good,” I replied. “I worked at the Egg this morning.”
A beat. It wasn’t like I expected more in terms of checking in about this, so I wasn’t sure why the silence was any surprise. “Well, I guess it’s good to keep busy. And there’s not that much to do at the Woods. At least in my experience.”
Hearing this, I stepped down the hallway a bit, lowering my voice. “Speaking of which, I met someone who knew you. In high school.”
I realized what had come before was merely a pause: This time, she got truly quiet. Finally, she said, “Oh?”
“Kate. Liz said she was your principal.”
“Kate?” she repeated. “I don’t know a… oh my God. Was it Mrs. Bigby?”
“Maybe?” I stepped into my room, shutting the door. “Liz said she knew you from detention.”
“Of course.” She groaned. “I can only imagine what she had to say, after all these years.”
“That I look just like you when you were in high school.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well. That’s actually kind of true.”
“Also,” I added, “that my grandfather was an angry man with a lot of failings.”
Another silence. But I could hear her breathing. “Also true,” she said finally.
Just then, the bedroom door swung open and Lana came in.
With a grunt, she hoisted a very large barrel of Cheese Puffs, bright orange, onto my bed.
“I feel so sick,” she told me, flopping down beside it.
Her fingers were also orange. “That’s the problem with these bulk containers.
Even what seems like a little bit totally isn’t. You want some?”
Despite the hard sell, I declined with a shake of my head.
“Finley, I’ve got some calls to make,” my mom said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay,” I said. When she hung up, Liz’s screen reverted to a shot of her with a man I assumed was Travis, posing by a Christmas tree.
“FYI, we’re going out tonight,” Lana announced. “You’re single. Time to mingle.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Pavilion.” She eyed my suitcase, open against the wall opposite. “You have anything cute? Put it on.”
From the name, I’d expected something grand. Instead, when we pulled into a gravel lot ringed with chains facing the lake, all I saw was… ruins?
“Your face!” Lana chuckled. “The Pavilion never fails to disappoint.”
“What is this place?”
“The area’s premiere outdoor venue,” Clark, who was driving, said. “Or it was. Until a hurricane basically destroyed it.”
I took another look. Leading from the lot was a wide concrete walk with weeds and brush poking up here and there.
At the other end was a raised platform with a partial roof, the back side of which was half sunk in the sand.
Facing it was what I thought at first was scattered lumber, or maybe driftwood.
It was only as we got closer still that I saw it was—or had been, at least—a few rows of curved seating for an audience.
Now it was broken into pieces, more sand covering them.
People were scattered throughout, some standing, others perched on whatever was protruding.
“You guys hang out here?” I asked.
“Not a lot of viable alternatives,” Ben replied.
We were in the back of Clark’s car, an older Audi. Clearly his pride and joy, it was immaculate and smelled of cleaning products. When he picked us up, he’d made a point of telling us to keep our feet on the floormats and grubby fingers off the windows.
“There are two other places to go here,” Lana said now, dabbing some lip gloss on with one finger. We were still bumping across the lot, braking more than moving as people darted in front of us. “But only this one is considered neutral.”
I was confused. As we again came to a stop, Clark turned to face me.
“Us locals hang out most of the year at the pond across from Blackwood Station. At the Tides, there’s Campus, the employee quarters.
The staff has parties there. But either one gets dull pretty fast. If you want to meet anyone new, this is your only real option. ”
“Mostly because this is where the tourists come, who are neither local or staff,” Lana added. “They’re never around for long, though. A week. Two, max.”
“Marguerite,” the boys said in unison, unprompted.
“Who?” I asked.
“Au pair from this time last summer.” Lana turned to glance out the window as another group pushed past the car, their voices rising and falling in conversation. “She was French and chain-smoked whenever she wasn’t on the clock. Très exotique. When she left, I was devastated.”
“For about a day,” Clark added.
I looked at Lana. “Then what happened?”
“I came back to the Pavilion and found someone else.” She pushed open her door, turning to swing out her feet. “Come on.”
I was used to walking up to parties with Colin, who had an easy charisma that immediately made him welcome no matter what.
Here, though, I felt like the stranger I was as I followed Clark and Lana through the clumps of people—mostly in their late teens or early twenties, a bigger mix of ethnicities than I’d seen so far at the lake.
As we got closer to the platform, I saw a keg was wedged under one side, barely covered by some crisscrossed planks. A tower of red cups was stuck in the sand adjacent, a few empties scattered around it.
“Beer?” Clark asked me, adding a crumpled bill to a bucket with a sign that said PAY UP. He filled one cup, then another, which he held out to me. “Just keep it low. The cops come around once in a while.”
I shook my head. “Not right now.”
Lana took it instead before using her free hand to pour a second. Once double served, she took a quick scan of the seating nearby. “Usual suspects tonight.” She nodded at a heavyset guy in a collared shirt just off the walkway. “Scott Crawley.”
“Went to high school with us.” Clark told me, then took a sip of his foamy cup. “He’s here purely for the tourists, who he can count on not to know about his absolute lack of game.”
“It’s true. If he finds out you have any kind of local connection, he’s out.
Too lazy to try to prove himself any different.
” She indicated a gaggle of girls on the other side of the seating, several of whom wore bright athleisure skirts, all colors, and baggy tees.
“Those are also Bly High grads. But they ignore everyone except yacht club guys.”
“Those you can spot by their sunglasses,” Clark added. “Which they always have on their person, even at night.”
Indeed, I saw quite a few golf shirts and, yes, sunglasses, in a huddle nearby.
“Where’s the yacht club?” I asked.
Lana gestured for me to follow her as she wound through the demolished seating to a partial bench choked by some scrub brush.
She dusted it off with her free hand before sitting.
“Over by the Tides. High-end stuff is always getting built in that area. The Ebb, private condos, is the newest addition.”
“Next is the Woods,” Clark added.
“What are they putting there?” I asked.
“It’ll be awful no matter what it is.” Lana sighed, taking a big gulp of one of the beers. “That’s guaranteed.”
Just then I heard music start up. A beat later I realized it was one of my favorites by the Powell Brothers, a band that was actually from Lakeview.
I turned to see a trio was now on the platform.
There was a girl playing the banjo. The guy beside her, who had olive skin and shoulder-length hair, was in a leather-fringed vest I could only hope was being worn ironically.
And finally, on the guitar, was Ben. My Ben. (What?)
Our Ben. Funny, as one thing I liked about him was that he wasn’t like Colin, always drawing focus. Now I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
It wasn’t just that he was a great guitar player, clearly more skilled than the other two.
(While the girl with the banjo was good, Fringe Vest seemed better at posturing than actually singing.) Ben, however, possessed a quiet confidence, like he knew there was no reason to showboat.
When someone has real talent, it’s unmistakable.
I’d had a feeling him playing just for me on the porch the night before was special. Now I was sure.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” Lana said now, into my ear. “Look. He has groupies.”
Sure enough, the front row of the growing crowd at the base of the platform skewed female.
Some were bobbing their heads, while others held up phones.
I thought of this moment being captured, posted, shared, liked, and commented on.
Like it was happening in two ways, real and virtual, at the same time.
“Lana!” Cardoon, still in uniform, had joined us, a red cup in one hand. “Today was something, huh? You break your record?”
“Close.” She took a sip of her beer. “Another six-top and I would have.”