CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

"Can you believe that? I've been rejected!" I punctuate my heated words with a powerful swing of my golf club. I intend to send a ball soaring majestically through the air, but actually I just chuck a divot. It lands several feet in front of me, the dull thud of its impact nearly drowned out by Conn's snickering. "What's so funny? It's true." But it's not what you think.

"Rejected by a backwater local TV station—this bothers you why, exactly?"

At Taylor's urging I pitched Your New Best Friend for a spot on a local morning show, hoping to get some traction from my Huffington Post mention, but they turned me down flat, saying it was too close to an advertisement to be acceptable as a human interest story.

I should have known I wouldn't get any sympathy from Conn. Bristling, I snipe, "Why are you here, anyway?"

"Conn graciously stepped in," my dad declares, joining us on the country club's practice green, "when Bruce had to cancel."

Dear God, Dad's wearing his favorite golf pants. Red and blue stripes with huge white stars. I kid you not. They're from the bicentennial era, and they look the same as they probably did back then, because heavyweight seventies polyester never dies, although he's had them altered several times over the years so he could keep wearing them even as his build changed from twenty-something gangly to his more robust physique of today. He loves them that much. I've been trying to get rid of those pants for years, but somehow he always catches me sneaking them into the trash. He's got some sort of inhuman bond with them. Once I donated them to a church rummage sale where he found them, repurchased them, and brought them back home. The prodigal pants.

He sets his golf bag down and pulls something from a side pocket. With most golfers, it would be a flask. With my father, however…"Sunscreen?" he offers, holding the tube out to me.

I rub some lotion on my nose and cheekbones and pass it to Conn as I address my dad. "You do know Conn's a lousy golfer, right?"

"I am not."

"I'm better," I say smugly.

My father nods. "She's got you there, boy."

I puff up with pride and make a so-there face at Conn. Without missing a beat, he silently points at my fresh divot.

"I was getting out my aggressions."

"I like you anyway, Garvey," Dad continues. "You're like the son I never had and all that. Wear sunscreen. I want you around for many years to come." He gestures to the tube, and Conn pops the cap.

"Who's our fourth, Charles?" I ask, looking around as my father puts away the sunscreen and pulls out some hand sanitizer. "One of your drinking buddies from the nineteenth hole, or what?"

"'Or what' indeed."

I'd know that lazy voice anywhere. "Jack!"

Jack Rossiter the Ridiculously Good Looking strides up to our group, simultaneously pinching the back of my neck affectionately with one hand while reaching out to Conn for a bro-hug with the other. After they've back-thumped each other nearly senseless, Jack turns to my father with a more sedate handshake.

"Mr. Abbott, sir. Good to see you looking so well. Excellent golfing togs."

He looks my dad up and down, and I wince, but Jack seems completely sincere, even as he's taking in the glory of those Old Glory pants.

I haven't seen Jack in quite a while. He used to be a fixture in Abbott's Bay back when he and Conn were in college together. Jack spent almost every summer and holiday here, even though his family was based in New York City in the winter and the Hamptons in the summer. He always said he preferred Conn's family to his. From what I'd heard about the Rossiter clan, I didn't blame him. Jack is an American Brahmin with scads of money, houses all over the world…and almost no relationship with his parents. Poor little rich boy, but so darned privileged, confident, and pretty it just doesn't matter.

I'm not exaggerating. He's like a Ken doll come to life—perfect, yet without Ken's blank-eyed, psychotic expression. Scratch that. He's like a Disney prince. Exquisitely styled brown hair, smiling brown eyes, blinding-white teeth, slightly tanned skin, classically stylish—and clearly very expensive—clothes. And he'll charm your socks off too.

If you like that kind of thing, of course.

Okay, there was a time when even a tiny bit of attention from Jack would send me into a fit of giggles and uncontrollable blushing, but that was ages ago, when I was young and impressionable (read: stupid). The guy does nothing for me now. I put away my Ken dolls and Disney videos years ago, and—

"Miss Melanie. Don't you look ravishing today."

I did not giggle. I didn't. And my face is warm from the sun—that's all. "It's good to see you, Mr. Rossiter. What brings you to Abbott's Bay?"

"Oh, this and that," he says as he pulls on a leather golf glove. "Some business deals. You know how it is."

I don't actually, because I find it hard to picture Jack actually working. His family owns a huge number of companies, and I'm aware he's been "gifted" with at least one of them—probably more by now—to run as he sees fit, but he still gives off the air of a responsibility-free frat boy living off the endless stash of family money.

"Of course," he adds, "since I'm in the area, I can't resist sticking around for this month's main event."

"My ribbon cutting for the remodeled community center?" my dad asks hopefully.

"Ah, Mr. Abbott, it is at the top of my list. But I was talking about our boy, here."

Of course. Conn's birthday is coming up. What with all the New Best Friend craziness, I'd nearly forgotten. Nearly.

"I don't want to make a big deal about it."

"And yet we will," Jack intones ominously, putting his arm around Conn's shoulders and squeezing his clavicle until he winces.

Conn's eyes meet mine, and I know we're sharing the same disconcerting premonition of an evening in his near future: Boston or New York, strippers, bottle service, illegal substances, and quite possibly time in a holding cell until Jack name-drops to get them released and all charges dropped. And Conn's got the nerve to criticize Taylor's sketchy friendship qualities. Honestly.

It looks like Jack's plans for Conn's birthday are going to overshadow what I usually do to mark the occasion. Actually any other type of commemoration would kill mine dead. Not that I wouldn't go all out if Conn let me, but he's always too busy working. Plus he never likes to make himself the center of attention. No matter what his schedule though, he always spends a few minutes with me at closing time when I bring him a cupcake with a candle in it. The idea that this year our tradition is going to be preempted by events that will embarrass the hell out of him amuses me greatly.

"Have fun with that," I murmur, entirely unable to hide my ear-to-ear grin.

"Tee time," my father announces, shouldering his clubs. "Let's get going. I had to make an appointment to see my own damn daughter, and I'm not going to waste it."

"Charles!" I gasp, affronted. "You know I'm at your disposal whenever you need me."

"Oh, that sounds impressive, but in reality you're too busy, aren't you?"

"Never too busy for you, Daddy."

"Really? Coming with me to the Up All Night festival?"

"I'll have Hannah clear my schedule. I swear."

"Did the Abbott's Bay real estate business pick up that much?" Jack asks.

"Oh, it's…" Do I really want to talk about Your New Best Friend? Suddenly I'm feeling modest, possibly because Jack has a tendency to mock people's ideas a little too much. He always means to be funny, but funny often veers into cruel before he even recognizes it.

"You haven't heard about her new enterprise?"

Dad proudly tells Jack all about Your New Best Friend as we make our way to the first tee. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jack looking at me, impressed, and I feel my cheeks grow warm for the second time.

"Our Miss Melanie is famous?" he asks eagerly, and I can't tell if he's making fun of me or not.

"Don't get all excited. It's just a local thing."

"Ladies first," he says, gesturing to the tee. "So why the long face?"

I focus my attention on teeing up and make sure I sound casual when I answer. "I pitched a spot on the North Shore News morning show, but they passed."

"Their mistake."

"You're nice." I plant my feet and position my driver. "It's no big deal though."

"Well, of course not. North Shore News is small potatoes. If you're going to be on television, it should be worth your while—something national."

I laugh a little and take a swing. No divots this time. The ball lands a respectable distance away.

When I pass Jack on his way to the tee, he stops me and says quite seriously, "I can make it happen. All it'd take is a phone call."

If that comment came from any other person, I'd never take it seriously. But this is Jack Rossiter. With his connections? I know he could do it. He balances his ball on a tee, glances over, catches me staring, and winks at me.

I'm not sure how to answer. My father is busy scribbling our names on the scorecard—no modern score-tracking apps for him—and seems not to have heard. Conn, however, is watching me, his face inscrutable. He doesn't give me a clue as to how to proceed with his old frat brother.

I decide to laugh it off. "Golf, Mr. Rossiter," I order him lightly. "And don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

 

By the eighth hole—we're only playing nine today—I'm in second place, Jack's in third, and Conn's last as usual. He has many talents, but golf definitely isn't one of them. I'm sure Jack is usually way better than this, but he's the type to chivalrously let me get ahead. And we all play a game of "let the Wookiee win" when it comes to Dad.

I line up my putt on the green, feeling all eyes on me. Normally this doesn't faze me, but as I stand over my ball, getting a secure grip on my putter, I make the mistake of looking up to find Jack watching attentively. It's a little unnerving, which is silly. What's sillier is how my insides surge in response to the sight of Conn watching Jack like a hawk. A suspicious hawk.

No, not suspicious. Jack must have been talking, and Conn was simply paying attention. That's all. That reasoning is enough to help me refocus on the game, and I sink my putt in one stroke.

Jack's up, so I take his place next to Conn at the edge of the green.

"Nice shot," Conn says grimly.

I can tell he's censoring himself. "But…?"

"Just a little…"

"Go on."

"Ah, nothing."

Jack looks up at me and grins while he clears away some detritus, likely imaginary, between his ball and the cup. I smile back as I say out of the side of my mouth to Conn, "No, go on, please."

"A little…you know…hippy."

"Excuse me?"

Jack misses the putt.

"Sorry! Mulligan?" I call and then glare at Conn. "Hippy?" I hiss.

"Not like that." He's not the least bit penitent. "I'm not calling you fat."

"You'd better not be."

"You did have a little extra swing going on there though."

"Oh really."

"It could affect your game."

"I sank the putt."

Two thoughts are careening around in my head right now. First, Conn was watching my hips. Which were not, in fact, swinging. Were they? Of course not. I know how to stay still and putt. Second, the last thing in the world Conn should be doing is critiquing anyone's golf game, least of all mine.

…Conn was watching my hips.

Had Conn been glaring at Jack for checking me out?

…Conn was watching my hips.

I'm not sure how that makes me feel, to be honest, but I'm extremely glad I don't have to spend much more time as part of this golf foursome, because now all I can think about is how my hips are moving, and suddenly every step feels awkward. Jack pulls ahead of me with a birdie on the ninth hole. It bothers me less than it usually does because I'm preoccupied with what happened on the eighth hole. My dad wins, as usual, and Conn loses, as usual. I don't even bother mocking Conn's score. It's no fun, since he doesn't care about his golf game.

The men see me off at the clubhouse where they'll retire to the restaurant—or more realistically, the bar—for another couple of hours. I, on the other hand, have another New Best Friend appointment, so I take my leave of them at the valet stand. I give my dad a quick kiss, hug Jack and promise to see him again before he leaves town, and then stand in front of Conn, contemplating my goodbye for him. I opt for a featherlight swipe at his cheek.

"Don't call me hippy again."

"I didn't. I said your moves were hippy."

"There's a difference? Don't answer. I don't want to know. Stop talking about it."

"You brought it up."

"It was good to see you out in the fresh air today. You should do more of that before you turn into Gollum, clutching a bagel in the middle of the restaurant and hissing 'my precious.'"

"Ah, you wouldn't mind seeing me in a loincloth."

I can't argue that point, so I just give him an affectionate shove before turning to the parking attendant as the men walk away. A few minutes later, as my car is being brought around, someone grabs my elbow.

"What are you doing later?"

The warm breath on my ear startles me. Its intimacy makes my stomach leap, despite who's doing the whispering. "What are you up to, Jack?"

"I want to hear more about this new business of yours."

"Oh, you find my little enterprise that fascinating?"

"Maybe I do." At my skeptical look he wheedles with his winning smile, "Come on. I can't spend my entire time in Abbott's Bay looking at Garvey's ugly mug."

He still hasn't let go of my arm. I'm keenly aware of that. But I'm not sure how to reply.

"Come on, Miss Melanie," he says again. "You, me, the beach—it'll be relaxing. Humor me?"