Beach Glass (20 page)

“Mom, Chan, I want you to meet Kate McNamara,” he says. “Kate, this is my mother, Blaire Wakefield, and my sister, Chandler.”

“Kate,” Mrs. Wakefield says with a warm smile, as though just saying my name makes her feel good. “Welcome.” She opens her arms to me and gives me a light, sweet hug. A hint of floral perfume that smells like it was created by nectar-gathering nymphs wafts up to me as she presses her soft cheek against mine. “It’s good to meet you,” she says, pulling back and smiling with delight. When she releases me, Chandler leans down, being almost as tall as Carson, and gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “So nice to meet you, Kate. I’ve heard a
lot
about you,” she says, giving Carson a little-sister jab in the ribs.

“It’s really good to meet both of you as well,” I say, taking in these women whose beauty and casual, obviously expensive clothes make them look like something out of a magazine. A sudden autumn breeze makes me clutch my simple cloth coat around me, and I feel ill prepared for both the chilly beachfront weather and the richness of this place and these people. “What a surprise,” I say to Carson, who just grins at me.

Mrs. Wakefield puts her hand on Carson’s shoulder but looks at me when she says, “Chef’s preparing lunch. Kate, do you have any food preferences or allergies I should let him know about?”

Chef
. I wonder if I’ve ever known anyone who had a chef. Of course I haven’t. “Avocado,” I say absently. Mrs. Wakefield’s blue eyes are inquisitive. “Is that a preference or an allergy?”

“Right, I forgot,” Carson says, smacking his head. “Kate’s allergic to avocado.” He looks at me as though proud of remembering, and I nod in agreement or approval. I’m not sure anymore because my head is spinning. This sixty-mile-an-hour feeing is what passes for normal when I’m with Carson. His impulsive nature is making me, Little Miss Careful Plan Ahead, as crazy as a box of bobcats. With him, it’s all
Hey, let’s catch that wave—whoops, sorry it almost drowned you.
Or,
Let me wait until the night before you’re flying home to tell you I’m really into you and can you stay in Costa Rica, maybe move here?
And,
Hey, we’ve known each other for a little over a week, and I love you.
And now,
Here I am! Want to go for a drive? By the way, meet my filthy rich family!

“I’ll let Chef know,” Mrs. Wakefield says as she turns to leave. “Wine and hors d’oeuvres on the deck?” she asks Carson.

“In a while. I want to show Kate the grounds,” Carson says. Just as I thought. Grounds.

“All right, my dears.” She blows us a kiss before going into the house. Chandler flashes her million-dollar smile. “See you two later!”

He grins back at her and then at me, rather pleased with himself until he sees my face. “Want to go for a walk?” he asks. Without waiting for an answer, he takes my hand.

CARSON AND I are silent as we walk on the lush carpet of lawn toward tall hedges in the distance. When we get closer, I see two distinct openings cut like perfect doorways in the ten foot-high wall of leaves. “It’s a hedge maze,” Carson says, eyes twinkling. “You’ll have to find our way out.” When I just stand still, looking at it in a daze, Carson squeezes my hand. “Come on. I’ll get us started.”

He leads me down a green corridor inside this living puzzle. “You’re uncomfortable.”

“A little,” I admit.

“Because of my family’s reputation,” he says, his face tensing. “Because of my father laying you and all those other people off.”

“What? No,” I say honestly, because I hadn’t even gone there yet. “It’s not about that.”

He stops in a corner of the green maze. “What is it then? You can tell me.”

“Carson,” I start, “You told me who you were, but I didn’t know what all that would mean. The house, the grounds, the chef, your family owning half of Long Island’s most luxurious and expensive real estate
 . . .
”

“Oh, we do not,” he scoffs. Then he does some internal calculation. “Maybe a quarter or so. But not half. That would be ridiculous.”

“Oh, yes, completely,” I agree sarcastically, shaking my head. “Carson, I’ve never been with anyone who lived in a house so big you’d probably have to give each kid a walkie-talkie for fear of them getting lost. I didn’t grow up with private schools and infinity pools and all this.”

He releases my hand and folds his arms protectively across his chest as he walks a few steps away from me. “That shouldn’t matter, Kate.” Then he sighs. “But I know it does. I’ve been around other people like me for so long, I didn’t know what it meant to be a Wakefield outside of these circles. Even in these circles,” he says, shrugging. “Love us or hate us, the name carries a lot of baggage. Now do you see why I was pretending to be someone else in Costa Rica? You’re looking at me differently now, too.”

“Carson. I’m standing in a hedge maze on your family’s giant estate in front of a mansion with a man I met and fell in love with very quickly, who then told me he was someone else and who I never expected to see again.” I pause for a breath. “And who then showed up at my dinky apartment two hours ago looking completely different and drove me here in a car that costs more than I’ll probably ever make in my life. I just met your family, Chef is making us lunch, and you didn’t prepare me for any of this!”

He bites his lower lip, which looks very sexy to me, despite my exasperation. “I wanted to surprise you,” he says. “And I thought if I told you too much, it would freak you out.”

“Can you see,” I ask slowly, “where there might be some value in giving me a teensy little head’s up? I feel like I just got swamped by a big wave again.”

A slow, mildly chagrined smile begins to spread across Carson’s face. “Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry. I’ll try to remember that next time.”

“Next time? Is there more?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

He walks back over to me and envelops me in his arms. “I don’t think so,” he says. “But point taken. I’ll try not to spring anything on you.”

Just as I get comfortable in his embrace, nestling my face against his shirt and inhaling this new scent of Carson, he asks, “Have you ever made love in a hedge maze before?”

I’m about to smack him for even suggesting it or ask if he’s made love in this silly maze before, and with who, when I hear the sound of howler monkeys hooting. What the hell?

“Is that your new ring tone?” Carson asks, laughing. “Aw, you miss Costa Rica, too.” I’m about to tell him I only meant for it to be my wake-up alarm when I see the name on the phone’s screen: Daniel.

In the brief space between one ring and another, I remember Daniel saying he had something important to talk to me about, and me promising I’d call him back. But I quickly turn off the phone. I can’t talk now, especially not with Carson’s delicious mouth on mine. “Whoever it is can wait,” he murmurs as his hands slip under my dress and tug at my underwear. “I can’t.”

By the time we get back, still pulling grass out of each other’s hair and clothes and trying unsuccessfully to hide our naughty grins from Mrs. Wakefield, she announces that since it’s now mid-afternoon we should just start cocktails and change our late lunch to an early dinner. I love the way she’s not at all annoyed about us delaying the meal, but I see the way she’s positively glowing over Carson’s return. He must get away with murder with her. Probably with everyone.

MRS. WAKEFIELD describes dinner as casual, which turns out to mean that the butler wears a suit instead of a tuxedo as he serves the chef’s “simple” meal of organic vichysoisse, fennel and artisanal Parmesan salad, a crown roast of lamb with citrus-glazed greens, freshly baked French bread, and a dessert of fresh berries and profiteroles. On gilded china, which is probably Mrs. Wakefield’s everyday set. There is, naturally, a special wine for every course. That’s after the world-class wine tasting I was treated to with hors d’oeuvres, including crab legs and fresh oysters, on the glass-enclosed deck facing miles of perfect beach.

In contrast to the formal setting and fancy food is the raucous conversation. Carson’s mother is a great storyteller, and she’s cracking us all up with tales about her junior year abroad in Italy. “Wait, wait,” Chandler says, giggling. “Tell Kate about the artist you met, the one at the café.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Wakefield says, blushing and smiling.

“C’mon, Mom,” Carson says. He starts the story for her. “So my mother is sitting at this café in Radicondoli. You can imagine it—you’ve been to Tuscany, right?”

“Uh, no, not yet,” I say.

“It’s a typical, small, charming European town,” Mrs. Wakefield interjects, I’m sure on my behalf. “I was sitting at a table outside, and you have to understand, I was young then and looked like Chandler.”

Carson’s sister shakes her head. “Mom, you were
gorgeous
. Like a model,” she says to me.

Mrs. Wakefield blushes again. “Anyway, this artist walks up to me, falls to his knees, and says, ‘Signorina, I was only put here on this earth to paint you nude, and if you do not let me do this, I will die without fulfilling my
destiny
!’” We all erupt in laughter over her dramatic delivery. I wait for more, but then I have to ask, “What happened?”

Mrs. Wakefield is still smiling, though more quietly. “We had a mad, passionate affair.” She shrugs. “And then my junior year was over, and I came home.” The wistful look in her eyes is blinked away quickly. “Carson, give Kate more wine,” she says.

He empties the last bit from the bottle into my glass and turns to the butler. “Martin, can you bring up a bottle of the Gevrey-Chambertin, please?”

I touch Carson’s hand. “Is that a good idea if we’re driving back to my place?” I look at the fine antique grandfather clock that lords over the dining room and see that it’s after nine already.

“Hm, good point.” I expect him to tell the butler to hold off on any more vino, but instead he says, “Mom, I’m still jet-lagged, and the drive to Kate’s will be long. I think she should spend the night.”

“I don’t like the idea of you driving when you’re tired, Carson,” Mrs. Wakefield agrees. “I think you’re right.”

“Oh, cool!” Chandler chimes in. “Kate can stay with me, and we can talk.”

“Chandler, Kate would probably prefer her own room,” Mrs. Wakefield reasons. “There’s the guest bedroom next to yours.”

“Great, then it’s all settled,” Carson says, turning to me with a satisfied smile.

I’ve been looking from one Wakefield to another like they’re professional tennis players, but I feel like the ball. Finally, I settle on Carson. “I wasn’t really prepared to stay over,” I say with forced politeness. “I don’t have my contact lens solution, or anything to sleep in.”

He waves his hand. “We have everything you need. We keep things like that on hand for guests.”

He means people they charmingly hijack, I’m sure, but I don’t say that. Besides, it’s not that I don’t want to stay. I just wish he’d talk to me about things before springing them on me. Dear Advice Columnist, I’m in love with a handsome bulldozer. What can I do but smile, nod, and say thank you?

AN HOUR LATER, still tipsy from the dessert wine served with the profiteroles, I’m climbing into a brand-new pair of white silk pajamas in just my size. I imagine a room filled with nothing but clothing for any and every occasion for the Wakefields’ guests. Also at my disposal is an assortment of luxury toiletries. I remember the brands from my days at the women’s magazine. We didn’t feature them because they were too expensive for the average reader, a woman like me, but now I’m washing up with four-hundred-dollar face cream derived from rare sea creatures. I can’t decide whether it feels decadently great or like a total waste of cash and crustaceans.

Chandler asked me in an adorably conspiratorial way to come talk with her for a while before I went to bed, if I wasn’t too tired, so I knock softly on her door. A second later she lets me in, giggling like we’re having a secret slumber party.

Her room is gigantic, easily twice or even three times the size of my apartment. She flops down on a king-sized four-poster bed draped in creamy pink hues. On a shelf around her floor-to-ceiling picture window overlooking the grounds are trophies for swimming, tennis, horseback riding, and many for volleyball. “You must be quite the champ,” I say, totally unable to relate.

“I love volleyball,” Chandler says, modestly dodging my compliment. “My coach says I should try out for the Olympic team, but my father doesn’t want me to. He says I have to concentrate on my MBA so I can work with him.” Chandler bites her lip for a second before asking, “Kate, how long have you known my brother?”

“Not long,” I admit. I sit down on the luxurious day bed that runs the length of her picture window, knowing that this was what Chandler wanted, to find out more about this woman who suddenly showed up with her long-absent brother. “I’ve actually only known Carson for a few weeks. Sometimes it feels like longer.” Sometimes, like today, it feels shorter.

“Oh.” Chandler looks disappointed. “I was hoping you could tell me something about where he’s living, what he does.”

“But Carson told me he’s been in touch with you and your mother since he left and that he’s come back to visit.”

“Oh, he has,” Chandler says. She sits up on her bed, drawing her long legs up in front of her. “He just never told us much, so we wouldn’t have to lie to my father about not knowing where he was. He knew Dad would track him down and drag him back like he’s done before.”

I blink at her. “This isn’t the first time Carson’s left home?”

Chandler shakes her head briefly, probably realizing that it sounds bad that her brother constantly runs away to escape their father. “Carson’s never been gone this long before with no sign of coming back,” she says, “Until now.” Her pretty mouth curls in a teasing way. “I haven’t seen him this smitten since Anthea Stanhope.”

“She was major, huh?” Then something occurs to me. “That wouldn’t be Anthea Stanhope of Stanhope Electronics, would it?”

“Yeah,” Chandler says, “do you know her?”

“From the society pages,” I sigh, envisioning the mega-match that might have been. The Stanhopes and Wakefields are the leaders of corporations so huge the government would have had to approve the marriage. It’s sweet that Carson’s mother and sister don’t seem to care that I’m not from their super-rich circle, though I get the feeling they’re so thrilled to see Carson they wouldn’t care if he came home with a jewelry thief wearing a cat mask.

“I’m just glad to see him so happy,” Chandler says, unknowingly confirming my thoughts. “Things were awful when he left. I’m sure you heard about it.”

“Just the basics.”

“It was terrible,” Chandler says. “First all the layoffs, and then my father being investigated by the IRS. Carson quitting suddenly really blew things up. It made my father look guilty before the investigation even started.”

I have the presence of mind to keep my expression under control so I don’t make Chandler feel like she just aired the family’s dirty laundry, however high-end it might be. “Uh, yeah, I can see how that would be problematic.”

“We were surrounded by media crews,” she says. “There were helicopters buzzing around, and a photographer even got as far as my window, right there.” Chandler points directly behind me. “Carson and Dad had a huge fight, and then Carson came to me and said he was leaving and couldn’t tell me where he was going.” Her eyes get bright with tears. “He said, ‘I have to try to be someone else for a while, so I can figure out who I am.’ I didn’t understand what he meant.”

But I do. Both Carson and I had a bad emotional experience, we ran away from home, and we pretended to be someone else. Oddly, that let us discover more about ourselves. No wonder I feel so close to him, even though he isn’t who I thought he was. Maybe, aside from specific details, I know him better than I thought I did.

Chandler covers a yawn. “Oh, excuse me. Carson and I have been up talking all night since he got home. I don’t know how he even stayed awake through dinner.” She grins at me. “Must be because he’s so happy.”

I smile back and get up to go to the guest room. “It was great talking to you, Chandler. It reminds me of talking to my little sister.”

“I hope we get to do more of this, Kate,” Chandler says.

THE GUEST BEDROOM is right next door to Chandler’s room and just as large and tastefully appointed. The four-poster king-sized bed is swathed in mint-green fifteen-hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets with a thick down duvet and so many luxurious pillows I could get lost in them. I feel like I’m staying in a five-star hotel, not my boyfriend’s family guest room. Or probably just one of many guest rooms.

I wander over to an ivory-painted vanity to take out my contact lenses, though after I do I can’t see a thing. In a room this big, that could be a hazard. I root around in my bag, wishing I’d find a pair of reading glasses I just happened to toss in there for an occasion like this, even though I’m not the type of person who finds herself suddenly staying overnight in mansions. But instead, my hand finds my phone.

Oh, my God. Daniel called me hours ago, and I forgot to call him back.

I shouldn’t care so much since we’ve broken up and all, but yesterday he said he had something really important to tell me, and I promised I’d call him. When I turn the phone on again, message alerts hum immediately. I dread listening to them, thinking of how angry Daniel will be. But all I hear is his sweet, mellow voice. “Hey, pretty Katy, just wanted to see how the article went. I know it’s great. I’m wishing you luck, even though you don’t need it. Give me a call when you have a chance.”

A text message reads a little darker.
Hope everything’s OK. I know you’re busy. Shoot me a text to let me know you’re all right. Always, D.
There is no third message, just a missed call from when I was busy being undressed by Carson in a hedge maze.

Daniel always called when he said he would and showed up on time. He was such a predictable guy, and it never struck me how comforting that was until now. Between me running off to Costa Rica and this disappearing act, I know how unsettling my sudden unavailability must be to him. And he’s not even angry at me, just worried. Ugh, I feel so guilty.

But why should I? We’re not together. The heck with Daniel, I think as I toss my phone back into my bag and head for the luxurious bed in my new boyfriend’s guest room. Daniel and I are through. What could he possibly have to say to me that’s so damn important, and why should I care?

Because we were together for five years.
Five good years
, I think as I walk back toward my phone, my feet sinking into the thick ivory carpeting. Because I loved Daniel, and he loved me. I wanted, until very, very recently, to marry him. In our few bad moments, I always thought that if we ever broke up, we’d probably stay friends. You can’t be that close to someone for years and then just not have that person in your life. It wouldn’t kill me to hear him out.

But I can’t call him from here, not with Chandler right next door. And how would I explain to Daniel why I can’t speak above a whisper? I know I’ll have to tell him about Carson soon, but not while I’m calling from the Wakefield mansion. I also need to minimize the potential for drama. One time when I ignored Daniel after an argument, he called my mother to make sure I was okay. I don’t think she’d appreciate a frantic midnight phone call from Daniel, especially since she doesn’t know where I am.

Ah, I know, I’ll just text him.
Everything fine, call u tomorrow.
There. Now I can relax.

I jump at the roaring hoot of a howler monkey, my ring tone going off as Daniel calls me. Trying desperately to silence the phone, I drop it, and another
Oooooooaaaaaarrrgh!
escapes before I can flick the vibe switch. OMG, did I just wake up Chandler and everyone else in the house? I freeze for a moment, but all is quiet, except for the phone humming insistently in my hand. I let the call go to voicemail, but the phone starts humming again immediately. Okay, so I’m not getting away with a mere text. Time to find a quiet place to call Daniel and calm him down. But where?

In a place this size, I can probably find another unoccupied room without too much trouble. I put the phone in the pocket of my borrowed pajama pants and quietly leave the guest bedroom, carefully closing the door behind me so it won’t make a sound. And then I nearly shriek like a howler monkey myself when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“
Shhh!
” Carson holds a finger in front of his lips, suppressing a laugh as I try to compose myself. “I was just coming to get you,” he whispers, putting his arms around me. “And here you are, coming to find me. Sassy girl.” He playfully bites my neck. “Come on,” he murmurs, taking my hand.

“Where are we—” He shushes me again and tugs at my hand, and we tiptoe down the hall. I can’t do anything but follow and secretly turn off my phone.

Carson’s room is lit only by a pillar candle, scented with the sweet smell of surfboard wax. Golden light illuminates a large bed draped in burgundy and navy sheets and a thick comforter. Beyond it is a wall-wide window with a view of the ocean, the waves crashing against the moonlit beach. I hear Carson close the door quietly behind us, and then he pulls me close to him. “Mmm, I missed you,” he murmurs before he starts kissing me passionately and tugging off my borrowed pajama top.