Edgewater (5 page)

4

LET ME HELP

I WOKE UP WITH RENEWED ENERGY. LIFE SOMEHOW
feels easier to manage in the morning than it does at night. Even if your problems are the same old clothes, you can put them on fresh and feel new possibilities.

So here it was: I had two months before I was due back at Hillyer, and I had a plan. I'd go along with what Gigi apparently wanted and stay at Edgewater for the summer. I would bring back Orion and board him at Oceanfront. I didn't think Orion would mind; for my horse and me, home was wherever we were together. Meanwhile I'd cozy up to Gigi, make her really comfortable, and help her realize how much easier things could be if I were in charge. I'd get her to sign over the rights to my trust, and I'd pay everything that needed to be paid. I'd make sure Susannah was taken care of—bonus if I could manage to extricate her from Brian while I was at it. And then I'd pack
up my stuff and head back to Hillyer for senior year, secure in the knowledge that nothing like Woodscape would ever happen again.

Of course, I wasn't yet eighteen, and I'd probably have to petition to be an emancipated minor first, like those child actors. But if judges were willing to declare boozing, partying Hollywood teens free from their parents and in control of their own money, then certainly I would meet the requirements.

I climbed out of bed to unpack. We'd just had our white-glove laundry service at Woodscape, so nearly everything I'd brought home was clean and pressed. I settled the stacks neatly in my dresser drawers and headed into the bathroom. I swept open the shower curtain to discover a dead silverfish, belly-up, and one of the cats had apparently used the tub as a litter box. There were four squares of toilet paper left on the roll and no spare rolls in the cabinet under the sink.

Just when you think you have it all figured out, you're out of toilet paper
, I thought to myself.

But a roll of toilet paper could be replaced—in fact, I'd buy enough to keep the whole house stocked for the rest of the summer. A little gesture to show Gigi just how on top of things I was.

With the last four squares of tissue I picked up what the cat had left behind and dropped the mess into the toilet, then I turned on the shower and watched the silverfish swirl down the drain before stepping in myself. A few minutes later I was washed up and dressed for the day, in a white shirt with an eyelet collar and a denim skirt. Clean and casual—perfect for a little quality time with my aunt and lunch afterward with Lennox.
I stuck my cell phone into one pocket and my entire eight-dollar fortune into the other. In the hall outside my bedroom, I stepped over a few cats on my way to the staircase. Gigi's door was still closed. But even if the BP was over and forgotten, she'd still be fast asleep. On a good day she was rarely up before most people were thinking about their lunch plans.

But that was fine. Better than fine, even: It was ideal. I'd go over to Idlewild Fidelity and find out everything I needed to know about the trust—specifically, what I needed to do to get my hands on it—and I'd be armed with information by the time I saw Gigi.

According to my watch, it was just after nine o'clock, which meant the bank was open. Operation: I'm in Charge of My Own Goddamn Trust could officially begin. I jogged down the stairs and practically skipped into the kitchen, then rooted through the piles of flotsam and jetsam on the counter to find the keys to Gigi's black hearse of a Mercedes. And I was off.

IT WOULD'VE BEEN TOO MUCH TO EXPECT A FULL
tank of gas—or any gas at all, for that matter. When I turned the key in the ignition, the needle on the gauge lifted to just above empty, and the fuel-indicator light turned red. I was going to have to stop at the gas station before I went anywhere else, and I only had eight dollars, which wasn't going to buy me very much. But just as long as it got me to the bank, I didn't care.

I pulled up at the Exxon–Dunkin' Donuts kiosk self-service pump, behind a vintage Porsche, black with the top down to reveal a perfectly restored charcoal-gray interior. You have to prepay at the register, and when I walked in, there was Brian
Beecher's dad. The name
TRAVIS
was stitched into his front pocket. “You're, ah . . .” he said, his voice trailing. “Ah . . .”

“Lorrie,” I supplied. “Susannah's sister.”

“That's right. My wife said Brian came by the other day and cleaned us out of fish patties to bring back to your place. I hope you enjoyed them.”

“I just got home last night,” I said. “I haven't had a chance to taste them yet.”

“Better act fast before Brian inhales them,” he said. “My wife says the season seems shorter every year on account of his appetite.”

“But the season's not over yet, right?”

“Things are slowing down. But I'll be back on the boat tomorrow.”

I regarded Travis Beecher. He was an older version of his son, tall and bony, just balder and more weathered. Travis Beecher hadn't come into the world with an enormous inheritance. He worked hard, he worked
two
jobs, and maybe that would never get him an estate on Break Run Road with an ocean view, but he kept at it, because that was what needed to be done. It made me admire him, and I wondered: Shouldn't the apple not fall so far from the tree? “Do you ever take Brian out on the boat with you?” I asked.

“I did when he was a kid. It's not really his thing.”

“What is his thing?”

“I'd say it's your sister.”

Gross.

“It's good for him to stay at your place—he gets more room, and we get more room. A win-win.”

This conversation was making my stomach turn. “So, I'm at pump number four,” I said. I pulled the bills out of my pocket and counted them again, as if by magic they might have multiplied, which, of course, they hadn't. “Can I put in eight dollars of regular, please?”

Travis Beecher glanced out the window at my car. “You sure that's all you want for that gas-guzzler?”

“It's all I have on me right now,” I said. “And, actually, can you make it seven, and I'll take a can of Coke, too?”

I hadn't had so much as a sip of water before I'd left the house; in fact, I hadn't had anything to drink since I'd left Woodscape. The realization made me suddenly, incredibly parched, as if all the spit had been sucked from my mouth. Soda isn't supposed to quench your thirst, but right then it was all I wanted.

“Coke is a buck-fifty,” he told me.

Subtract that from eight dollars, and I'd barely have enough left for two gallons.

“Actually, would you mind letting me fill it with eight dollars of gas?” I asked. “I'm headed to the bank now, so if you can just give me the soda on credit, I'll come straight back with cash when I'm done. I promise.”

I was asking for a loan of a dollar and fifty cents, which was just about the most pathetic thing I'd ever done.

Even more pathetic—Travis Beecher turned me down.

“Sorry,” he said. “We don't sell things on credit.”

I felt a rush of anger, and I wanted to shout:
You must be kidding me! Your son is living at my house, rent-free, and probably even raiding our cash supply! You should be handing me a case of Cokes—and throwing in bags of Doritos!
Instead, my mouth set straight, I
pushed the eight dollars toward him. Keep calm, and game on. I'd be an actor to everyone this summer. “All for gas?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“If you come back later with more money, you can buy the soda then,” he offered.

I didn't bother to reply. From behind me came a rustle, then someone's voice: “Here, let me help.”

I turned around, and there, in the flesh, was Charlie Copeland. As in Charlie
Copeland
. The son of Senator Franklin Copeland, and the grandson and great-grandson of a couple former presidents.

If America had a royal family, the Copelands were it. Though lots of people said the line of succession would stop with Charlie. Like the other members of his family, Charlie often had his picture show up in the papers, but not for the same reasons. Charlie was usually snapped while out partying, with an arm slung around Shelby Rhodes, his rock-star girlfriend. A few months ago he'd been arrested for picking a fight with a photographer who'd had the temerity to take a picture of him and Shelby making out in a hotel lobby, when Charlie was supposed to be in lockdown in his dorm at Grosvenor-Baldwin Academy for some other school-rule infraction. GBA was quite possibly the most exclusive boarding school in the country. It basically had a one-hundred-percent Ivy League matriculation record for graduating seniors. Charlie was summarily kicked out, even though generations of Copelands had attended the school. Half of its buildings were built on the Copeland dime and named after the family. I remembered talking to Lennox about it at the time, as if the trials and tribulations
of the Copelands were things that actually affected us. “Who would kick out a Copeland?” she'd said, incredulous. The incident was, according to the gossip columns, a major blow to the entire clan.

Now Charlie was just standing there in the Exxon–Dunkin' Donuts kiosk, like anyone, with a cup of coffee in his hand. I hadn't known that anyone else was there. But of course someone was; I'd pulled up behind another car, a Porsche.

Charlie Copeland
would
drive a Porsche.

As far as I knew, the Copelands rarely used their Idlewild home. Though even when they weren't there, it was still well kept and fully staffed. Mrs. Copeland's hairdresser spent at least a few weeks there every year. That was according to Lennox, whose moms had been called in to submit blueprints for a new yoga studio in one of the guest cottages while we were away at school. (They didn't get the job.)

I'd only ever seen Charlie in person once before, back when he was a chubby, towheaded five-year-old and the Copelands used the estate for themselves, not just for guests. I'd been five then myself, too young to know who the Copelands even were. Instead, I'd been focused on the fact that Gigi was delivering a cake to a party, and it was my job to hold it steady in my lap. Charlie and I had both grown up a lot since then. He had slimmed down, and his chest and shoulders had filled out. I'd never seen anyone wear a plain gray T-shirt quite so well. He had khaki shorts, cinched with a rope belt. His hair was fresh-from-the-shower wet and combed back from his forehead. It looked dark brown, but I knew from all the pictures in magazines that it was actually lighter, sandy-colored. In the mug shot
seen 'round the world, it was long and hung partly in front of his face.

“So, could I?” he asked me.

At that moment I realized my mouth was a gaping O. I closed it, but then I opened it again to speak. “Could you what?”

“Help you out? It'd be no problem.” He smiled, eyes crinkling. In his free hand he held up a brown leather wallet.

Suddenly it was like Woodscape all over again, having a witness to my humiliation. I deeply regretted being all principled and making good on my bet to Beth-Ann. If I had that extra twenty bucks right now . . .

“So,” he said to Travis Beecher, who seemed unruffled by Charlie Copeland's presence. Perhaps he didn't know who Charlie was. “I'm at pump three, and I'm going to fill up with premium unleaded. And I have the coffee, and I'll take a soda, too.” He turned back to me. “You said a Coke, right?”

“Yes, I said a Coke, but—”

“And do you need to fill up?”

“Don't worry about what I need,” I told him. “I can take care of it.”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't. I was just aiming for Mr. Nice Guy.” He paused for a beat. “I guess I missed the mark.”

I took a deep breath. “No, I'm sorry. You caught me on a bad day.”

“How about this—we'll make it a loan. I'll front you the money now, and you can pay me back at my party tomorrow night. It's actually my parents' party, so there'll be loads of old men with trophy wives talking about the stock market and their
golf handicaps. You can't tell me you're willing to turn all that down.”

Wait, I just told off Charlie Copeland, and now he was inviting me to a party—a party his parents would be hosting?

“Hold this, please.” He thrust his coffee at me and opened his wallet to retrieve the bills. When he turned back to me, man, his jaw was square. I felt like I was in a trance, watching him.

“What?” Charlie asked.

“Nothing,” I said, blinking fast.

He rattled off the address of the Compound—that was the name of his family's estate, a smattering of smaller houses like planets orbiting around one enormous, sprawling, stone building known as the Main—as if it were possible I wouldn't have known it. Even if I'd never been there, I would've known it. Everyone did.

“So, you'll come? Eight o'clock, tomorrow night. It's the Fourth of July, you know.”

I nodded. “And thanks for the loan,” I said finally, sheepishly. “I'm Lorrie.”

“You're welcome, Lorrie. I'm Charlie.” Like he had to tell me his name. “I'll see you then.”