Cloudburst (15 page)

“You won't find any Puritans here,” I said, and he laughed.

“You haven't said whether or not you forgive me,” he said when we reached our first classroom.

“You're on probation,” I told him.

“How did you know?” he replied, his face deadly serious.

I stared at him, not knowing what to say. Was that why he was so standoffish? Then he laughed and entered the room.

“You creep!” I cried. He looked back, smiling.

Being with him was definitely like riding a roller coaster, I thought. Was he bipolar? Or was he just an angry, insecure young man? Once again, I had to question whether I
wanted to get more involved with someone like him. There were a number of boys in our class, besides Shayne Peters, who were so much less complicated and probably would treat me like a little goddess.

To satisfy Jessica's curiosity, I blamed what had happened between Ryder and me on his concern about his sister. I imagined that everyone would learn about her seeing a therapist, anyway. No one would be all that shocked. Ryder wasn't too far off when he referred to it as being like seeing a dentist around here. At lunch, Ryder and I talked about after school. We again sat apart from everyone else.

“I don't have to go home first now,” he said. “I can follow you if you want.”

“Sure, that's great.”

“So what are you planning? Studying together or arm wrestling?” he asked.

“No studying, unless that's something you want to do. Besides, I have a feeling we'd be terrible at it.”

He laughed. “That's for sure. Okay, so? What does one do on a palatial estate?”

“There's a lake. We can go rowing, and although I'm not that good, we can play tennis. Do you like tennis?”

“I can take it or leave it. My mother hired a pro to give me lessons when we lived in Spain one summer. I was only twelve, and she was afraid I'd be bored.”

“You've been so many places.”

“Yeah. My passport is full. You been anywhere out of the country?”

“No,” I said. “Unless you want to count this,” I said, gazing around.

He looked at me for a moment and then smiled. “That's very good. I think I might get to like you,” he said.

“Thanks. I'm so flattered.”

He looked at the other students watching us and then leaned toward me. “You sure you're not one of those narc plants or something and you're not really about twenty-four?”

“I'll check my birth certificate,” I said.

He nodded. “No, I'll check it.”

We both laughed. I looked at the other students again. Aside from his conversations with Gary Stevens, who seemed disinterested in him now, Ryder had not made a single other male friend in the three days he was here. Whatever he had done or said had discouraged them.

“What extracurricular activities did you participate in at the other schools you attended?” I asked.

“Extracurricular? Don't you sound like a guidance counselor?”

“What would you call them?”

“I wasn't on any teams, if that's what you mean, and I didn't join any clubs. I'm with Groucho Marx.”

“What?”

“I don't want to belong to any organization that would have me as a member.”

“Don't you ever say anything serious?”

“If I answered that, I'd have to be serious, and you'd have your answer.”

“Okay. I call a truce for now,” I said as the bell rang for afternoon classes.

“Great. It will give me time to take my wounded off the battlefield,” he said.

We followed everyone into the building.

“Hey,” Shayne Peters said. He was right behind us. Ryder and I turned. “How much are you paying her?”

“Paying? For what?”

“Her time.”

“Oh.” Ryder smiled at him. “Actually, we're doing barter.”

“Barter?”

“Yeah, you know, like the Indians, trading. She'll talk to me if I will talk to you, so I guess this equals what?” he asked me.

“You tell me,” I said. “You're the one who decided on the rates and values.”

Shayne stood there looking dumbfounded. “What?”

“Okay,” Ryder said. “Let's see. I wasted twenty seconds on him. The current exchange rate is twenty minutes of quality time for every second of moronic, right?”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, laughing.

“Huh?” Shayne said.

“See your local moron translator for a translation,” Ryder told him.

We walked ahead.

“Assholes!” Shayne called after us.

We sped up, laughing harder, and for the first time, I felt I had made the right decision.

He was worth knowing.

And more important, he wouldn't hurt me.

The question lingering out there now was, would I hurt him?

7
Meeting the Marches

H
e followed me home. I glanced into my rearview mirror every ten or twenty seconds, half expecting that he would either turn off and disappear or just stop and watch me disappear around a turn, but he stayed right with me up to the gate. He smiled when the orange wall opened. I knew he would be surprised. Most people were, because Mr. March had designed it so you couldn't tell it opened. We drove in and up the long driveway to park. It was a particularly beautiful day. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. All around us, the grounds people were at work on bushes, lawns, and fountains.

“Are they preparing for some big event?” he asked me as soon as we were both out of our cars.

“No, this is just regular weekly maintenance, but there is something being done here daily.”

“You could have some major event on this property. We've been at a few, but I don't think the properties were this large.”

“They have charity events here.”

He nodded and looked up at the house. “I saw something built in this style somewhere. It's radical.”

“It's called Richardson Romanesque. The house took years to build. Jordan told me her husband wanted something very unique.”

“He got it,” Ryder said. “It looks like it should be a museum and not a home.”

“It's very impressive inside as well,” I said. “Beautifully decorated but too big to be exactly cozy. There's even an indoor pool.”

“I heard.”

“Oh, so you did ask about it?” I hoped that indicated more interest in me than in the Marches.

“You don't have to ask. People just start talking about it. In fact, my mother knows about this house.”

“Oh?”

“Very little when it comes to the rich and beautiful gets by her,” he said, sounding a little bitter about it. “Where's your room?”

“Up there,” I said, pointing to my bedroom windows. “Second floor. Third floor is mostly guest rooms, and there's an attic full of things that will probably never be used, at least by the Marches.”

He looked to the left at the tennis courts. “You're high enough to see over the tops of trees. I bet you see the ocean.”

“Yes. One side of my bedroom looks out over the outside pool and cabana. It was Alena March's room,” I added.

“The little girl who died?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and looked up at the house again and then toward the tennis courts. “I've been in great European chateaus. We stayed in some very expensive hotels in Rome and Paris. One time, we were in Vienna for three days and stayed at a hotel that had its own little park . . . Im Palais Schwarzenberg. But I think this beats it all. It's the biggest private residence I've seen for someone who was not part of a royal family. I wonder if there's anything like it in the whole state.”

“I wouldn't know,” I said. “I haven't been farther than Disneyland. Jordan and Mr. March have been talking about taking me on a European holiday, but it hasn't happened yet.”

He looked at me as if he was finally seeing me for who I was, the ward of a rich family. I was sure it was triggering dozens of questions, questions my girlfriends and any other boy I had been with had asked and were still asking. With most, I was reluctant to answer, but for reasons I had not quite yet understood, I felt like telling Ryder everything and anything he wanted to know.

“You call her Jordan, but you call him Mr. March?”

“Yes. I used to call them both Mr. and Mrs. March.”

“I suppose that's progress. How long have you been living here?”

“Three years.”

“I know it would sound crazy to most people for me to ask, but are you really happy here?”

“It's not crazy,” I said.

“You didn't answer.” He smiled at my silence. “You feel guilty when you're happy, is that it?”

“Let's go in,” I said instead of replying. “I'll show you around, and you'll meet the Marches. Mr. March is supposed to be back,” I added.

“Oh? Where did he go?”

“He's often away on business. He runs a major public relations firm and has clients all over the United States and in Europe.”

I led him to the front door and took a deep breath before opening it.

“You act like you're going underwater,” he said.

I glanced at him and nodded. “It does feel that way sometimes.”

We entered.

As if she had been waiting anxiously just inside the door of her office-den, Jordan came hurrying down the hallway and calling to us. She was wearing one of her more expensive designer suits, a charcoal skirt and a jacket, and had her hair pinned up. She looked as if she had just stepped out of an executive office. I was sure Ryder was wondering if she was in any way involved in Donald March's business affairs. Sometimes I thought she dressed like a businesswoman just to pretend she did something more important. She did wear clothes like this whenever she went to a charity club or committee meeting and sometimes used Mr. March's secretarial services for her personal business.

“There you are,” she said. “Donald arrived just over an
hour ago. Come in, please. I'm Jordan March,” she said to Ryder.

“Ryder Garfield,” he replied. He looked at her hand, and then he took it and gave her what I thought was a rather exaggerated smile, his eyes wide. He looked around. “You must have quite an electric bill.”

Jordan laughed. “We have quite an everything bill. I know you two want to explore, but just come in for a few minutes,” she urged, indicating one of the sitting rooms, as she called them. Ryder looked at me with a gleeful gleam in his eyes. It made my heart go pitter-patter to think what might come out of his mouth at any moment. We followed her.

I was interested in how Ryder would react to everything he saw here. Even though he was from a very well-to-do, famous family and apparently had seen many amazing things already in his life, I was curious to see what would impress him. Most of the girls I had brought here were so amazed that they couldn't help gushing compliments about the large paintings, the oversized chandeliers, and the rich European furniture, tables from Spain, settees and chairs from France, and wall mirrors from England. I don't think I ever stopped being overwhelmed, but perhaps because I saw so much unhappiness beneath the surface, I had become a little indifferent to it all.

Sometimes I wished we all lived in a modest little home that made it impossible for us to ignore each other or avoid confronting each other's worries and sadness. Here, anyone could find himself or herself on another planet, never having to confront anyone else's dark face all day if he didn't
want to. I used to feel, and still did to an extent, that going down to dinner was like visiting strangers who lived miles away.

Ryder went directly to the piano and ran his hand over the top.

“It's a beaut,” he said.

“That's an East Indian rosewood,” Jordan said. “Do you play?”

“I did,” Ryder said, which took me by surprise. “My mother had me take lessons for years. She always managed to have a piano for me wherever we went to live when she or my father was on location for extended periods. I stopped about two years ago.”