No Strings Attached (15 page)

The vessels reserved for the family's personal use went beyond ferries to sailboats, skiffs, schooners, motorboats, yachts—all fully staffed. There was, Katie quickly calculated, quite a cache of cash at Nate's disposal. He'd do quite nicely at the keeping-up-appearances game. Aside from that, he really was a nice guy.

“Sure you want to stay outside?” Nate asked. “I think we can be pretty romantic if we go inside.”

“In a little while,” Katie answered. “Let's go around the tip of the Cape one more time, okay? I want to see Provincetown again.”

“If that'll make you happy, Katie,” Nate said, suddenly serious. “You know, don't you, you're the kind of girl a guy would do anything for. Why you're wasting your time with me, that's the mystery.”

Katie softened. “You're sweet, you know, really sweet. Hey, could you bring me another drink? A wine spritzer, or just sparkling water, either one.”

“Hi-yi, Captain.” Nate gave her a mock salute. “But
there'll be a charge for that. You have to pay in advance.”

Katie threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him. “What's the toll?” she asked coyly.

“I'm thinking one of your special sweet kisses should do it,” he murmured.

“And I'm thinking I can do better than that,” she told him, moving her hand down his back, sliding it under the waistband of his briefs. It was a promise of more to come, though she felt secure that Nate, unlike Brian, would not push her. This beau was younger, just eighteen to Brian's twenty-two.
Vive la différence!
She didn't have to pretend to know more than she did, to have experienced more than she had.

Maybe she would sleep with him, and maybe even confide in him. Maybe Nathan Graham would give her the life raft she longed for, something for her to hold on to, to save her from drowning in disgrace along with her family.

Or maybe not. She wasn't lying when she told Nate how much she loved being out on the open water, seeing the world from the sanctuary of a private yacht. Maybe she wouldn't think about the end of the summer.

But as she waited for Nate to return, Katie stood perfectly still at the railing, letting the ocean breeze blow her long hair back. “What's gonna happen to me?” she wondered, whispering into the wind.

“Hey, Mandy, hold up a minute.” Mitch stopped her as she
sashayed out of the house, her stilettos clicking.

She waved at him. “No time, chico. My ride's almost here.”

It was just past 10 p.m. on Saturday night. Both had been out all day, only returning to the cottage for a quick shower before heading out again for the night. Mitch, who'd worked late, was meeting up with Leonora, hoping to finally understand what was tearing his beloved apart. By now, he'd diagnosed severe unhappiness in his girl. But if he didn't know the cause, he had no hope of fixing it.

He wasn't sure what Mandy was up to, only that he didn't like it. Admittedly, he hadn't seen a lot of her post-party, but to his eyes, she looked more and more like a cheap …
you-know-what … every day. Tonight, she'd squeezed herself into some way-too-low, too-tight tank top that practically pushed her boobs up to her chin.

“Make some time,” he urged. “Five minutes—you can spare that much for an old friend, can't you?”

Mandy snapped her gum and winked at him. “Oh, Mitchell, you always did have a way of persuading the girls. Hang tight.” She flipped open her cell phone, hit speed dial, and after a few seconds, said, “Hi, Timmy-cakes—yeah, it's
moi
. I'm running a little late. Be ready in ten minutes.” After listening for a second, she added, “I'm always worth the wait, aren't I?”

Suddenly feeling like an eavesdropper, Mitch cleared his throat. “Sounds like someone you care about. I'm happy for you.”

She regarded him warily. “Care about? Yeah, I'm a regular Care Bear. Especially tonight, since he's taking me to the
Skinny Dipping
set!”

“The
Skinny Dipping
set?”

“Yeah, that new movie—haven'tcha heard about it? It's got Jude Law, been filming over on Martha's Vineyard. Timmy's the best boy.”

Best boy? Mitch scratched his chin. He'd never heard Mandy refer to anyone that way.

She threw her head back and laughed. A cascade of brassy red curls caught his eye, and instantly took him back to the
time when those ringlets were strawberry-blond pigtails, and this overly made-up woman a chubby, bright-eyed girl named Sarah.

“You have no idea what I'm talkin' about, do you, Mitchell? You don't know movie-speak.”

He flushed. “Educate me.”

A “best boy” described Timmy's job, not Mandy's feelings about him. Those pretty much began and ended with his contacts. “Timmy's friend is the still photographer on the set. D'ya know what that means?

“Not the cameraman, but the guy who takes pictures of the actors?” Mitch guessed.

“A-plus for Saint Mitchell,” Mandy said without sarcasm. “So his name is Joe Lester, and after they wrap tonight, Tim's gonna introduce me. And,” she continued, her spirits high, “if all goes well, he's gonna book time for my photo session. My first professional photo session. Whatcha think—Mandy's not doin' too bad for herself. A fat girl from the projects?”

Mitch had a soft spot for that twinkle in her eye. It had always attracted him, made him believe in her, even though he had no real reason to. The odds of Mandy Starr—née Sarah Riley—of the downtrodden Dorchester Housing Projects becoming a movie star were pretty much slim, and none.

Yet still she believed in herself. Mitch couldn't find it in himself to contradict her.

“So what'd ya want to talk to me about?” Mandy asked.

Mitch scratched his head again, uncomfortable. “Well, it's … I don't know. That guy, that Tim. He's been spending an awful lot of time here.”

“Your point?” The twinkle in Mandy's eye had disappeared.

“Well, I just mean, how well do you even know him? Is he trustworthy?”

She bristled. “How well does anybody know anyone? As far as you or anyone in this house is concerned, he's my boyfriend. That's all you need to know. End of story.”

“Whoa, slow down, Mandy. I'm just asking a question. I see him—we all do—hanging out here even when you're at work. And I just want to make sure you're okay with that.”

“Just spit it out Mitch, okay? You think, what, he's gonna rape and pillage if I'm not around to keep an eye on him? Have you had this finger-wagging scolding with Alefyia? She brings home anything that isn't nailed down.”

Mitch frowned. This was not going the way he'd hoped. “My concern isn't for the house. It's for you. I don't want to see you being used. Or getting hurt.” There, he'd said it.

The hint of a smile returned to her freckled face. Tenderly, Mandy cupped his chin. “We're not in Dorchester anymore, Mitch. You're not the cops and you don't have to protect me anymore. We've both come a long, long way. So trust me, okay?”

Impulsively, he hugged her. “Take care of yourself, Sarah.”

She pulled away. “Right back atcha, Mitchell. Sometimes I think it's you who needs taking care of.”

Mandy always did have good gut instincts. Mitch was very not okay. And he could not, for the life of him, figure out why. Okay, the summer had gotten off to a shaky start, but he was proud of the way he'd adjusted, put together the house share. That was something. It showed versatility, adapting to adversity. It showed he was resilient, strong, a leader.

They were just the attributes a girl like Leonora admired, needed, wanted. The qualities that would make him the husband she deserved, the father of her children, if all went well.

And the fact that he loved her desperately, would do anything for her, forgive anything. Didn't that count? So what had changed?

The night of the party, he'd called Leonora—not to ask for her father's help. Anything but. He was his own man, and if he had to be held accountable for the damage, so be it. At least no one had been injured, or gotten really sick or anything. When Leonora immediately offered to have her father call the county police commissioner, he told her it wasn't necessary. But she kept pressing, insisting she let Mr. Quivvers help. And Mitch interpreted: Leonora wouldn't want her future husband to have
a black mark on his record. Only because it meant she still loved him, still cared about their future together, had he swallowed his pride and allowed himself the benefit of Lee's well-connected dad. For her sake.

It hadn't changed Lee's attitude toward him. Still, she ran hot and cold, overly solicitous one minute, the next, pushing him away. He hadn't told any of the house share people about his Lee issues. Which made it all the weirder that Harper kept obliquely referring to it, slipping in snide comments like, “Have you ever considered you'd be better off without Leonora? Maybe you should rethink this. Relationships all go sour.”

Inserting herself in his love life was so inappropriate, Mitch reminded her, sometimes really angrily. For a microsecond he wondered if she was into him, and therefore jealous? But any nincompoop could see how she looked at Joss. Nah, not jealousy. Then what? From what he'd gathered, Harper's meltdown at the party had something to do with a cutting remark from Katie. About a boy who'd obviously broken Harper's heart. So maybe that was it.

What ate at him wasn't Harper, though. It was just now, the look in Mandy's eye when she told him to take care. Was there something she intuited he should be mindful of?

Mitch finished shaving, put on a clean shirt, khakis, and Docksiders, and banished Mandy from his mind. He checked
beneath his mattress for the envelope and carefully counted. The engagement ring fund was now just past the $5,000 mark. Just another few weeks, that was all he needed. Once she saw that sparkler, dude, he was there. Reassured, Mitch locked up. He resolved to redouble his efforts with Lee, no matter what it took.

“Rockin' night!” Joss exclaimed, looking up at the sky. He
breathed in deeply: The stars winked at him, the salt air filled with heady promise. And all he wanted was for the night not to end. He'd just treated Harper to her first authentic Cape Cod experience: oysters, onion rings, and beer, sucking in the sea breeze, gazing out at the ocean. It'd been awesome. Once they got past her stammering apologies-slash-gratitude about the party; once he finally told her, yeah, he grew up in New York, too, they grooved. Just as he knew they would.

She'd lived downtown, in TriBeCa, she told him, had gone to the Little Red Schoolhouse on Bleecker Street, and had grown up an independent, strong little kid raised by an extremely cool single mom. While Joss stopped short of telling her he'd grown up on the Upper East Side, attended pricey private
schools, and grown up a sheltered little rich kid, with a Donald Trump–like, only-worse, father, there was enough of a common vibe to keep them laughing, reminiscing, connecting. And for the first time in eighteen months? Damn, he missed the city!

When they reached the car, he asked, “So, where to now? Dancing? Movies? Sports bar? Minigolf? Night court?”

“Don't quit your day job,” she quipped. “You are so not the last comic standing. You know where we both want to go.”

She wasn't suggesting—?

Harper crossed her arms, amused. “While slurping down oysters, have we not been ogling the most amazing beach ever?”

Joss grinned. “That was my next idea.” Dude, it'd been his
only
idea, from the moment he'd found a hapless Harper in the kitchen, distracted by her woes, almost burning the place down. He wanted to rescue her, wanted to take her here, cradle her on the warm sands of the beach.

“So, there's a path down there,” she said. “Obviously you've been here before. Which qualifies you to lead us.”

Girl was right. Joss knew where they would go, how to get there, and what he needed to bring. He flipped open the trunk of the car, retrieved his black Taylor acoustic. He'd taken this guitar down to the beach multiple times, and let the songs find him. Cheesy much? But who was he to question a creative rush, where it had begun—or why?

Harper arched her eyebrows when she saw the guitar. “A beach concert?”

Joss motioned for her to follow him. He led her down a wooded path that began at the back of the Beachcomber. It sloped downward, looped around, straightened out for a stretch, only to curve again. Without warning, Harper broke into a run, shooting down the dunes as fast she could. Joss didn't need an invite to join her, nor did he ask permission to grab her hand as they ran in step. The wind flew in their faces, Harper's hair fanned out, wild and free and untamed as the girl herself. The path became steep as it neared the beach, but no way would Harper slow the pace. They hit the sand hard, winded and laughing at their childish silliness.

At the shoreline, Harper panted and bent over, hands cupping her knees. “Dumb fun. Bummer you had to do it dragging your strings.” She dug into her pocket for a scrunchie and tied her hair back.

Joss flung the guitar over his shoulder. He wondered if, by the moonlight, she could see the decals on his guitar strap. Backstage passes of the groups he'd toured with in the past year and a half. Would she recognize the one that belonged to Jimi Jones? And if she did, would she react?

Harper kicked her sandals off and declared, “I gotta feel the sand between the toes.”

They meandered down the beach, following the shoreline
as it curved westward, until they came to the cove that had been his destination all along. The dune scoop beneath an overhang formed by an outcropping of rock, a cozy shelter he'd discovered a few weeks ago that had become his songwriting haven.