Love? Maybe. (16 page)

“Hi,” I say. “What’s up?”

“Where are you?” she asks. She might as well ask
Are you sitting down?

“Outside the library,” I say. “Sitting on a bench.” Mom takes a deep breath. “Just tell me or ask me,” I say. “Wait, are Dom and Lucy okay?”

“Yes, they’re fine. Beau’s with them. I’m sorry, Piper. It’s just weird. It’s Jack,” she says. I don’t say anything. “Your father.”

“Yes, Mom. I know my father’s name.”

She makes a sort of nervous giggle noise. “It’s just that he called again this morning. He said he really wants to talk to you. He asked for your cell number, but I just didn’t feel right giving him that.”

“What does he want, Mom? I mean, after all this time?”

“I don’t know, Pipe. He said he has something to talk to you about.”

“I’ll call him, Mom,” I say. “Just not today. I’ve got so much going on and I’m wiped. I feel like I need to be on top of my game when I talk to Jack.”

Mom laughs for real this time. “Yes, that’s probably a good plan. Talking to Jack is always like playing dodgeball with an octopus. You need to have really good reflexes to react to whatever he’s going to throw at you.”

This makes me laugh. “Pretty clever, Mom,” I say.

“I can bring it when I need to,” she says.

“All right, you can put the teen slang dictionary back on the shelf,” I say. “You’re starting to creep me out.” The bell signaling the end of lunch rings. “I need to go,” I say. “I’ll call you from Jan’s.”

“Jack’s not all bad, Piper.”

I sigh. “I know.” And I do. Jack was always the fun parent. He taught me how to skateboard and spit cherry pits and make mud pies.

“I love you,” Mom says, interrupting my memories.

“I love you too,” I say, and end the call. I hope the next surprise is a good one. Or maybe just no more surprises for a bit. That would be fine too.

Jan’s is still mobbed with people when we get there. Mostly TV people, but a lot of regular people too. Jan’s made the local news this morning. The
Good Morning Atlanta
van is still parked in front. This time the guy at the door just smiles at us and steps aside to let us in, earning a lot of complaints
from the crowd, who are all forced to observe from the sidewalk. Jillian grabs my arm hard when we enter.

“Ow,” I say, trying to pry her fingers from my forearm, but she keeps a tight grip as she stares at where Jan is talking to some guy in a flannel shirt and jeans. He turns and we can see the side of his face. I start laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Jeremy asks.

“Tell him,” I say, elbowing Jillian. She just shakes her head. Her cheeks are bright pink.

“Last fall…” I begin. “Okay, it’s sort of stupid, but it was late and we were bored.” Jeremy makes an impatient movement with his hand. “Anyway, Claire and I were hanging at Jillian’s watching television.” Jeremy makes the hand motion again. “So Jillian makes us pick a TV boyfriend.” Jeremy squints at me. “You know, someone on television who we’d want to be our boyfriend if you know…”

“You magically fell through the screen and into TV land,” Jeremy says.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “So anyway, Jillian picked him.” I gesture toward the guy talking to Jan.

Jeremy looks over at Nerdy Flannel Guy. “Him?” he asks. Jillian nods, her cheeks still pink. “But he’s…” He struggles to find the right word.

“A nerd,” I finish. Jeremy nods, clearly surprised.

“So you
like
nerdy guys?” he asks Jillian. She shrugs.

Jan sees us standing there and beckons us over. He quickly introduces us to Jillian’s TV boyfriend. Jeremy and I say
hello. Jillian tries, but can’t manage more than a smile. Jan looks at her for a long moment, clearly wondering what we did with the real Jillian.

“Heard you guys were the big stars yesterday,” Nerdy Flannel Guy says. None of us knows what to say to that. “So, which one of you came up with this?” he asks, pointing to the bacon truffles.

“That would be me,” Jeremy says.

“Cool,” Nerdy Flannel Guy says. “How did you account for the variable fat content of pork products?” Jeremy launches into some complicated formula that creates a ratio of butter fat to protein. He loses me somewhere around the word comestible, but Nerdy Flannel Guy just nods as he listens. Jillian pulls my sleeve and I follow her over to the Valentine’s display.

“He’s pretty cute, right?” she asks.

“I guess,” I say. “He’s shorter than I thought he’d be.”

Jillian laughs. “I didn’t mean
him
. I meant Jeremy.” I look over to where Jeremy is still talking and Nerdy Flannel Guy is smiling and nodding.

“Yeah,” I say. “He is. But wait. I thought popular jocks were your ideal.”

“I thought Ben Donovan was yours,” she says in what my mother would say was her
sass voice
. I shake my head. Some part of me is tempted to say touché, but if Ben Donovan isn’t my ideal, who is?

I
don’t know about this,” I say, pulling at the straps of my dress. Or rather the dress that Jillian picked out for me. “It seems a little…”

“Oh no,” Jillian says. “You promised when you got here that you would do exactly as I said.” I roll my eyes and look back into the full-length mirror hung next to Jillian’s closet.

“You look amazing,” Claire says from where she is sitting on the bed, holding her phone. She laughs at something on her screen and starts texting back. Alex Muñoz. I look at myself in the mirror. The dress is beautiful—a pale periwinkle color with beading across the hem and up one side, so that it looks like flowers made out of jewels are climbing up one of my legs. I twist to the side. It’s my legs that are freaking me out. I’m pretty sure I’ve only shown more of them on the pool deck in my swimsuit.

“You sure?” I ask for the seventeenth time.

“Oh my goodness,” Jillian says. “Yes!” I smile at myself in the mirror. I do like my hair, and my makeup looks great. As a thank you, the Food Network stylist did all three of our hair and makeup before we left Jan’s. “We need to get going,” Jillian says, looking at the clock on her bedside table. She points to the pair of heels she put out for me. I swear they look like Cinderella’s glass slippers, all crystals and Lucite. I slip them on, wincing a little at the pinch on my toes.

“Girls!” Jillian’s mother yells up the stairs. I follow Claire and Jillian out, taking one last look in the mirror as I go. I barely recognize myself. We walk down the stairs toward Jillian’s mother, who is standing in the front hall, waiting. This time, I actually do feel like Scarlett O’Hara descending Jillian’s stairs. They are long and sweep along one side of their circular entryway. I run my hand down the carved banister to keep from falling and breaking my neck.

Jillian’s mother stops us at the bottom and takes a million pictures of us; first individually then the three of us together. I hand her my camera and she takes a dozen with that one too. I promised my mother that I’d get lots of photos.
It’s not every day that I get to see you in a dress,
she said when I called her from Jan’s.

We all pile into the car parked out front. Jillian’s mom can’t complain about feeling like our chauffeur this time because there actually is a chauffeur. And while the car isn’t a limo, it’s the biggest car I’ve ever been in before and I’ve been
in Jan’s hearse plenty of times. We drive the short distance over to the Umlaut event, which is being held outside at the Bernaby Water Gardens.

“Wow,” I say as we pull up. The trees surrounding the garden have all been decorated with twinkling strings of white lights and even from inside the car I can hear the harpist that is playing near the entryway. “I really do feel like Cinderella.”

“Well,” Jillian says, pointing toward the entry. “There’s your prince.” I lean forward to look out and see Charlie standing near the front, talking to a woman with a clipboard in her hands. He is wearing a tuxedo and his hair is pulled back from his face.

“I, uh…” I look over at Claire, who is shaking her head at me. She gestures over to the reception area.
Of course.
Ben Donovan is standing there talking to several girls who all look the same, like they are actually paper dolls who’ve only recently been separated from one another. “Oh,” I say, but I feel something in my stomach. Something that is a little too much like disappointment.
Am I the girl who is now disappointed that she’s going on a date with Ben Donovan?

“Well, this is it,” Jillian’s mom says as the chauffeur comes around and opens the door. She accepts his hand and steps out of the car. Jillian and Claire follow her. I concentrate on how they do it, so I can attempt to exit the car as gracefully as they do. A big downside to arriving at an event in a fancy car with the president of the foundation is that everyone has turned and is watching us. I manage to climb out with only a
slight stumble. Luckily the chauffeur seems used to dealing with klutzy people, and his hand catches me before I wobble too much. I offer him a smile of gratitude. He nods at me and closes the door behind me. I follow Claire and Jillian and Jillian’s mother up to the entrance.

“Ready for the stop and repeat?” Jillian points over to the side where people are standing having their photos taken from every angle.

“Seriously?” I ask.

Someone touches my elbow. I look up and see Ben Donovan smiling. “Hi,” he says. “You look beautiful.” He holds my elbow as we walk over to the group of photographers clustered in front of a banner advertising all of the sponsors for the event.

“Thank you,” I say. “This is pretty amazing.”

“Um yeah,” he says, looking around. Something about the way he says it suggests that he’s been to things like this before, maybe a lot before. Jillian has her photo taken by herself, then with her mother, then with her mother and Claire. She manages to pull Charlie in for one shot. Charlie isn’t smiling. Then it’s my turn. The flashes momentarily blind me as a woman in a black dress guides me and Ben Donovan down the line. She grabs Charlie’s arm before he can leave and drags him over beside me. She instructs him to put his arm around me.

“Nice,” one of the photographers says, snapping picture after picture. The woman in the dress pulls Ben Donovan
away for some individual shots, leaving just Charlie and me.

“Cute couple,” an older woman murmurs as we pass. I glance over at Charlie, wondering if he heard her, but he’s staring toward the row of cars pulling up to the entrance.

“You look great,” I say to Charlie, but it’s so loud he doesn’t hear me. The blonde woman steers us toward another line where another woman in a black dress hands us our badges and goody bags. One peek inside confirms that these bags are way better than those we used to get at grade school birthday parties. Jillian collects them and gives them to one of the waiters who takes them somewhere for safekeeping.

Ben Donovan is at my side again. “Do you want to go inside?”

I pause, looking around for Charlie, but he’s not standing near the entrance anymore. “Sure,” I say, surprised at how disappointed I am that Charlie is gone. I let Ben Donovan steer me through the crowd and into the garden. Frank’s paintings are hanging on thin wires from the trees. They are lit by soft lights set up in the grass below them. The lighting is so subtle that the paintings almost look like they belong there, as much as the trees and flowers surrounding them. I accept a glass of something gold and bubbly with raspberries in it.

“Ginger ale,” Claire says, coming up behind me. Jeremy is with her.

“Hey there,” I say. “You clean up good.” He does look nice. His suit manages to give him a little more bulk, making him
look less scarecrow-ish and more just tall and lean. It turns out Jeremy and Ben Donovan know one another as well.

“We used to swim together,” Jeremy says.

“Of course you did,” Claire says. Jeremy and Ben Donovan start talking about the Braves and their pennant chances. I shake my head and turn toward Claire.

“Where’s Jillian?” I ask. She looks around then shrugs.

“She took off with Charlie as soon as we walked inside. He didn’t look happy,” she says. “Maybe he doesn’t like surprises after all.”

“Maybe,” I say. We stand around listening to the guys talk sports and watching the beautiful people walk by. We entertain ourselves by trying to decide what work each of the women has had done.

“Botox,” Claire says as a woman with a leopard print dress walks by. Her face barely moves when she speaks.

“Clearly,” I say. “Eye lift and lip injections,” I say about a woman with long blonde hair. Claire nods. “So what else do we do besides stand around?”

“Well, if we had a couple thousand dollars, we could bid on a painting,” Claire says. I smile.

“We should go look at them,” I say. A sudden gust of wind blows through the garden, making the paintings swing and goose bumps break out on my arms.

Claire looks up at the sky. “I hope it doesn’t rain,” she says. I look up, seeing long dark clouds whipping across the nearly full moon. I look around at all the artwork hanging in the
trees and the beautiful people dripping with diamonds and sipping champagne from tall, thin glasses. Rain would definitely be a bad thing. Claire tells Jeremy and Ben Donovan that we are going to walk around the garden and look at the artwork. They both nod but barely look at us. They’re too engrossed in some argument about how designated hitters do or do not ruin the integrity of the game.

“So,” Claire says. “Alex texted me a few minutes ago.” I smile at her. “He asked if I wanted to go out to dinner on Saturday.” She squeezes my arm. “I told him no, of course.”

“What?” I ask. “Why? I thought you liked him.”

“I’m not going to bail on my best friend on her birthday.”

“Oh that,” I say. “Claire, it’s fine. Let’s just do my birthday on Sunday.”

“You sure?” she asks. She’s trying for nonchalance, like it doesn’t matter to her one way or the other, but it’s not working that well.

I laugh. “Yes, I am very sure.” Claire pulls her phone from her bag and starts typing on it. I turn away to look at one of the paintings, but I’m really looking for Jillian and Charlie. Two women walk up next to me to study the same painting.

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” one of them says. The other one looks surprised. “Dorian must be getting awfully nervous.” Dorian is Jillian’s mother. I wonder who hasn’t arrived yet.

“Well, you know artist types,” the other one says. “I’m sure he’s just being dramatic. He’ll turn up.” They walk down the sidewalk to the next painting.

Claire comes up beside me. She’s smiling. “He says he can’t wait.” I look at her, confused. “Alex,” she says.

“Oh. Claire, that’s great.” I look across the garden again, trying to find Jillian or her mother or Charlie. Or for that matter Charlie’s dad.

“What is it?” Claire asks. She smiles at me. “You’re looking for Charlie, aren’t you?”

I look over at her, seeing a satisfied look on her face. “Well, yeah, but…” She continues to smirk at me. “Charlie’s dad hasn’t shown up yet,” I say. Claire is clearly as surprised as I am.

“We should find Charlie,” she says. We walk through the garden as quickly as we can considering the crowd and our high heels. We see Jillian’s mother talking on her cell phone near the koi pond. She nods at us but turns away, obviously freaked. Another gust of wind, harder this time, whips up the trail. We find Jeremy and Ben Donovan, this time both talking to the paper doll girls. They both look at us sort of sheepishly, but we just keep walking toward the large tent where tables and chairs have been set up for people to sit down. Dozens of people dressed all in black circle the room with trays filled with crab cakes and tiny quiches.

“There’s Jillian,” I say, spotting her near the entrance at back of the tent through which the serving people keep appearing and disappearing. We thread our way through the crowd, navigating the maze of people and tables, but by the time we reach the back of the tent Jillian is gone. A gust
of wind makes the tent flaps flutter. We peek through the opening. The makeshift kitchen is filled with half a dozen chefs in white coats and checked pants, working grills and wielding pastry bags. A long table is set up along one end of the kitchen, where more serving people are filling trays with different canapés and shot glasses filled with something bright green.

“Piper,” Claire says softly, putting her hand on my arm. She nods toward the other side of the tent, where piles of coolers and empty metal pans are stacked. Sitting on one of the coolers is Charlie. His hair is hanging forward, covering his face. Across from him on another cooler is his dad, Frank. Claire and I stand, watching as Charlie reaches out and puts a hand on his father’s shoulder. Frank looks up at him. I gasp when I see his face. He’s a wreck. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are red, bloodshot. Jillian sees us standing there and motions for us to leave.

“We should go,” Claire says, pulling my elbow. We turn to walk out of the kitchen. Unfortunately I turn just in time to come face to face with one of the servers who is headed back into the kitchen to refill his tray. The good part is that it isn’t one of the drink trays with the dozens of empty glasses; the bad part is that even an empty tray can make a lot of racket when it’s knocked to the floor. I apologize, trying to step around the server, who is stooped to pick up the fallen tray. I look back to where Charlie is sitting with his father. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. And
while his father is sitting with his head in his hands again, Charlie is looking up. And he’s looking straight at me.

I follow Claire out into the garden, where the servers have ditched their trays and are now busy moving all of the paintings into the big tent. Because instead of the sky just threatening rain, it looks like it actually
is
going to rain. I see Jillian’s mother flitting around the garden, directing the servers and guests to head indoors. Claire and I stop under one of the blooming dogwood trees near the fountain.

“He looks terrible,” I say, not sure whether I’m talking about Frank or Charlie.

“Yeah,” Claire says. “I had no idea.”

I shake my head. “Me neither,” I say, but memories tug at me. Frank’s increasing antisocial behavior and Charlie’s general sadness.