Flirting with Boys (12 page)

Celeste hugged her pillow tighter and squeezed her eyes shut. She fought off the rising feeling that, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she'd wanted to kiss him back.

C
eleste felt like her head was spinning around in circles as the festival drew closer. Every day, she and Nick—who thankfully seemed to have forgotten about the moment in the moonlight—ran around the resort like crazy people, making sure everything was in place. Aside from one of the waiters dropping an entire tray of glassware, everything was coming together.

A couple of days before the guests were set to arrive, Celeste was supervising the raising of the tent over the pool area. A group of sweaty, red-faced workmen were wrestling with the heavy white canvas, which kept snapping away from them in the high desert wind. Celeste could see that it was going to look fantastic when it was up—it covered the teak deck around one half of the
pool, and the inside was going to be strung with shimmery blue and green lights.

One of the workmen was about to stick a stake right into one of the flower beds. “Hey!” Celeste yelled. “I mean, excuse me! Could you move that over a few feet? The flowers are right there.” The guy looked up and nodded. Celeste sank her head back against the lounge chair. All she wanted to do was lie here in this chair for about another two days. But the workmen were now trying to shove the tent stakes into the tubs of palms placed around the deck. Celeste heaved a sigh and got up. She struggled to pull a tent stake out of a tub. Just as she yanked it from the sandy soil, her phone rang. She dug it out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. It was Devon.

“Hey, girl!” Celeste squealed, tucking the phone between her cheek and shoulder and wiping her dirty hands on the back of her shorts. “I haven't talked to you in forever!”

“I know.” Devon's voice sounded tinny. “They keep us crazy busy here—we're in classes all day and then rehearsals at night. I'm meeting so many awesome people though—like actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company! Can you believe it?”

“That's so great,” Celeste said. “How's Scotland? Is it amazing? Does it look like
Braveheart
?”

“Totally. I keep expecting Mel Gibson to show up in
all that blue face paint. Hey, how's everything going there? Are you excited for the festival?”

“Yeah,” Celeste said. “I'm nervous though! There are going to be so many celebrity types around, and everything has to be perfect.”

“Look, you're an awesome party planner,” Devon reassured her. “I'm sure you've been working your ass off.”

Celeste smiled at the phone and sat down on one of the pool lounges. “Yeah. Nick and I have been up until, like, dawn every night going over things.”

“Oooh, how's
that
going?” Devon's voice dropped. “Have he and Travis torn each other's arms off yet or what?”

“No, they've been really good. I mean, I explained to Travis that it's just business and he was totally cool about it. I mean, he knows how important all this is.”

“Yeah…” Devon sounded doubtful. “Travis has such a wicked temper though. Just watch it.”

Celeste scowled a little. “Well, don't worry, he's not even going to be here. He's going to the beach that weekend with his buddies.”

Loud whiny music started up on Devon's end of the phone. “What is that?” Celeste asked.

“Oh my God, it's bagpipes. Don't ask—they actually call us to our classes and meals that way. It's insane. I feel like I'm turning plaid. Anyway, I have to go to
monologue rehearsal. But I'll be home right after the festival, so at least you have that to look forward to!”

Celeste heard her named being called and looked up to see her father standing in the doorway of the office, his arms folded and his face already red—hopefully with heat and not annoyance.

“Oh boy, got to go,” Celeste said. “Dad alert. Be good!”

“Not likely! Talk to you later.” Devon clicked off.

Celeste shoved the phone into her pocket and walked over to stand beside her father. She folded her arms too, and for a long moment, they surveyed the hive of activity buzzing in front of them: the massive tent flapping, workmen nailing up supports for the arches of palm fronds, the huge bar being wheeled in, and the giant tubs of flowers and ferns being unloaded from trucks and placed around the perimeter of the pool deck.

Dad cleared his throat and Celeste looked up at him, suddenly anxious. Did he think it was tacky or something? Maybe he was worried about money. She didn't want him to regret giving her this responsibility. Celeste fished around in her stack of papers for the budget and cleared her throat.

“Dad, I know this all looks really crazy right now, but believe me, it's going to come together great. And it's actually under budget, if you can believe that.” She offered him the clipboard, which he accepted and
studied, leafing through the rest of her preparation papers: copies of invoices, lists, contact names, and cell numbers. “Look, Dad, we even have a spreadsheet with background on all the important guests—food preferences and allergies, special requests, and names of partners. One of the VIPs' wives is allergic to pepper, so we've even confirmed that the caterers will leave it out of the passed hors d'oeuvres completely.” Celeste told him.

Her father raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. He still hadn't spoken, and Celeste couldn't read his expression. He handed her back her clipboard and then squeezed her shoulder.

“Celeste,” he rumbled. “You've always worked hard. I'm really proud of you. You've done a great job.”

Celeste could feel her face turning pink. Her dad draped his heavy arm around her shoulders and gave her a brief hug before turning and heading back into the office. Celeste heaved a sigh of relief. The festival hadn't even started and she already felt like a success.

C
eleste stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her head. The desert twilight was spreading its rays throughout her room, and the soft warm air was blowing through the window, but she didn't have to even glance outside. She could hardly believe it was actually here—the opening of the Palm Springs Film Festival. It seemed like with all the planning and anxiety and last-minute emergencies, the day itself would never come. But it was finally here. In half an hour, she had to be out at the main entrance to welcome the first set of guests. Then the opening cocktail party would start. And then Nick's party, the first big one of the festival, would be later that night.

Celeste smoothed on some Bath & Body Works
vanilla lotion. Laid out on her bed was definitely the coolest party dress she'd ever owned: a pink silk Marc Jacobs, knee-length, with a thick fold of fabric over one shoulder. And the shoes were Prada. She'd hardly been able to believe it when she'd found them at the Junk 'n' Jive vintage clothing store in town. She slipped the cool silk over her head and looked in the mirror. The dress fit perfectly, just skimming the curves of her body.

She applied a little mascara and lip stain with gloss on top and smudged a little smoky eyeliner on her upper lids. In this heat, anything else would slide right off her face. Her phone rang. Celeste snatched it off the dresser, her heart pounding.

“What is it?” Celeste answered.

“Hey, baby,” Nick said on the other end. “You doing anything tonight? Want to hang out?”

Celeste tucked the phone under her cheek and dabbed on another layer of Benetint lip stain. “Very funny. Are you calling just to annoy me or is there actually a problem?”

“Maybe just a tiny one—the projection screen won't unroll. I think it's jammed.” He sounded vaguely amused.

Celeste breathed a sigh of relief. Major crises she could not handle right now—minor crises, sure. “It was doing that earlier. You have to unroll it manually. Just get behind it. There's a crank near the top. Just crank it open and we'll leave it down for the party.”

“Excellent. At least one of us has a brain around here.” Celeste could hear the cracking of a back being stretched. “By the way, I don't think I'm going to come to the cocktail party. I better stay around here and make sure no one knocks the palm arches into the pool or anything.”

Celeste shoved a little piece of paper with notes on key guests into her bag. “Is everything ready? Food, decorations, everything?”

“Yeah, it all looks great. Totally under control. Actually, the food's here now, so I better go tell that guy where to put it. He's trying to set everything on the drinks table.” Nick chuckled.

“Go, go!” Celeste cried. “Quick!”

“Shhh, calm down. I'm going—see you later.” He clicked off.

Celeste resisted the urge to start tearing at her cuticles and slipped her phone into her evening bag. If she came out of this evening without gray hair, it would be a miracle. She glanced at the clock and felt her heart rate spike. It was time to go out to the gates.

 

Celeste stood near her parents and the Saunderses in the lobby, trying to not to fidget with her dress. The lobby was filled with well-dressed Hollywood types—everyone
slim, lovely, and dressed with the perfect indie-film edge. Celeste tried not to gape at a woman wearing a torn black T-shirt and a huge diamond necklace talking to the guy in platform heels next to her. She glanced at her parents. They were beaming as they made pleasant small talk with the guests and accepted compliments on the resort. Celeste had never seen them happier.

Then she turned to peer through the main doors and her stomach plunged. There, getting out of a huge Escalade, were Travis and all five of his best buddies. They were talking and laughing as they slammed the car doors, taking off their sunglasses and surveying the place as if they already owned it. Celeste could feel her pulse pounding in her temples. What the
hell
were they doing here? She barreled through the glass doors and marched up to Travis.

“Hey, babe!” he greeted her. She could tell he'd already been drinking by the flushed, jovial look on his face, but luckily he didn't seem totally trashed—yet. Celeste forced a smile.

“Hi. Hi, guys.” Everyone nodded.

“Hey, which way's the pool, Celeste?” Kevin shouted. “This place is awesome—how come you never had us down here before?” He slapped Travis on the back, almost sending him sprawling face-first onto the gravel driveway.

“Well, the pool's that way, but it's closed—there's a
party
there later tonight,” she said deliberately, glaring at Travis, who seemed totally oblivious. He was busy chortling at another one of his buddies, who had grabbed a hibiscus flower from a nearby bush and was prancing around with it behind his ear. “Travis,” Celeste managed between clenched teeth. “Can I talk to you alone for a sec?”

“Oooh, Trav, are you in trouuubbble?” Kevin shouted as Celeste dragged her reluctant boyfriend off down the path.

Around the corner of the main building, Celeste released Travis's arm and turned to face him. “What are those guys doing here?” she hissed furiously. “I thought you were at the beach!”

Travis made little “calm down” gestures with his hands, patting the air around her like she was some hysterical child. “Look, don't freak out, okay? We
were
going to go to the beach, but then I started thinking about Nick and I thought you might need a little male protection.” He winked. She remained stony-faced. “So the boys came here.”

Celeste thought the top of her head was going to blow off. Her face felt tight and hot. “I honestly have no idea how you could think this would possibly be okay,” she managed to say without screaming. “You know how important this is to my family. Those jerk-offs cannot come to the festival.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “We were just going to hang out on the golf course anyway until the parties are over, so stop worrying.”

Celeste looked at him warily. “Really?”

“Hey, baby, have I ever let you down before?” he asked, taking both her hands in his.

Was he kidding?

“Just keep them away, Travis,” she said, pulling her arms back. “I mean it.”

“Hey.” He held up a Boy Scout salute. “You have my word.”

Celeste eyed him for a long moment and then nodded. She spun on her heel and marched away down the path.

Back in the lobby, Celeste slipped into the ladies' room and splashed some water on her face, being careful not smudge her eye makeup. She took a few deep breaths to try to calm herself down. A toilet flushed behind her, and as she dried her hands, she could see a pair of legs dancing around in the booth. Celeste rummaged in her bag to touch up her faded lip stain and the stall door banged open. An impossibly thin woman in skin-tight gold lamé burst out.

“Ugh!” the woman exclaimed breathlessly as she turned the water taps on full force. “Why do these people have such small stalls? How do they expect anyone to do anything in there?” She had buried her ring-encrusted hands in a mound of soapsuds.

Celeste's eyes widened. She started to respond but it was obvious the woman didn't really want an answer. Celeste snuck another sidelong glance. She was probably in her midforties and had that leathery, stringy look that came with decades of diets and sunbathing.
She looks like a chicken bone.
Celeste bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. But she might have let out the tiniest noise, because the woman fixed her with an intense stare in the mirror. Celeste immediately squashed all giggling and gave the woman the most sincere, polite, and demure grin she could summon. It must have done the trick, because the woman actually smiled herself and then, drying her hands on her gold jumpsuit instead of on the fluffy white towels laid out in front of her, she swept from the bathroom.

Celeste slowly followed and, nodding at the guests she passed, took up her post again at her mother's side. She spied the woman, who was now leaning over the front desk, terrorizing Michelle, the desk clerk. “Mom,” she whispered. “Who is that woman?”

“That's Mila Rotterdam,” her mother whispered back without changing her friendly expression.

Celeste's heart almost stopped. “Oh my God, that's
her
?” She dug in her evening bag and pulled out the little guest cheat sheet. The entry for
Rotterdams
read:
Mila and Mason. Powerful Hollywood movie producers. Dislikes:
Chihuahuas. Special Requests: personal trainer visit, villa 2, 7 a.m. Food: Mila, allergic to pepper.

“There's Mason over there,” Mom whispered. Celeste followed her mother's gaze across the room to a little, wizened old man who looked more like George Burns than a movie executive. He was standing in a corner, staring down at a glass of water.

“Oh,” Celeste said, making a mental note to make sure Mila Rotterdam had everything her gold-laméd self desired through the course of the festival. This woman was the reason they'd had to deal with creating an hors d'oeuvres menu entirely free of pepper. Which was, it had turned out, an incredibly difficult task. Her phone beeped in her bag. She dug it out and turned away from the crowd to take a look. Text from Nick. Celeste flipped it open.
SCREEN OKAY
.
ALL QUIET
. Celeste smiled and was about to write back when her father leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Celeste, we need to start moving people into the lounge to start the cocktail party,” he said sotto voce.

Celeste nodded and turned to the knot of couples standing near her. “Excuse me,” she said with her best Pinyon-employee, daughter-of-the-owners smile. They looked up expectantly. “If you all would like to head into the lounge”—she pointed at the double doors—“we'll be serving drinks and appetizers shortly.”

Around the lobby, the groups began breaking up and trickling slowly towards the double doors at the opposite
end of the room, laughing, the women balancing on their stilettos, everyone talking excitedly. Celeste could see Mila Rotterdam clutching the arm of a guy who couldn't have been older than twenty-five and tottering toward the lounge. “…better serve some good liquor!” Celeste could hear her trumpeting. “The last place only had Wild Turkey.” Celeste caught her mother's glance and discreetly rolled her eyes in the direction of Mrs. Rotterdam. Her mother sighed and nodded in agreement.

The dim, intimate lounge was perfectly laid out with sleek couches and low chairs. The soft lighting illuminated the little cocktail tables and the rich wood of the bar, but left the corners in shadows. A jazz quartet was playing in one corner. Huge potted ferns nodded their feathery heads in the corners, and votive candles flickered on the tables. Waiters in sleek black T-shirts were circulating with trays of Spanish cheeses, olives, feta dip, and lobster on water crackers.

As she looked around, Celeste felt proud. She lived at the best resort in Palm Springs. This scene belonged in a magazine. The last of the guests trickled in, and Dad shut the doors. The noise in the place swelled, and Celeste could hear laughter echoing above the conversation.

She collected a Perrier from the bar and started moving through the crowd, smiling and nodding. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Nick would change his mind and come over. “Another vodka tonic, sir?” she
asked a big, red-faced man brightly. “Matthew would be happy to get you one.” She indicated the waiter who had magically appeared next to her.

Just then, her father laid his hand on her shoulder. His face was calm and benign, but his eyes were sparkling dangerously. “Celeste, dear, can I speak to you for a second?” he asked quietly.
Uh-oh.
She could tell that tone immediately. It was the “you've messed up, my dear, but I don't want the guests to know there's anything wrong” tone. She knew the drill.

“Sure, Dad,” she said cheerfully. Still clutching her water glass, she followed her father over to a corner partially masked by the bar.

“Celeste,” her father said. “You know the next few days are some of the biggest we've ever had here at the resort, right?” His forehead looked strained.

“Yes, Dad.” Celeste nodded. Did she ever.

“And that our family is going to have to work harder than ever to make sure that everything goes absolutely perfectly this weekend, right?”

“Yes, Dad,” Celeste said again. She felt like a robot who'd only been programmed with one phrase.

“Then
why
,” her father whispered harshly, “are those boys at this party?” He pointed. Celeste followed his hand and felt her stomach plunge into her shoes. Travis and all his buddies were coming through the doors—laughing, talking, and most definitely not sober.