Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
KELSEY
He raises his left eyebrow ever so slightly as he watches the title number. I watch him watch, feeling so sad about his mother. Just gone one day. And then he gets sent to a military school?
“What is the plot of the show?”
I can’t believe he’s asking me questions about my show. “Reno is this nightclub singer on an ocean liner. There’s a stowaway chasing a girl who’s engaged to a stuffy lord who’s completely wrong for her. Cue the mistaken identities, wild dance numbers, eventually a happily ever after.”
We’re all in white and the whole stage just ignites.
He seems to be concentrating hard. At one point, a muscle flexes in his jaw.
“This number is my favorite.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, holding the iPad, following the action. A little thrill moves through me because I think he might actually be enjoying it. This revival is so bright and campy. When you’re up there you never get to see the audience’s faces.
I shouldn’t care whether he likes it, but I love that maybe he does.
“Look look look!” I say, maybe too excitedly. We hit the big tap break—sixteen of us in perfect unison, arms thrown wide. “Right?”
“The whole show is this kind of thing?”
“You’ve literally never seen a musical? Not even on TV?”
“No.”
“Musicals are the best. Every song has its own mood, and sometimes a side character gets this number you never saw coming and you find out what was in their heart. And when everybody’s going at once...” I press a hand to my chest. “A feast.”
I should stop talking. Talking about Broadway and dancing and all of that is one of the places where I’m liable to veer into “a lot” territory.
Watch out. Kelsey is a lot. Kelsey is “extra.” And this poor guy doesn’t even want to be here. He’s basically a hostage.
But I can’t help myself. “Okay, look at this one. You cannot imagine what it took to pull this off.”
I fast-forward to the lift sequence in “Blow, Gabriel, Blow.” The part where the lead gets taken up by four of us. We are a delight in feathers.
I hold my breath, watching him watch it.
His brother said Bruno doesn’t like anything fun or lively. Is he just being nice?
Back during the early run of the show, I used to have this elaborate dream that my sister and my parents would turn up one night and they’d surprise me afterward, falling all over themselves to tell me how much they loved it.
I even had a place picked out to take them to dinner afterwards—this fun taco bar that my gal pals and I love, and they’d marvel at the creative combinations. You don’t get these tacos in Vermont!
And from the way they’d describe the show, it would be obvious they’d been watching me the whole time, even when the action was somewhere else.
And they’d just eat up my behind-the-scenes anecdotes, and my friend Mia, a.k.a.
Reno herself, would stop by the table with some of my friends, and my family would get to see that I have built this amazing community not to mention a solid career in one of the most brutal industries there is.
They’d see how wrong they were about me and regret their horrible view of me.
And we’d talk the way we used to, about our actual lives.
Well, the restaurant is still there. I’ve never taken anyone from my family.
“What do you think?” The instant the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I hate how needy I sound.
“It’s entirely you,” he says.
I grin.
Wait...
“Is that a good thing?”
He blinks, seeming to come back to himself. Like he was in a trance or something. “One thing’s for sure, it’s proof that you should be able to pull off our charade this weekend.”
That’s what he got out of it? That’s what he has to say?
Fine. He doesn’t like anything lively. Got it.
I take the iPad from him. “I’ll pull off the charade like a boss. You have no idea. I’ll even tap-dance if you’re good.”
A croquet brunch is the kind of thing I was made for—a little bit sporty, a little bit festive. White wickets gleam in the late morning sun; the mallets are lined up like rifles.
I keep pace with Bruno, who’s wearing a cream linen suit and white shirt, like he just stepped off the set of Downton Abbey. And his gray eyes are sparkly in the sun, making his resting scrutiny face softer and cuter somehow. I really do hate how handsome he is.
We pass a pole with white streamers flapping lazily in the wind. There are buckets of white calla lilies at the base of it.
“Tell me this is the only event today,” he says.
“There’s a boat ride at one. Tyler loves boats. We’re probably expected to go. Unfortunately, Danielle won’t even be there, and she’s the one I came for.”
“So don’t go.”
“People will notice. We can’t be bad citizens.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are other people to consider in life?”
Bruno sighs.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is the consideration of other people so tedious?”
He raises his left brow, so above it all.
I say, “Noted. I’ll cross ‘other people’ off my list of things to care about right after we finish this game. And I’ll scratch out their faces in any photos I see.”
His lip quirks. “There’s no need to go that far. A magic marker will do.”
Bruno joking now? I like it more than I should.
“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” I whisper.
Danielle and her bridesmaids have clearly coordinated; there’s a whole vintage nautical thing happening, all cream and navy and wide-brimmed hats.
Outfits that ruffle fetchingly in the breeze.
In fact, everyone seems to have gotten a memo I didn’t receive, including Bruno, with his English countryside getup.
And then there’s me in my tennis skirt and polo shirt, which I thought was “sporty chic” but now realize reads more as “country club employee who wandered onto the wrong lawn.” I’m probably undoing all the fashion cred I earned during my star turn as Mrs. Roboto.
Never mind. It’s no secret I’m the black sheep of the family. This is a celebration, not a fashion show; the point is to have fun and bond.
My cousin Dennis hands Bruno a mallet. “Good luck today.”
Bruno nods and moves on. Dennis hands me my mallet.
“Thank you, sir!” I take the mallet. “I’ll guard it with my life.”
“No need, but there is a hundred-dollar deposit on each one.”
“You mean I can’t abscond with it?”
He goes very still for a moment.
“Kidding,” I say.
He drifts away. I watch him go, mallet in hand.
Ugh, why did I make that joke? My heart starts pounding like mad for no reason at all.
I go to stand next to Bruno, who seems to be testing the weight of the mallet. He examines the head; actually sights down the handle like he’s checking for warping. He’s so nerdily precise with things.
“It’s croquet,” I whisper. “Not brain surgery.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” he says.
He’s like a big, grumpy English countryside bear who’d rather be hibernating, but if he has to do this, he’ll be all precise. He definitely found the right job, choosing watchmaking like he did.
“So I’m guessing you know how to play this game?” I ask.
“I grew up in Newport. So, yes, I’ve played croquet,” he says.
“You grew up in Newport?”
“You really didn’t read the article at all, did you?”
“Well, grumpy billionaire watchmaking hermit on a yacht seemed like a pretty comprehensive snapshot.”
He grumbles. Was he always like this? Was he scared being sent off to military school at such a young age?
Were his little brothers sent along with him?
If Bruno was seven, they had to be very young.
Is that why he’s so sullen all the time?
And what is this mysterious event he needed an excuse to get out of?
And what does he do out on that yacht besides watchmaking?
It seems like a lonely existence. Does he have any friends or guilty pleasures of any kind?
He turns to survey the lawn, and I notice a cowlick at the back of his head—this one chunk of hair that doesn’t fall in line with the rest of his hair. Everything else about him is deliberate, and that one piece of hair just lives its life.
I find it wildly charming.
Teams are assigned. Bruno and I end up on a team alongside Tyler and Danielle, which means I need to not suck at this.
My first shot goes three feet and curves left for no reason. I try to laugh it off. “A mind of its own!”
Danielle and Tyler are both surprisingly good. Have they been practicing? I cheer them on.
Bruno lines up his own shot. He seems to be weighing the geometry and reading the lawn and who knows what else, and then he cracks it practically through the wicket.
People clap.
My second overshoots the wicket by a solid yard.
“Bold strategy,” Tyler says diplomatically.
“I’m keeping everyone guessing,” I say brightly. “Including myself.”
A few people titter politely.
Bruno kills it again. It’s like somebody told him to go out there and do an embodiment of competence porn, all crisp linen and devastating focus, casually dominating yet another activity he has no business being this good at.
On the upside, he’s making up for my lack of croquet chops, but I wish he didn’t have to.
“I’m going to nail this one,” I announce, lining up my next shot.
“I believe that’s known as aggressive optimism,” somebody says.
The ball rockets off at a wild angle, missing two wickets entirely. Again I laugh it off. Hey, it’s just a game. But I’m trying to make up for it by pointing out when people do really good shots and giving them props.
Bruno’s rolled up his sleeves now, the crisp white shirt folded back to his elbows.
In all of the fuss today over the strip of skin above the elastic of his sweatpants, I didn’t notice his forearms. Serious forearms. Dense, solid forearms. How does a watchmaker even get forearms like that?
Is he down in some underground forge smelting his own gears?
There’s a light sheen of sweat at his temples now, too.
He grips the mallet and lines up his shot, jaw set, eyes fixed with intense, one-pointed concentration. There’s something weirdly hot about that level of focus, like he disappears into it completely. So precise as to be almost indecent.
One of Danielle’s bridesmaids literally licks her lips.
I glare hotly at the side of her head. Not that I care, but it’s the principle of the thing: he’s my fake date.
“Why am I not surprised,” Tyler says, drifting over toward Bruno, “that a watchmaker would understand geometry.”
Bruno rumbles some surly-bear answer I don’t hear and takes his shot. It’s his best one yet.
Someone calls for a drinks break.
I accept a glass of lemonade from a passing server and watch Bruno head toward the refreshment table with his forearms and shocking precision, so controlled.
Except for my friend the cowlick, just doing whatever it wants back there.