No Strings Attached (14 page)

Tim knew
everyone
. He lived right here in Hyannis—partied with the Kennedys, even—but, more important, stud-boy was tight with directors, agents, producers. He hadn't introduced her to anyone yet; Mandy was working on it, using her personal powers of persuasion. Soon, he'd be at her beck and call and she'd be on her way. Woo-fuckin'-hoo! Mandy was feeling so generous, she even resolved to clean the frickin' bathroom next time it was her turn.

Harper removed the plastic bowl from the fridge, gently lifted
the lid, and sniffed. Ewww. Nooo, tabouli salad did not last forever, contrary to popular myth. Holding it at arm's length, she dumped the whole concoction in the garbage, plastic container and all. Bad Harper, she chastised herself for her un-eco (antirecyclable) action. She couldn't drum up enough feeling to care. She hunted through the messy cabinet and, finding a bag of wheat pasta, put up a pot of water to boil.

It was around seven on Saturday night, and, clad in her worn flannel pj's, she'd decided to scrounge up some dinner and curl up with her journal, fairly sure she had the place to herself.

Katie, who'd rebounded seamlessly from the Brian boot-off—
quelle
shockeroo!—had claimed her next victim. Nate
Graham was another young, rich, and restless hotel guest. Although, Harper thought, astoundingly raffish for conservo-Barbie. But they'd been out every night this week, including tonight. Nate and Kate. Out on a date. Flirt, Katie, flirt. Retch, Harper, retch.

To be sure, her righteous roommate kept trying to apologize for her vicious, humiliating outburst during the party. But ya know what, Harper thought, pouring Katie's beloved orange juice down the drain—oooh, too bad, all gone—screw her. Except when a verbal exchange was absolutely necessary—mostly at camp—she was all stony silence toward Katie.

Harper ripped open the bag of pasta and dumped it into the now boiling water. She found the wooden spoon in the sink, rinsed it, and began stirring.

The post-party doldrums pervaded the house; everyone was either “in a mood” or not around. Even happy-go-slobby Ali was mopey, blaming herself for the disastrous turn the night had taken. Her friends, especially Jeremy—who was definitely into her—were taking her out tonight to lift her spirits.

Mandy pretty much slept the days away, and never alone. The guy she'd attached herself to at the party seemed to have moved into her room.

Just as Mitch, for all intents and purposes, had practically moved out. His gig at Chelsea House, he'd explained, had
gotten more intense: He was now giving weekend and evening tennis lessons. After work, he generally saw Leonora, running every time she snapped her betraying bling-fingers.

How could Mitch not see what was going on? She wanted to shake him. Guilt, guilt, guilt! It was out of guilt! she wanted to scream at Mitch. Your beloved is sleeping with someone else, someone married! And dig, no doubt girlfriend was walking on eggshells, wondering if Harper would tell. But Harper hadn't had the heart.

But how blind could Mitch be?

How blind had she been? She never saw Luke's betrayal coming either. Had no clue he'd leave her for “Katie-Lite”: that thimble-brained slut, Lily.

That arsenic-laced diatribe Katie had thrown about “putting out”? It was just wrong. Luke wasn't like other guys. That's why she'd fallen for him. They'd opened up to each other in ways far deeper than sex. Luke had said so!

Whatever. Harper lifted her chin. Making the same mistake twice was not gonna happen.

“Harper …?”

She whirled. Joss was pointing at the stove.

Joss. Oh God, she'd been avoiding him. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be at work.

“Turn the water off. You're boiling over.”

“I am?” Harper repeated, confused. She looked at the
stove. “Crap-damnit!” Bubbling waves of white-hot pasta foam erupted like lava spilling from mini-volcanoes, covering the pot, seeping into the burner, over the counter, heading for the floor.

She quickly killed the heat just as Joss went to remove the pot from the stove.

“Don't!” Harper grabbed his arm to stop him. “You'll get burned. Wait—I'll get a dish towel.”

Chagrined, he gave her a loopy smile. “Yeah. Good idea.”

Harper blushed, and got to work mopping the mess of soggy spaghetti and water. She didn't know if she was more embarrassed or ashamed. Twice now, Joss had seen her make a fool of herself. Once, she'd been half naked. He'd been gentleman enough to not bring it up. She'd been the coward—never even thanked him.

“Lucky for me you're here,” she managed, furiously sponging off the stovetop. “How come you're not at work?”

“Donated my shift to another bartender—guy's desperate for dough.” Joss handed her a roll of paper towels. “Here, use this. I'll get the floor.”

“Thanks,” Harper murmured. She wanted to say, “For everything, for saving me from further humiliation.” But the words didn't come.

“Well,” Joss mused as he wiped up, “hope you weren't jonesing for pasta. This dinner is beyond saving.”

“No big,” she said. Then her stomach growled. Loudly.

Josh laughed. “Hey look, I got the night off. So why don't we just chuck it … as it were … go out to dinner instead?”

Harper shook her head, more adamantly than she'd meant. “No! I mean, thanks and all, but …”

“But what? I know this place, you'll dig it—a real Cape Cod experience, on the beach up in Wellfleet. Been there?”

“I'm a vegetarian.” And she'd blurted that, why, exactly?

“Then don't get a hamburger. Chill, it's just dinner.”

It wasn't. Just dinner, that is.

It was the best time Harper'd had in weeks! Joss had nailed it. The Beachcomber was her kind of place: kick back, outdoor, a bar-restaurant, with an awesome view. It was snuggled atop a dune, overlooking a wide, pristine beach. They got there just at sunset. The sand seemed to be bathed in hues of rust, orange, red-clay; and the ocean, a dark navy.

The Beachcomber wasn't visible from the road; you had to know about it. Hence, the place was filled with locals: a homey mix of singles, couples, families, in their faded denims, Old Navy tees, sandals, and flip-flops. Not a Katie-type in sight. Harper and Joss bypassed the green-and-white-awninged bar, and settled at one of the few tables still empty.

“This place has been here for decades,” Joss told her. “It's famous for its authentic Cape Cod oysters, and after dark, it's
a big music scene. Concerts on the beach: jazz, rock, punk, reggae—you name it. Everyone's played the Beachcomber.”

“You've been here before,” Harper noted.

“Once—which makes me qualified to order for both of us.”

Harper couldn't suppress a grin. Joss was so sure of himself, he just took over. He'd picked the place, driven them here in his cute rented convertible—he'd even maneuvered their seats so they'd both be facing the ocean. Was it because he was older—at least twenty-one, she calculated—or was he hardwired that way? Both, she thought.

“We'll have a dozen bluepoint oysters on the half shell to start,” he told the waiter, “a mountain of your greasiest onion rings, and a couple of beers.” He turned to Harper. “Uh, unless you don't want beer?”

“Sounds like it's part of the oyster/onion ring Cape experience.”

Joss conceded, “It is. You kind of have to.”

“Then I kind of want to,” she said with a real smile.

To the waiter, Joss joked, “The lady is an oyster virgin, so we'll start her on the classic, then build to more exotic varied types. If she's up to it, that is.” He winked.

Harper leaned back, clasped her hands behind her head, put her feet up on the extra chair. “How'd you know I've never had oysters?”

“Just a guess. Not many neighborhood hangouts in
Boston—or New York—that serve 'em. It's not like HoJo's fried clams, or The Original Ray's Pizza, if you know what I mean.”

“What do they taste like?” Harper was suddenly hyperaware that Joss was sitting really close to her.

He ran his fingers through his long curls. “Hard to describe. I think you're just gonna have to decide for yourself.”

When their order arrived, Harper was about to decide to order something else. Oysters weren't much for eye appeal. She knew what they were: plump bivalves—muscles, really—in simple juice. Only they looked like pearly gray lumps of quivering phlegm-y slime, set in a ragged shell. Dude, it looked like something you'd send flying
out
your throat, not down it. Not that Harper would dare say that.

She didn't have to.

“Not much of a poker face, are you?” Joss grinned. “Don't be grossed out. Here, I'll show you how it's done.”

Harper watched, transfixed, as Joss demonstrated. “First, we dab a little cocktail sauce just here.” He spooned a drop of the red sauce onto the fat middle of the oyster, then, with his thumb and forefinger, lifted the ringed shell. “You hoist it up to your lips, open your mouth, stick your tongue out, tip your chin up … and let it slide down your throat. Hmmm …” He winked at her and took a slug of beer.

“I don't know …” Harper was dubious. What if she
choked on the thing? What if it got stuck in her throat?

“Don't be a wuss,” Joss needled good-naturedly. “Nobody respects a wuss.”

“A wuss? Did you just call me a wuss?” Harper attacked the oyster, drowning it first in cocktail sauce. She shut her eyes—and just did it. The slippery
thing
slid down, sort of like a log flume ride. She tasted mainly the cocktail sauce—that was a relief!

“Beer chaser,” Joss advised, handing her a bottle. “Next time, slow down so you can actually savor it. By the way, chewing is acceptable too.”

Harper reached for a comeback, only seeing herself—the fading sun glinting off her blond streaks, the mile-wide smile, her dimples—in the mirror of Joss's swimming-pool-blue eyes, she forgot what it was. Then she noticed what he was wearing. A purple-and-white-striped button-down beneath his jacket. “That's not the shirt—”

“You threw up all over?” He finished her sentence with a laugh. “Nah, that one didn't make it.”

The elephant dropped onto the table. Time to do the right thing. Haltingly, Harper did. “About that night … I'm so very sorry, so ashamed, I don't usually—”

“Get hammered and hurl over the first guy who comes into the room?”

Harper fixed her gaze straight ahead, to the line where
the water met the sky: the horizon. A lone boat tossed on the choppy water, and a lone tear wiggled its way down her cheek.

Joss leaned over and pulled her to him. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to trivialize it. I figured something monumental must have happened.”

“You could say that,” Harper whispered, tempted to let herself go, lean into his chest.

“You don't owe me an explanation,” Joss said sincerely. “It's cool, really, we're good.”

Harper swallowed and pulled away. “Katie got in my face with some nasty stuff. I reacted badly.”

If Joss knew more—and by this time, he probably did—he didn't let on. He did empathize, though.

“I get it. I'm slow to burn, but push my buttons, and man, all bets are off. Back in high school, this jerk ripped into me, talked real trash about my dad cheating on my mom. I didn't even know I had it in me, I just hauled off and dropped him.”

Harper quipped, “Put the ‘fist' in pacifist, did you?”

“Oh, yeah. Didn't go unnoticed. Our school was right across the street from the police precinct. New York's finest earned their rep that day.”

Harper lit up. Joss had just said the magic words: “New York.”

Had Harper or Joss been looking out at the water as keenly as
they were eyeing each other, they might've spotted a small luxury yacht called
Lady Blue
cruising Cape Cod Bay. But by the time Nathan Graham's family-owned ferry passed by the Wellfleet inlet, the two were animatedly comparing experiences in New York and having an oyster eat-off.

It was just around 9:30 that night, and Katie stood at the railing, Nate's arms locked around her. She took in the shoreline, dotted with restaurants, souvenir shops, surf shacks, beaches. Her eye settled on a cute place with a green-and-white-striped awning, tables situated just at the top of a dune. How sweet is that? she thought, never guessing that Harper and Joss were sitting there. Nate leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “You cold, cupcake?”

Katie burrowed into him. “Not anymore.”

“Mmmm, 'cause we can go inside the cabin anytime you want,” her date pointed out, in that sweetly suggestive way of his.

“I like being out on the open water, under the moonlit sky,” Katie replied. “There's something so romantic about it, like possibilities are limitless.”

She'd gotten romantic with Nate Graham in record time, even for her. But what choice had she had? Brian had bruised her ego, rushed her, all before she'd had a chance to ask him for help.

She could try again. Brian had called repeatedly, tried to woo his way back into her good graces. Was it worth it? Though she'd met Brian and Nate the same day, Katie had chosen Brian first because he seemed like the better bet. Brainy, brawny, an old-money blue blood. The type she understood, and thought she could manipulate.

But, no—Katie's mind was made up. Brian's ship had sailed.

Nate, though he'd demonstrated squeal appeal for her prepubescent campers, had stalled at number two, because he wasn't really Katie's type. Short and wiry with blond bed-head spikes, Nate had grown up here on the Cape, vaulted from high school straight into the family business, which was boating.

His family came by its money via the fleet of ferries they owned and operated all over New England, an empire that
had started with Nate's great-granddad and continued to flourish under the helm of his parents, himself, and his siblings. They had docks at Hyannis, Provincetown, Wellfleet, and Barnstable Harbor and did healthy business taking tourists to and from Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, and, of course, on scenic cruises around the Cape itself.