Chapter Four Ben
“You’re not supposed to be on vacation,” snaps my father from the other end of the line.
“I’m not on vacation. I’m at a wedding,” I remind him as I pace back and forth in my room at the Arabelle Inn.
My father huffs in annoyance. “I thought you said you were going to take these new responsibilities seriously. You’re on the Board of—”
“Who says I’m not taking it seriously?” I snap. “Just because I’m in Cape Cod for the weekend to celebrate my friend’s marriage doesn’t mean that I don’t care about the board anymore. Relax.”
“The summer season starts next week. You’ll be expected at the benefit gala.”
“I’m aware of that. Are you going to call Gerald next and chastise him for the fact that he’ll be in the Hamptons for the entirety of July?”
My father grumbles at the mention of the vice president of the board at the NYC Ballet. “Gerald has paid his dues. Appearances aren’t crucial for him anymore.”
“Because he’s retiring soon. Right. And then they’ll be tapping a new VP—”
“Which better be you, boy.”
I cringe at the demeaning use of the term boy, grateful that he can’t see my face.
“I’ll make it happen. Don’t worry about it,” I promise. “I know how important the arts legacy is to the family. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Those party-boy days are behind you,” he replies sternly.
I’d hardly call myself a party boy. If anything, I’m a well-traveled boy—man, actually—with a penchant for luxurious jazz clubs and private yachts. It’s not like I’ve spent the past few years jetting off to Ibiza and getting wasted at raves every weekend.
Still, I know that I have a lot to prove. My older siblings are miles ahead of me. They’ve always been more impressive. As the youngest, I’ve been the afterthought for the past twenty-seven years. Little troublemaking Ben, who can’t take anything seriously. Silly Ben, who has no ambition or interest in a career at all.
Those days are over.
“I’m hanging up now,” I tell my father. “Take a Xanax.”
Before he can give me an earful about that last comment, I end the call and toss my phone onto the unmade bed.
Man, my head hurts. Partially because conversations with my father usually make my head pound, but also because I drank too much last night. After the rehearsal dinner, a bunch of us ended up at a bar called the Siren Sword. Admittedly, it turned out to be a pretty cool place. There was even a Sullivan mural on the wall, which held my attention while Sebastien attempted to pour vodka shots down my throat.
Ruby didn’t join us. According to Eva, she wasn’t feeling well. I’m not surprised. Ballerinas don’t get out much. They’re a strict sort of people, with rigorous routines and rules that they refuse to deviate from. It’s worth it, though, considering how impressive they are once they get on the stage.
I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and gulp it down. Satisfied that my attire is appropriate for a wedding picnic, I shove my sunglasses on and brave the outside world.
Technically, a wedding is supposed to take place the day after the rehearsal dinner, but Eva and Sebastien had to do some careful finagling when it came to Blakeley Manor’s packed summer wedding schedule. Apparently, another couple refused to budge, so the Linworth wedding will take place tomorrow. Today, the happy twosome is hosting a beach picnic.
As if piercing sunlight, screaming children, and gritty sand in our shoes is what we all need while nursing hangovers.
Then again, it’s not my wedding, and therefore, not my place to have such a judgmental opinion.
As soon as I step out into the hall, Erik and Lorena—name confirmed last night—emerge from the room across from mine. I didn’t realize they were together. When I nod my head in greeting, Lorena blushes and scurries down the hall to a different room. Erik grins at me lazily.
Right. Not dating. Just enjoying the inherent frivolity of a destination wedding. Good for them, I guess.
“Headed to the beach?” he asks.
“I was hoping to find some coffee first.”
“Same. Man, we got to go to Lazy Joe’s.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s what that buff bartender dude was saying last night! Lazy Joe’s is the best coffee spot on the cape.”
“Buff bartender dude?” I echo.
“Yeah, man, he was jacked. I spent, like, twenty minutes trying to convince him to give me his personal trainer’s info. Turns out the guy doesn’t even have a personal trainer! He does that all on his own!”
“Neat.”
Erik continues to trail me down the hall, his lilting Italian accent severely at odds with his overuse of Americanisms. For an upstart fashion designer, this guy behaves more like a frat boy. Maybe he thinks that’s how he’s supposed to act in order to fit in here… despite the fact that there are dozens of other Europeans in the wedding party.
“I wonder if that blonde chick will be around today,” Erik continues chatting as we step outside. I almost hiss like a feral cat when the blinding sunlight feels like lasers burning deep into my retinas, even with the sunglasses.
“What blonde chick?” I grumble, hating the way the classless terminology tastes on my tongue.
“The mean one. Ruby, I think.”
I snort. “She’s not mean.”
“She is to you.”
I decide to ignore that comment. “Well, she’s maid of honor, so I’m assuming that she will, indeed, be at the picnic, Erik. You can flirt to your heart’s content with her as soon as we get there.”
“Oh, no, dude. Not for me. I’m with Lola.”
“Who’s Lola?”
“The girl you literally just saw me with.”
Oh. Oops. Name not confirmed, then.
“Right.”
Erik snickers. “It’s fun to watch. Girls always like you. But not her! What did you do to her? Is she an ex?”
I frown at him as we head toward a tiny café that is, in fact, called Lazy Joe’s. It’s almost noon and the main street of Mermaid Shores is packed with tourists. Not the usual sort of sticky, sweaty, whiny tourists that clog up the sidewalks in New York, though. These people have a more easy-breezy vibe to them. They’re all relaxed and smiling in a way that makes me wonder if there’s some kind of magic spell in the air.
I’m also certain that I spot more than a few familiar faces among the crowd. Familiar faces as in, movie stars and famous musicians. Not just because the Linworth wedding has its fair share of celebrities on the guest list, but also because Mermaid Shores is apparently a hot spot for high-profile individuals. Hidden gem, indeed.
Erik nudges me with his elbow, and I remember that he asked me a question.
“No, she’s not an ex. I don’t know her at all. Not really.”
Still, I swear I’ve met Ruby before. The familiarity isn’t because she’s a dancer for the ballet or because her twin is an esteemed painter. It’s something else.
I just can’t put my finger on it.
Thankfully, I don’t have to endure much more of Erik’s company, because we run into two of Sebastien’s cousins at the café. Then, I’m being introduced to a director who just debuted at Cannes, and a sculpture artist from Sweden, and a whole crowd of important people who are either here for the wedding or their own vacations.
I’m good with people. I always have been. My father’s criticisms aside, that’s the one thing I’ve always excelled at. People are easy, after all.
Well, most people.
Even though I swear I’m not looking for her, I find Ruby on the beach in the early afternoon. One of Eva’s model friends is close acquaintances with the rockstar Aiden Marx, and even though Aiden’s out of town—traveling with his girlfriend in Thailand, apparently—he was kind enough to lend his private beach access to the wedding party for the picnic.
Ruby is lounging on a white beach blanket with Lola—not Lorena—and Olenka, another bridesmaid. She’s wearing a lavender sundress with her graceful ballerina legs stretched out to soak up the sun. Her blonde hair is hanging loose down her back. I hadn’t realized it was so long. I’ve only seen it in a prim little bun or in the chignon she had it in last night. I think.
Either way, she’s insanely pretty.
I know I’ve been staring at her for a moment too long, even as I casually make my way over to Sebastien, but I can’t seem to stop.
Sebastien claps a firm hand on my shoulder, tugging my attention away from Ruby.
“How’s your hangover, mon ami?” he asks.
“Terrible, thanks to you.”
He chuckles and waves over Eva. “Cherie, can you please give my best man some of those magical pills?”
“Is that code for something?”
Eva, who overheard me, laughs as she comes over. “It’s just extra-strength Tylenol. Bastien enjoys the thrill of making it seem more illicit.”
Sebastien tuts his tongue. “I do not like the word Tylenol. It doesn’t agree with my accent.”
Eva is kind enough to provide me with the medicine and then I excuse myself to hunt down a glass of water. There are several white, chiffon-laden tents set up on the sand, each of which boasts tables of food and drinks. It’s simple fare, but elegant. Proof that the Linworths have great taste.
With the pills swallowed, I exchange the water for champagne and turn to find a place to park myself for the next hour or so. The ocean is calm today—playful and glittering under the sun. I like the way the waves lazily spill themselves onto the dark sand, as if they’re only offering the shoreline kisses because there’s nothing better to do.
Fine. I’ll admit it. Mermaid Shores is nice. Whatever.
When I glance over my shoulder, my gaze locks with Ruby’s instantly. She was watching me. Just like last night. Interesting.
As my headache ebbs away, I suppose it’s as good a time as any to have a little bit of fun. People rarely hate me. This bratty, beautiful ballerina presents a fascinating challenge.
She’s standing now, by herself near one of the tables, a flute of champagne in hand. I saunter over, trying not to smile too hard at the way her posture stiffens and her lips curl into a poorly concealed sneer as I get closer.
“Hello,” I say to her, taking the liberty of clinking my champagne glass against hers in a wordless toast.
She purses her lips. It seems to take monumental effort for her to reply with a simple, “Hi.”
“You didn’t come out with us last night.”
“I don’t go out often.”
“Not even to celebrate your friend’s wedding?”
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You look fine to me. Better than fine, actually. That dress looks lovely on you.”
Ruby is uninterested in my flattery. She merely glances away, toward the sea, and mutters, “It’s not mine.”
“Eva’s?”
“My sister’s. I raided her closet this morning.”
“She has good taste.”
“She also has a boyfriend, so don’t think I’ll put in a good word for you just because you’re a big fan of her work.”
Oh, this is delightful.
I grin at her. “I’m a big fan of yours too.”
Ruby narrows her eyes at me. “Is that so?”
“Your performance as the Lilac Fairy this spring was the best I’ve seen.”
She stares at me for a long moment, as if waiting for the punchline. When she realizes that it’s not coming, she mutters, “Thanks.”
“Are you looking forward to the summer season?”
Ruby’s gaze trails over me. Not in an appreciative way. It’s more calculating, like she’s looking for weaknesses—looking for the best place to stick a knife.
I glance down at my clothing. It’s simple enough. June wedding appropriate. Linen and cotton. When I look back at her, she’s frowning deeply.
Weird. Maybe she doesn’t like Thom Browne.
“Yes,” she says. It takes me a second to realize she’s answering my previous question.
I nod and take a sip of champagne. It’s rare, but I think I might be at a loss for words.
While Ruby looks around rather obviously for an excuse to get away from me, I shove my free hand into my pocket in an attempt to look more casual and non-threatening. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe she thinks I’m a stiff, big-city snob. If she knows who my family is, she has good reason to make those assumptions.
I can prove her wrong. That should be easy enough. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m nothing like my siblings or my father.
With my hand in my pocket, my fingertips brush against something small and smooth. Except, these pants are brand new. Temporarily distracted, I pull out the foreign object, only to discover there are actually two.
A pinkish stone rests in the palm of my hand, polished and gleaming in the sun. Beside it is a tiny, rougher stone colored a deep purplish-red.
“That’s weird,” I murmur.
Ruby takes a step back from me as if she’s been struck. “Where did you get those?”
I shrug, confused by her alarm. “They were in my pocket.”
Ruby stares at the stones, her eyes wide but unreadable.
“I need more champagne,” she sighs. Then, as she walks away, I swear I hear her mutter something along the lines of, “Leave it to the nosy woman of the beach.”
I have no idea what’s just happened. I also have no idea how I ended up with random rocks in my pocket.
“Wow! Did you just find those in the sand?”
I glance over at Olenka, whose red hair looks like it’s on fire in the sunshine.
“Uh, no. They were in my pocket.”
“Really? That’s so funny. A few other people have been finding little trinkets in their clothes. There’s a reverse pickpocket running around or something.” Olenka giggles, clearly already four or five glasses of champagne deep. She leans in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Actually, I heard there’s a village witch.”
“Oh?”
“And I know what that is,” Olenka continues, jabbing her manicured finger at the smooth pink stone. “It’s rose quartz. I once had a friend who was really into crystals and stuff like that.”
I can’t stop myself from glancing away in search of Ruby again, but she’s long gone.
“What is rose quartz supposed to do?” I ask Olenka.
“No idea.” She shrugs, then leans in closer to look at the other stone. “Ooo!”
“What?”
“That’s a raw gemstone! I shot an ad campaign for a whole jewelry line made of stones like that. I think that’s a ruby!”
“A ruby?”
“Yeah! So pretty! Anyway, I need another drink.”
Olenka flounces away.
I stare at the stones for another moment, then slip them back into my pocket.