Sweet Nothing (2 page)

Speaking of party tricks, I think I hear Mom transforming from blacked out drunk to conscious, unbearable nightmare! Better go check on her before cocktail hour.

Love you for infinity,

A

Between the guest house and the main house is a lagoon-style infinity pool. White-cushioned teak chaise lounges line the far edge; matching umbrellas and chairs border the other. Floating candles flash like tiny solitaires in the still water. If Aria were here, she’d be wondering aloud if we’d accidentally tripped booty-first into a J. Lo video.

I stand near the infinity edge, where the pool seems to vanish into the bay without so much as a whispered warning. If only it were that easy.

Across the lawn, the main house is ablaze with light and chatter. Cocktail parties have always made me a little nervous. As a little girl, my parents frequently hosted the
Who’s who
of New York for cocktails and mini food. They’d call Aria and me downstairs to do a twirl or two—
Aren’t they just adorable?—
and we’d stand there with toothpaste commercial smiles until we were waved away. I’d always felt like our parents had promised their guests something spectacular for the halftime show, and the stakes were too high to disappoint.

You’re an adult now, Elliot. Act like one.
I move past the pool and onto the lawn, my heels making divots in the grass with every step. The crowd sipping cocktails on the stone patio looks almost plastic: slick and tanned and perfect. Something out of a CSI: Miami episode. Any second now, someone’s going to find a dead supermodel in the hot tub.

“White cosmopolitan?” The instant I step onto the patio, a tuxedoed waiter appears, offering me a frosted martini glass filled to the brim. Hovering in the center of the glass is a delicate orchid bloom frozen in an ice cube. “It’s our signature drink for the evening.”

“Oh—I, um—” This couldn’t be normal for a school, could it?

“It’s insane. Try it,” says a woman next to me. She looks close to my age and pretty, in a contrived way. Perfectly straight platinum blonde hair, flawless smoky eyes and a glossy pout. She’s wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress with an asymmetrical neckline. Pearl studs dot her ears.

I hesitate. Maybe a stiff drink at my new employer’s house isn’t the best idea.

“If you don’t take it, I will.” A slight southern accent bubbles beneath the surface of the woman’s voice. Charleston, maybe. Savannah.

“Sure. Thank you.” I accept the drink and take a cautious sip. It’s cold and sweet and will go down too quickly if I’m not careful.

“I’m Waverly, by the way.” She smiles a closed-lip smile. “Waverly Wells. Theatre department.”

“Nice to meet you,” I nod politely. “I’m Elle. The new econ teacher.”

“Elle? Trendy.” Her voice is sweeter than the drink.

I grip the stem of my glass. Did she mean to be a bitch, or am I being overly sensitive? “It’s a family name, actually.”

“Oh!” She flutters her lashes. “I didn’t mean—I just think it’s a cool name.” She drains the last of her chardonnay without leaving a gloss print on the rim of her glass.

“Oh. Thanks.”
Too sensitive, definitely.
I need to relax. I take another, longer sip, feeling the tingly fog of the alcohol as it settles through me. “So, does Dr. Goodwin throw a party like this every year? This is impressive.”

She nods. “He did last year, at least. That was my first year.” Her eyes flit across the crowd; then return to me.

“Do you like it here?”

“Allford, you mean?” She nods. “The pay is good, and the perks are sweet. At last year’s end of year luncheon, we had a raffle for a free week at a Board member’s Italian villa.”

“Are you serious?”

“Tara Winston won.” She leans in close. I can smell her perfume: toasted brown sugar. “Which I was
totally
fine with, because from what I hear, she and her husband could really use the time away.” Somehow, she manages to pout and
tsk
at the same time.

It takes a few seconds for me to realize that she’s actually waiting on me to comment on Tara Winston, whoever she is, or the state of her marriage, which I can only assume is dire.

“Hey, do you have any idea where Dr. Goodwin might be?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Good excuse to snoop around, right?”

“Good point,” I grin. “Well, it was nice to meet you.” We won’t be best friends, but she seems harmless. Almost.

“Likewise. If you need anything, just me know, girl.” She air kisses both of my cheeks. I make a mental note to write Aria:
Florida’s great, sis! They have alligators! And debutantes!

I lose myself in the crowd of youngish teachers and gray-templed administrators, smiling at everyone but making direct eye contact with no one. It’s how I plan to live here—blending in without getting too close. I’m looking forward to living in a place where no one knows who I am or what I’ve done.

I enter the house through a set of French doors. Winding through an ornately decorated living room and down a wide hallway, I hear the usual cocktail party refrains:
Brad and I went there last summer, and it was amazing… you have to try the spicy tuna rolls, they’re the best in Miami.
The chatter is frothy and familiar. Somewhere down the hall, I hear the sounds of an acoustic guitar.

I peek past the first few doors—a study, a marble-floored half-bath, an all-white guest bedroom—before I hear Dr. Goodwin’s friendly, booming voice echoing from the last room on the hall.

“And I told her: ‘Of course it isn’t! I bought the damn thing in Paris!’”

I find Dr. Goodwin in a large, casual living room decorated with modern gray loveseats and chairs, glass side tables, and cherry red accents. He’s standing next to the bar in the corner, entertaining a distinguished looking older couple. He glances up as I enter.

“Elle!” He smiles and waves me over. “I was just wondering about you.”

“Sorry, sir. The trip took a little longer than I’d planned.” I nod my hellos. Dr. Goodwin is an imposing man, with a wiry bushel of silver hair and sparkling blue eyes. While everyone else at the party is wearing cocktail attire, he’s dressed in a tuxedo, like the waiters. Weirdo. I want to hug him.

“Elle, I’d like you to meet Maria Estes, president of the Allford Academy Board of Trustees. And this is Julian Sayers, an alumnus and dear friend of our school.”

“It’s a pleasure.” I flash my canned party smile. I know enough to know what
dear friend of our school
means.

Cha-ching.

“Maria, Julian, I’d like you both to meet—” He falters, his eyes cutting to mine.

“Elle. Elle Sloane,” I say hurriedly. My heart revs in my chest.

“Elle’s father and I were pals at Choate back in the dark ages.” Dr. Goodwin announces.

I manage a nod, my throat closing at the mention of my father.

“Excellent.” The woman smiles kindly.

“If you’ll both excuse us for a moment?” Dr. Goodwin guides me toward the fireplace. It’s painted a bright, shiny red to match the accents scattered intentionally throughout the room. “How was your trip, my dear?” he asks gently.

“Long,” I admit. “But I’m excited to be here, sir, and I just want to say thank you for giving me this chance. I won’t let you down.”

“We’re lucky to have you. And how is… your mother?”

Softly, I offer the rehearsed response. “We’re all doing the best we can.”

He nods and stares into the distance. “It’s just horrible, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer, because he’s not really asking. And because I’ve sworn never to speak of it again.

“Well.” He clears his throat. “I want to assure you, Elliot—Elle—that I will keep your confidence. I know that you’re here for a new start, and I promise you: you’ll have it at Allford.”

“Thank you, sir.” He’s so gracious, I want to cry.

“You’ll find everything you need in your room at the cottage.” The school mailed me an address and a key to the cottage where I’ll be staying with other faculty who have chosen on-campus housing. “Until then, enjoy yourself.” He summons a nearby waiter and hands me an unsolicited cosmo.

“Oh, I already—”

“I developed the recipe myself,” he says proudly, thrusting the glass into my hands. “It’s gotten rave reviews, I hear.” He gives me a wink and walks away.

I sip my second cosmo dutifully. This one goes down even easier. As clusters of people I don’t know chat and laugh and drink, I stay parked near the fireplace, pretending to be absorbed in the details of the room. A gleaming acoustic guitar leans against the wall. Over the mantle is a painting that looks suspiciously like a Klimt I studied in my Intro to Art History course at Columbia. I take a step closer.

“Beautiful.” Warm breath grazes the back of my neck.

“What?” I whirl around, goose bumps pricking at my skin. Standing just a few inches away is a guy in flax-colored linen pants and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Warmth surges through my body. I take a giant step back to get a better look, whacking my head against the mantle in the process. Half of my cosmo sloshes onto the glossy hardwood floor.
Smooth, Elliot.

“Woah. You okay?” He reaches out and takes my elbow, drawing me away from the fireplace. When I tense, he pulls his hand away, running it unnecessarily through a wavy mop of jet-black hair. His skin is olive, but his eyes are a piercing light blue.

“Ow. Yeah. Fine,” I mutter, rubbing the throbbing spot at the back of my skull.

“You gotta watch the mantles around here. They’re vicious.”

“I’m fine.” I try to laugh it off.
Yeah, fine. If you don’t count the dented pride and skull.

“Good. So I was just saying, it’s beautiful, right? The painting. I’m pretty sure it’s an original Klimt.”

“Okay.” He’s like the hot guy equivalent of a train wreck: I can’t look away. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. I’ve always been shy around guys. I haven’t been on a date in over a year. And besides, he’s too sexy to be a decent human being. The guy looks like he belongs in one of those black and white cologne commercials, where he’s riding a horse in a field or tackling a half-naked woman on the beach. Whispering words like
forever
and dry-humping the camera with his stare. Guys like him are never nice guys. They don’t have to be.

“Gustav Klimt? He was an Austrian—”

“Symbolist painter,” I finish. “Painted the female form. His works are noted for their… erotic nature. I know.”
Shut up, Elliot. This guy doesn’t actually want to talk about Klimt.

“An art history buff? I’m impressed.” He cocks his head to one side. “You like his work?”

“His Golden Phase.”

“I like his University of Vienna paintings, myself.”

“The stuff that was called pornographic?” I snort.

“The art that made people think; that pushed them out of their comfort zone. Good art does that, you know.”

“Just because it’s radical doesn’t make it good.”

“True. And nothing earth-shattering happens when you play it safe.”

Nothing devastating, either.

He extends a hand. There’s a long slash of bright green paint on his index finger. “I’m Luke.”

“Elle.” I grip his hand, and hope he doesn’t notice that mine is sweaty.

“Elle. Pretty.” He says my name slowly, as if he’s rolling it around on his tongue. Savoring it. “Well, Elle the Art Historian, it was really nice to meet you. Seems like my break’s over. If you could just—” Luke glances down at our hands, which are still intertwined. Energy pulses between our palms.

“Oh. God. Sorry.” I jerk my hand away and wipe it on my dress. It leaves a sweat stain.

“Don’t be.” He smiles again, then turns to pick up his guitar.

I watch as he leans against the wall near the mantle and starts to play. He’s not a guest here; he’s the musician. The entertainment. The eye candy, carefully selected to fit in with the rest of the décor.

From my place just a few feet away, I watch him play. I have nothing better to do, and this way if anyone tries to strike up a conversation, I can pretend to be absorbed in the music.

He starts with an easy, bluesy tune. He’s actually… talented. When he begins to sing, I recognize the song immediately. It’s a Ray LaMontagne number. I love Ray LaMontagne, and Luke covers the song well. His voice is low and raspy like Ray’s, but it’s his own, and he’s not trying too hard.

As he plays, his chin drops to his broad chest. Dark waves fall over his eyes, and I have the ridiculous urge to brush them away. I squeeze the stem of my martini glass instead. No more signature cosmos for me.

His fingers move easily, expertly, along the fret board. He massages the strings, coaxing rich notes into the room. His music is soothing, drowning out the mindless chatter behind me. Working its way deep inside me, massaging the tension from the back of my neck, my shoulders, and my throbbing skull. I fix my gaze on his hands. They’re tan; strong. And he clearly knows how to use them to get what he wants.

“Is that not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen?” Waverly’s drawl in my ear makes me gasp.

“Huh? What?” I’m sure she can see the color flooding my cheeks.

“The painting, obviously.” She swipes my martini glass and tosses it on the mantle. Next to the priceless masterpiece. “Come on. Dr. Goodwin’s about to make his opening remarks on the patio.”

“You know that’s a Klimt, right?” I say, disbelieving, as she nudges me toward the door.

“What’s that, Russian for
uglier than sin
?” Waverly giggles to herself.

As we step into the hall, I turn to see if Luke heard her. He catches me looking at him. Maybe it’s the booze, but I don’t look away. Instead, I raise an eyebrow, like,
Seriously?

And I swear I see a smile play across his lips.

Elle,

Fall in New York won’t be the same without you here. I know it’s kind of geeky, but fall always felt like a new start to me—new notebooks and pens and lockers and a chance to be the kind of person I always wanted to be.