Reckless (9 page)

“Voilà, mademoiselle!” the waiter said as he presented Tinsley to the small round table where Mr. Buchanan, Dean Marymount, Brandon, and Julian were already seated. They stood to greet her.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” The maitre d’ pulled out the empty chair between Julian and Mr. Buchanan and Tinsley slid into the space, enjoying the feel of so many male eyes on her. Mr. Buchanan looked exactly as she imagined Brandon would look in thirty years—handsome and tan and fit, like he managed to cram in a few tough sets of tennis every afternoon between high-powered business meetings, his light brown hair thinning slightly at the temples, a platinum Rolex on his right wrist. He wore a sleek gray Armani suit over a slate blue silk shirt—no tie, the top button undone.

Tinsley held out her hand to him. “Tinsley Carmichael. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Buchanan.” He shook Tinsley’s hand with the confidence of an older man who has a hot young wife—she’d heard that he’d met Brandon’s stepmom while she was still in college.

“We’re very pleased you could join us tonight, Tinsley.” His brilliant green eyes crinkled at the corners, and Tinsley thought she detected a touch of flirtatiousness. “It’s always much more pleasant to have a beautiful face at the table.”

Tinsley smiled. Of course it was. “Thank you. It was very nice of Brandon to invite me.”

Brandon cleared his throat and shot Tinsley a quizzical look, as if he still was trying to figure out what the hell she was doing there. “My pleasure, Tinsley.”

“Thank you, Brandon.” She smiled sweetly at him, her pale pink Cargo lip gloss in Bella Bella making her feel more innocent than normal. “And Dean Marymount. It’s nice to see you off campus again too.” Graciously she held out her hand to the dean, who was wearing, of course, his maroon Waverly blazer and the same Van Gogh tie he’d worn to the DC meeting that morning. It was one thing on campus, but in public? His face colored a little as they shook hands, and he was clearly remembering how Tinsley had caught him, wearing only a robe, with Pardee on the balcony of a Boston hotel less than two weeks ago. Or maybe it was the fact that Tinsley had been nearly naked herself.

Her eyes, at long last, rested on the person she’d been dying to check out the moment she walked in. Julian. Standing next to her, by far the most interesting character at the table. His blondish brown hair was damp and smelled like—something nice. She couldn’t figure out
what
without taking a giant sniff. And she didn’t want him to know she cared.

“Hi, Julian,” she found herself saying, almost shyly, a funny feeling forming in the pit of her stomach. It was kind of crazy, but whenever she met his buttery brown eyes, she felt like they just saw right down to her bones, cutting through all the clothes and skin and bullshit. Did he do that with everyone or was it just her? It gave her the chills.

“You look very nice tonight, Tinsley.” He smiled at her politely, but she noticed for the first time that he had a dimple to the left of his mouth that seemed to wink at her.

“Thank you. Please, everyone sit down.” Tinsley scooted her chair into the table, noting that there wasn’t a bottle of wine in sight yet. It was probably too much to hope that Marymount would allow them to drink in his presence.

“We were just talking about what lovely weather we’re having today.” Mr. Buchanan closed his menu and clasped his hands. “Perhaps you can help us find a more interesting topic to discuss? Tell me, what are your plans for the weekend? There must be parties and dates and shopping, no?”

Tinsley glanced quickly at Dean Marymount, whose face turned pale. She waited for him to say something, but he gave no indication of wanting to speak up, so Tinsley assumed he’d prefer to keep the lockdown of Dumbarton quiet. “Well,” she said, taking her time and enjoying the discomfort on Marymount’s face, “there are any number of things Waverly Owls can do on weekends.”

“Do you really refer to yourselves as Waverly Owls?” Mr. Buchanan leaned in conspiratorially.

“Only when trustees are present,” Julian quipped, causing everyone to chuckle.

“Don’t you have one of your Cinephiles meetings this week-end, Tinsley?” Brandon asked casually, leaning one elbow on the table. His eyes flashed wickedly.

“That has been postponed. Thanks for asking, though.” She kicked his foot under the table.

Mr. Buchanan grabbed one of the freshly baked rolls from the basket in the center of the table. “What’s the Cinephiles? That doesn’t sound like something that was around in my day.”

“Your day was a long time ago, Collin,” Marymount said, a bit stiffly, like he’d forgotten exactly how to make a joke. Tinsley laughed politely anyway.

“Cinephiles is our film club, started mostly to take advantage of the incredible film equipment the school has. And the incredibly comfortable chairs in the screening room.” Her family had donated all of it, but she didn’t need to mention that. Chances were, Mr. Buchanan already knew. “We watch movies a few times a month and hold discussions afterward.”

“Really?” Julian asked, sounding genuinely interested. He was wearing a pale blue Ben Sherman button-down, and Tinsley could vaguely discern the words
MASSIVE
ATTACK
bleeding through the T-shirt beneath it. “That’s so cool. I didn’t know Waverly had a film club.”

“Tinsley started it,” Brandon pointed out, very kindly, she thought.

“We were supposed to watch
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead,
but that’s going to be next weekend’s feature now.” Tinsley took a sip of her water (no ice—this really was a French restaurant). “Everyone has a lot of homework this weekend.” That had to be true, right? She wasn’t about to blatantly lie in front of Marymount, even for his sake.

“Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads. Heads,” Julian intoned, and Tinsley and Brandon both burst out laughing. Marymount and Mr. Buchanan both seemed bewildered.

“It’s from the movie,” Tinsley explained.

“I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it.” Dean Marymount took a gulp of water, a giant drop of condensation sliding down onto the tablecloth with a plop.

“Oh!” Tinsley’s eyes lit up. “It’s wonderful. It’s the film version of a Tom Stoppard play about the existentialist misad-ventures of—”

“I apologize for interrupting a beautiful girl,” Mr. Buchanan interrupted. “But a conversation about existentialism is always improved by the presence of a bottle of wine.” He waved over the waiter and pointed at something on the wine list. Tinsley winked at Brandon across the table. And he said his father wasn’t any fun.

Julian touched her foot with his. Or maybe he was just stretching. Tinsley kept her foot where it was.

With wine involved, things could only get better from there.

Email Inbox

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Date:
Friday, October 4, 8:01 p.m.

Subject:
Next weekend

Hey, Gorgeous,

That completely sucks about your weekend … locked up like Rapunzel? I just wish I’d been at the DC meeting to kick the shit out of Marymount. I’ll be thinking about you nonstop.

I’m sorry you won’t be able to come out, but don’t stress about it. My parents will catch you some other time, and I certainly will too—next weekend, I’ll take you out for the most perfect, most romantic date you could ever imagine.

I’m going to crash early tonight but will call manana….

Love ya,

Jeremiah

P.S. Be a good Owl…

Easy sat at the small, slightly crooked table with his father, wishing he were anywhere else but at this over-priced, pretentious Euro-trash restaurant. He picked up one of the thirty-seven forks at his place setting and twirled it in his fingers, willing it to turn into a cigarette. Mr. Walsh gave his full attention to the menu in front of him. He had always been an imposing figure when Easy was growing up—almost six-four, broad-shouldered, deep-voiced, and now, with his gray head of hair and belly that looked like he’d filled it with Kentucky barbecue brisket every day for the last twenty years, he was even more intimidating.

Easy sighed. Where the hell was Callie? He’d seen Tinsley peek into the dining room, looking excited about something. Maybe she was on a date with another Waverly teacher. But at least five minutes—or fifty—had gone by since then. He really hoped Callie hadn’t bailed.

As if reading Easy’s thoughts, one of his dad’s least attractive skills, Mr. Walsh said, “I certainly hope your girlfriend isn’t standing us up.”

“She’ll be here, Dad.” Easy glanced up as their waitress poured water into their heavy crystal glasses. “And she’s not my girlfriend.” If his dad were a little more human, he’d actually try and tell him about Jenny … but Mr. Walsh had a way of trivializing everything Easy felt strongly about, and he didn’t want to share Jenny with him yet. But maybe it was totally messed up that he was having dinner with his father and not even bringing up the new girl in his life. Or inviting her to dinner.

Screw that.
Jenny was worth more to him than any trivializing bullshit his dad could throw at him. He shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “Actually, I’m kind of…”

“Hi.” Easy heard a soft familiar voice behind him. He turned around. Standing beside his chair was Callie, looking pale and a little frail, with a nervous smile on her face. She looked pretty in a slim-fitting plaid skirt and dark red top with girlish puffed sleeves. Her blond hair was pulled back from her face, and if she was wearing makeup, it was totally invisible. “Am I late?”

Easy and his dad both stood up. “What a sight for sore eyes!” Mr. Walsh immediately flipped on the charm switch and gave Callie a quick kiss on each cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Miss Callie Vernon.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Walsh.” Almost immediately, it was like Callie’s nervous shell dropped away. She gave Easy a wink over his dad’s shoulder, and he couldn’t help smiling. “It was nice of you to invite me.”

“Please do me the honor of calling me J. L. It keeps me young.”

Without thinking, Easy followed his dad’s lead and stepped over to Callie himself. “You look … uh …” He quickly leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. He could feel the heat rushing to his face. Suddenly
he
was nervous. “Good.”

“I think I need to teach my son how to give a lady a compliment.” Mr. Walsh chuckled as they all took their seats. “Callie, my dear, you look absolutely lovely. Doesn’t she, Easy?”

Easy cleared his throat, and Callie smiled at him and cocked her head, as if she didn’t expect him to answer. “Yes,” he said, blushing hotly. “She does.”

They began to chat about classes and sports, and Easy listened in awe. Mr. Walsh wasn’t exactly the easiest person to talk to—once he sniffed out someone’s opinion on something, he started to argue the opposite. But Callie seemed to actually enjoy talking with his dad, and the combination of Callie’s contrary nature and her natural southern charm soothed them all. Easy had never really seen her “on” like this before, or if he had, he hadn’t been paying attention. It was kind of impressive. The last time Easy’s parents had been in town, he’d been too stressed to deal and had stayed tipsy most of the time. But he did remember his parents talking about what a perfect daughter she would make. And it was refreshing to hear Callie talk about something other than which pair of five-hundred-dollar pumps she scored at Barneys. She sounded so smart. It was kind of sexy.

“Callie, I wish you would keep a closer eye on this kid here,” Mr. Walsh said, taking a large sip from his glass of cabernet. “I bet an intelligent young lady like yourself doesn’t neglect all her academic courses for something as silly as drawing or riding horses.” He paused slightly on the word “drawing,” letting it fall from his mouth like an insult.

Easy felt his face heat up with anger. Why did his father have to be such a prick? “You know, Dad, there’s more to life than getting A’s and defending rich, guilty criminals for a lot of money.” He thought about telling his dad about the sketch he had hanging in the student gallery but decided against it.

Mr. Walsh laughed. He never seemed to get rattled no matter what Easy said. “Those who have never made money in their life don’t have the luxury of criticizing those of us who work for it. I’m only suggesting that if you spent as much time on the rest of your courses as you do on your ‘art’”—he made quotation marks in the air as he said “art,” as if it was questionable to call it that—”maybe your academic standing wouldn’t be constantly in jeopardy.”

“You know,” Callie spoke up, skillfully pretending not to notice how pissed off Easy was getting, “they say that spending creative energy on one thing often leads to expanded mental capacities overall.” A slip of her blond hair fell from her clip and slid down the side of her face.

“Do they?” his dad responded, feigning interest.

Easy looked at Callie in surprise. She and his dad had been chatting and joking around like best buddies, and here she was, standing up to him when he was doing what he loved most—slamming his son? That was pretty brave of her.

And sweet.

“Yes.” She set down her fork, which she had been using to poke at her endive salad with walnuts and Roquefort disinterestedly. “Look at all the inventors of the world. Weren’t they successful because their minds work differently?” She paused and tugged at the pearl drop earring hanging from her left lobe. “I mean, da Vinci was a great artist
and
a technological genius.”