UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CLARION INN HOTEL, FRIDAY, APRIL 24
Paolo pulled his tennis shirt down over his head. Awkwardly, he asked, “Are we good?”
Jimmy’s mother hadn’t moved. She wound one end of the sheet around her fingers, eyeing him lazily. After a moment she said, “We’re good. Just one thing. Did you have a good time?”
“It felt amazing,” he said simply. It wasn’t a total lie. He’d imagined he was with Lucy and any inhibitions he’d had simply vanished.
He took it slow on the drive back to the house. Allowed himself time to think. It didn’t help matters. Paolo arrived home just as shaken as he’d been with Jimmy’s mother. He’d sunk pretty low tonight—having sex with a stranger in a hotel to cover up a crime. Not much that was more wretched, by conventional standards. John-Michael, hustling for food and shelter, was a paragon of virtue by comparison.
Yet Paolo felt strangely at peace. It had been a more than fair transaction the way he saw it. Jimmy’s mom had seemed pretty satisfied. And now, hopefully, the whole Montecito tennis hustle was a thing of the past.
Any other judgment, he decided, was simply society planting its moralizing fingers where they didn’t belong.
In the Venice house, only Lucy and Candace’s light was still on. Paolo showered in the second-floor bathroom. He was still thinking about Lucy. Still damp from the shower, he pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt and climbed the stairs.
To his surprise, Lucy was at her desk, working on her laptop, her books open on the floor and on her lap. She glanced at him with a clear expression of relief when he walked in. She placed a finger over her lips and jabbed a purple-polished fingernail in the direction of the bed where Candace lay, peacefully asleep.
“Aw, she looks so sweet,” Paolo chuckled. “Are you studying?”
Lucy nodded, frowning.
“Take a break?”
She seemed hesitant. “Maybe a little one.”
In the kitchen, Paolo offered to scramble up some eggs. What he wanted now was to eat and spend time with Lucy. He’d already decided on a couple of eggs; no toast, just a little ketchup and hot chili sauce. But she wasn’t hungry, just poured herself a glass of skim milk. As he tended to the eggs, Lucy told him that she planned to spend the entire weekend studying and writing term papers in chemistry, Spanish, and literature.
Paolo shook his head, stunned. “Don’t you have a gig this weekend?”
“Our first one,” she agreed.
“You’re ditching?”
“Don’t see I have much choice. Little enough chance I’ll get the A-minus average even if I study all weekend. And then I’d be out of the band, no matter what.”
“Lucy, didn’t your folks already throw you out? They don’t get to tell you how to spend your time anymore.”
She looked at him sadly. “Sure they do. They pay the piper, they call the tune.”
“Is their tune so bad?”
Lucy gave a soft laugh. “Their tune is a boarding school up near Santa Barbara. With nuns. I don’t much like the sound of a boarding school. Kinda like it right here in Venice.”
“Oh. Man, their tune sucks.”
“I know. To be avoided at all costs. But it means missing the gig this time.”
“The guys are okay with that?”
“You mean Whatnot? I didn’t ask yet.”
“Lucy. You’d better tell them.”
She sighed, turned to leave. “I know.”
Paolo watched her go. He’d have to think of something he could do to help. He was pretty good at Spanish and okay at literature; how hard was it really, just read a book and spout some opinions. But chemistry—he’d be useless. And right now, he was tired and hungry.
He took the plate of eggs to the couch and switched on the TV. He found a channel airing an episode of Dexter and began to eat. After about five minutes, Grace appeared at the door.
“That’s really loud, Paolo. Could you turn it down?”
He muted the TV, trying to gauge if she was angry. But Grace didn’t seem it, just sleepy. She stayed in the doorway, wearing nothing but a long, green T-shirt. She glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “Don’t you wish John-Michael would quit baking?”
“But it makes him happy.”
“Yeah. But when I know his cookies are in the house, I can’t sleep.”
“Just take one.”
“Really?” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Don’t ever apply to be Jiminy Cricket.”
A moment later Grace was sitting beside him on the couch. He watched curiously as she shimmied a little closer, tucked her legs underneath her, and lay back on the cushions. If they weren’t friends, he’d be wondering if she was flirting with him. She grinned widely and took a bite of the oatmeal-and-cranberry cookie.
“What have you been up to tonight?” she asked.
“The usual: an hour on my own training, then a tennis lesson. And then a couple of beers with the coaches.”
Grace commented, “How very energetic. I’ve spent most of the day sitting on my ass.”
“Lucy’s gotta do that all weekend.”
An expression of irritation crossed Grace’s face. Then it was gone. “She’s screwed, by all accounts.”
“We should help her,” said Paolo firmly.
“Why?” Grace’s question surprised him. “It’s not like Lucy ever offered to help boost my grades.”
“She’s a housemate. If she doesn’t get the grades, her folks are going to make her leave.”
Grace said, “So what? She had the same chance as any of us. She’s no busier than Candace, and Candace is still making the grades.”
“Oh yeah?” Paolo walked over to the kitchen to get a cookie, still talking. “What’s Candace’s average?”
Grace called after him, “She’s a strong B.”
“Huh. Well, Lucy has to get an A-minus or she’ll get kicked out of school.”
Grace said, “Only ‘cause she’s been getting Cs all semester. Whose fault is that?”
Paolo arrived back at the sofa, a cookie in each hand. “Man, you’re tough! And yet you don’t seem the type.”
Grace moved aside so he could sit down. “I could be out having a lot of fun like Lucy,” she said. “But then I wouldn’t get good grades.”
“Maybe so, but still . . .”
“You think I’m harsh?” Grace smirked playfully. “Maybe you have a vested interest in Lucy staying.”
He didn’t reply.
Grace said, “I’m sure you’ll help.”
“I have a hunch I’m not as smart as Lucy.”
“Well . . . I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” she teased. “Maybe you can do the typing.”
Paolo gave a slight shake of his head. “You know, I underestimated you. Or overestimated.”
“Which is it?”
“I thought you were, you know, a sweetheart.”
“Oh, you mean a pushover.”
“No, I mean, a kind person who goes out of their way to be good and helpful.”
“Yeah, you do mean a pushover.”
They shared a laugh. “Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you were a bit of a do-gooder. But can you blame me? You write to all those poor bastards on death row. You drive hours to go see one of them. You talk me into joining Amnesty International.”
“You and John-Michael drove me,” she said quietly. The line of questioning seemed to be making her uneasy. “And you offered to come along. Anyhow—” She hesitated. “I only write to one death row guy.”
“Really? I remembered more.”
“You might have got that impression,” Grace admitted carefully.
“How come?”
“I may have exaggerated.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He didn’t answer because it wasn’t. “Candace thinks you write to more than one guy, too.”
Grace lowered her eyes. “What can I tell you? I embellished. First to Candace. You can imagine why. And then I had to be consistent.”
Paolo felt like it might be obvious after all: Grace had been trying to impress him. Surprising, actually. It was already impressive enough to write to one person on death row. But once Candace was brought into the equation, it made more sense.
It had to be tough, having such a talented, gorgeous stepsister. Candace was the glamorous one. She represented “cool” in the Deering family. Grace was just as beautiful, he realized as he looked at her. Less overtly sexy than Candace, possibly, but definitely attractive. Her eyes were more intense, more suggestive of the intelligence that lurked behind them.
Candace must cast a long shadow. No point trying to outdo her in the same arena. Grace’s interests in human rights and activism must have stemmed from a wish to carve out her own niche. Something super-distinctive. But she’d obviously underestimated how absorbing it could be, to get involved in the life of someone under threat of execution.
“So there’s just one guy?”
“Are you into him?”
Grace’s calm veneer vanished for a second, replaced by a flash of something like anxiety. “Heck, no! You’re as bad as Candace.”
“You can’t blame us. You’re very pretty. He’s very doomed.”
Grace paused, staring at him for a moment. “Did you mean it about joining Amnesty?”
“Sure, why not?”
“You still thinking of studying law?”
“Are you crazy right now? Of course!”
Paolo didn’t feel as confident as he sounded, but he’d lied and conned and had sex to keep that ambition alive. It wasn’t something he was about to drop.