The Guardian (8 page)

I smile politely. “Um, not really,” I reply, looking away.

“The tide does a number on them. And you have to get up really early if you want to find the good ones.”

“I’m not an early riser,” I con
fess.

He laughs. “Me either.”

Another swell rolls in, splashing my calves with ice water. I
suck
in a breath.
“The waves any good?”
I ask, nodding toward his surfboard.

“Nah, not really,” he replies. “But, you know, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Better you
than me.” I look out across the water, scrunching my nose. “It’s freezing in there.”

“Yeah.
Wet suits work. It’s not helping my hands or feet, though.”

“Salt water in the eyes,” I add.

“You’re implying I’m no good,” he teases.

I shrug.

“Ah. So you were
watching.”

“For a minute, maybe,” I reply. The wind continues to whip my hair in my eyes, lashing my face, making it impossible to concentrate. “You aren’t terrible.”

“Do you
surf
?” he asks.

“Not hardly
. I’m just a critic.”

“We could change that. I mean,
I’m no professional, but if you want to learn we’ll grab a board and get you out there.”

I lift my arm, introducing him to the fatigued pile of plaster that has become my cast. “I’m not exactly the athletic type,” I explain.

“Ouch. What happened?”

“Car ac
cident.
But still, I’m not very coordinated.”

“We’ll take it slow. I guarantee I could get you standing after a few tries.”

I smile. “Yeah, thanks for the offer, but I’d rather watch.”

“You mean you’d rather criticize me.”

“Something
like
that,” I say, lau
ghing.

“You’re welcome to hang out,” he continues. He nods toward a group about forty feet behind us.
Two guys and a girl.
The guys are also dressed in wet suits. The girl is in a one piece, bare arms sporting a variety of large, colorful tattoos.
Hair an
unnatural shade of red.
They’re watching us.

“Thanks, but I’m with friends. They’re. . . .” I glance behind me, but I don’t see Carter or Selena or anyone. Apparently I wandered further than I thought. “Back there,” I finish.

“Friends?
Boyfriend?” he inqui
res.

“Sort of friends.
Sort of boyfriend,” I reply. “It’s kind of screwed up.”

He nods, understanding.
“Should’ve known.”
He
laughs,
looks down at his feet as he drags his toes through the sand, then back up at me, staring beneath his lashes. “I’m glad you
told me before I asked you out. That could’ve been embarrassing. You know, getting rejected and all.
On the beach . . . in front of all these people.”

My cheeks sting with heat at the realization.

He was going to ask me out?

“Maybe some other time, thou
gh.” His fluid blue eyes sparkle, the colors seeming to dance inside them. I blink a few times, and, for a moment, find myself trapped in them.
Drowning.
“If you change your mind about the surfing thing, you know where to find me.” He winks at me before wa
lking away, towing his surfboard to where his friends are waiting.

I study him for a moment, the motions and movements and the way he carries himself—confident, unlike anyone I’ve ever met—then turn around and head back.

N
INE

I move down the long hallway, stopping at every mirror I pass, just to make sure the other me—the beautiful one—is still there. That she isn’t just an apparition. My shoes click across the marble floor. I twirl across the Fleming’s foyer, feeling the music
in my body, and, for once, not afraid to dance to it.

“Wow,” Carter says, exhaling loudly. “You look amazing.” He moves closer.

I stand straighter and smooth the folds of the pale blue dress at the waist, feeling my cheeks flush with heat. “Your mom got a
hold of me,” I explain, hardly able to hide my smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” His brown hair is gelled and spiked in the front. His gray eyes glimmer and he looks wickedly handsome in his black tuxedo. My heart pumps faster.

This is what it use
d to feel like.

“My hands are shaking,” I confess. “Should I be this nervous?”

“No, you’ll be fine. Most people will wind up too drunk to remember who you are, anyway.”

I examine my reflection in the foyer mirror, turning slightly so I can see the back of
the dress Kitty Fleming let me borrow. I run my fingers through my short, silky hair, thankful I talked Mom into coloring it for me. I spent an hour in the drugstore, studying different shades to find the perfect color, before finally settling on a strawb
erry blonde that was more strawberry than blonde.

Then, on Thursday, my hard cast was removed. After six weeks of trying to keep it out of the shower and out of the rain and out of the way at work, it had nearly disintegrated. It was a dingy, grayish brow
n and ripping apart at my palm. My nose curled every time I got a whiff of it. After the doctor cut it off, my arm felt strangely light, like I could fly away with a wave. My mouth fell open in horror at the shriveled remains of what was once a nice, funct
ional arm. It was pale: a ghastly, glowing white, wrinkled and
prunish
.

The nurse walked me to the sink and helped me wash it in warm, soapy water. The doctor handed me a new wrist support: a gray, plastic brace.
Six more weeks.
But at least this one is r
emovable.

I rotate my wrist. It’s stiff, but it doesn’t hurt.

The country club is massive, more elegant than I ever could’ve imagined. There are ballrooms and party rooms.
A spa.
Indoor tennis court.
Gymnasium.

Carter grabs my hand as we head to the main
ballroom, intertwining his fingers with mine. The gesture feels natural. A mix of feelings courses through my veins. 

“You don’t have to remember any names,” he informs me, voice low. “I don’t. Just smile a lot, and, if you don’t know what to say, you ha
ve two options. You can smile and nod and agree, or give them a compliment. If there’s one thing these people like, it’s having hot air blown up
their
. . . .” He trails off just as we reach the entrance to the ballroom. “Mrs. Jenkins, it’s good to see you.
”

Carter introduces me to the head librarian as Genesis, his girlfriend. I throw him a subtle glance, but I don’t correct him. I smile at her. It’s a pleasure to meet me, apparently.

Carter keeps his hand placed protectively on my bare shoulder, steering
me when necessary. For someone who claims to never remember names, he certainly seems to know everyone, and everything about everyone. In a span of moments I know who has money,
who
pretends to have money, and who’s out of money. He also points out the soc
ialite
perv
, the guy I should stay away from at all costs, who will flirt with the tarnish on the silver candelabras if there is any—
tarnish
, that is. The candlesticks themselves are polished and glitter in the light of the crystal chandeliers.

“When you c
ome to these things as often as I do, it’s hard not to know everyone,” he explains. “It’s the same people at the same kinds of parties recycled over and over and over again. I swear, they practically beg for reasons to raise money.”

“Well, the library, you
know. It’s a worthy cause.”

“They’re all worthy causes. I’ve singlehandedly saved whales, raised awareness about the atrocities of seal clubbing in Canada, solicited funds for an African orphanage, attended galas for every possible type of cancer, and you
don’t even want to know what happens during election season. Are you thirsty?” he asks, changing the subject. “We can get a drink before they put the finger foods out.”

“No,” I reply, hesitating for a moment. “I think I’m good.” My eyes drift to the table
s that hold the items for the auction. I nod toward them. “Can we look?”

“Sure.” He drapes his arm around my waist, pulling me into him. “Whatever you want to bid on . . . just name it.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Me?”

“Why not?”

“But I wouldn’t know
what to bid on, or where to begin, even.”

“It’s easy,” he says, shrugging casually. “You find something you like, and you put a price on it that you’re willing to pay. Keeping in mind, of course, that what you’re really doing is donating to the library,” h
e
adds,
his voice conspiratorially low. “And that the winning bid amount will be announced at the end of the night.”

“What does that mean in rich person’s terms?”

“The higher you bid, the better you look,” he clarifies.

“Oh.
Got it.”

We make our way from table to table, examining each item up for grabs. There are trips, tickets for a helicopter ride, jewelry,
artwork
, gift baskets filled with makeup and spa goods. . . .

“Is there something here you like?” I ask.

“This isn’t for me,” h
e reminds me. “I’m bidding for you.”

I bite my lower lip, thinking for a moment. The trips are out of the question, the jewelry I’d have to sell in the event Mom ever got in a bind again, and I’m not really a “day at the spa” type of person. Besides, I wan
t something that will last forever. I focus on the artwork. “I, um, kind of like the photographs,” I finally say, pointing.

We walk over to a pair of photographs in museum frames. It’s a set by the same photographer. One is an image of three boats on the
sand, and the other a dilapidated fence snaking across the dunes. They’re smaller than some of the paintings, the photos themselves eight by ten and black and white.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

Looking at them again. . . . Yes, I’m sure.

“All right, how much
do we bid?”

I frown. “Carter, I don’t know the first thing about any of this. You decide.”

His mouth hints at a smile, and again he becomes the Carter I fell in love with. I watch as he fills out the little slip of paper, though I can’t see exactly what h
e’s writing. When he finishes, he folds it and sticks it in the envelope.

“So?” I ask.

“It’s a secret.”

Instinctively, I reach out and brush my fingers through his hair, tucking it behind his ear. “That’s not very nice.”

“Relax,” he says. “You’ll find out
when you win.”

“Don’t you mean ‘if’?”

“No. Actually, I mean ‘when.’ Those photographs are as good as yours.”

I laugh, playfully punching his arm with my good fist.

A voice interrupts us. “Look who it is.”
It’s
part teasing, part wicked.

Selena sidles next
to Carter, looking amazing in a little red dress, tags freshly cut. My smile fades.

“
Look
who it is,” Carter repeats, offering a short, awkward laugh.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to speak. “You look great, Selena.” The words leave a bitter taste in
my mouth.

“Thank you,” she replies, smoothing her blonde hair at the part. “So do you.” She tilts her head slightly, jaw tightening. When she turns back to Carter, she’s all smiles again. “Have you checked out the auction items yet?”

“We just put our bid
in.” Carter glances in my direction as he says this, as if seeking my approval.

“I’m still looking,” she explains. “Daddy always lets me pick something. I’m glad I ran into you, though. I hope you’re going to save a dance for me.” She flashes Carter a brig
ht smile, carefully brushing the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket with her fingertips.

Carter stiffens, ears flushing.
“Maybe later.”

“I’m counting on that.”

I watch her, hips swaying as she saunters off.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I reply brusquely.

“
So, um, speaking of dancing.”
He jerks his chin toward the floor. “Do you want to?”

I glance at the group of people already gathered.
Men in their tuxedos.
Women in formal dresses.
The band is playing a solid mix of beach music, oldies, and Top 40.