Until We Meet Again (3 page)

Charles claps a hand on my back. His breath reeks of the
cheap hooch Uncle Ned had brought in from New York.
“There’s the birthday boy,” he slurs.
“Charles, did you see a girl come in from the beach?”
“You mean Fay?”
My words halt. It wouldn’t sound great that I’ve been out
on the beach alone with another girl. I cast my eyes around
the manic crowd. The jazz band jangles and crashes like some
crazy, delirious music box. Everywhere arms raise, glasses
glinting with frothy drinks in hand. A sea of bobbed hair,
dark and platinum alike, bounces and dances as if on its
own accord.
But I don’t see the strange girl from the beach anywhere.
Aware of Charles watching me, I nod vaguely. “Sure. Where
is Fay?”
“She’s over by the band. She was looking for you earlier. I
tried to get her to dance with me, but she wouldn’t have it. She
only has eyes for you, lover boy.”
I swat him away, grinning as I walk past, but the smile fades
the moment he’s out of view. A woman with a glittering headband and feather boa crashes into me, giggling, before she runs
off to join her friend. To the left, several swells are laughing it
up and slapping their knees. I want to go back to the beach. To
the soft, cool sand. The breezy quiet of the surf.
At the top of the patio, I scan once more for the girl. For
Cassandra. She should stand out pretty well. Her unique dress,
her hair, all long and golden brown.
“Looking for someone?”
Fay Cartwright’s voice curls up like a purring cat on my
shoulder. I turn and she’s standing beside me with that half
smile that suggests a dozen secrets. The dark lining around her
lashes brings out the hazel of her eyes in a sultry, sleepy way.
She always looks like she knows something I don’t want her
to know. For a moment, a flicker of fear lights in me that she
somehow spotted me on the beach talking with Cassandra.
She moves a little closer and her arm grazes mine. I can smell
the perfume she’s dabbed on her slender neck. Her raven hair
falls in a sharp angle against her cheek. The Cartwright family
is hardly a fixture in North Shore society—I’ve never even seen
her folks at any of these parties—but Fay’s beauty is enough for
most to overlook her new money.
“Big crowd tonight,” she murmurs.
“Ned shouldn’t have.”
“Sure he should. It’s not every day a boy turns eighteen.”
“Maybe so. But I would have been happier with a simple
dinner, a few friends. Maybe going to a talkie in Crest Harbor.”
Fay smirks a little. “Not a fan of the crowds?”
“Not exactly.”
“They rather excite me,” she says, a glint in her eye. “But
tell you what, why don’t you and I go somewhere a little more
secluded? I can help you relax.”
Her finger traces my jacket sleeve and brushes ever so slightly
against my hand. She turns and walks slowly toward the house,
her gold dress shimmering with the gentle sway of her hips. It’s
like a siren’s song, and I find myself drawn after her.
Just before I enter the house, Uncle Ned calls my name. He’s
sitting on the patio with his neighborhood cronies. The gleam
of burning cigar ends light their genial smiles. Ned is by far the
largest man in the group. He’s tall and broad, with a belly to
beat them all. His crop of black hair is the only physical trait
he and my father share.
“Lon, my boy, come over here.”
I cast a look at Fay, who’s paused at the base of the marble
staircase. She shrugs a little and grabs a drink from a passing
waiter’s tray. Lifting it, she winks and takes a sip. She’ll wait for
me. I hope.
Ned pours a round of brandy as I approach.
“Here, son. You take a drink. You’re a man now, by George.”
He speaks with genuine affection. Ned’s wife, Stella, died
before she could give him any children and he’s always treated
me like a son. I think that’s why, when Mother died last year,
Ned became more involved in our lives than ever before.
Because he understands the loss.
“Thanks,” I say to him.
Orson Baker gives me a slap on the back. “Little Lonnie’s all
grown up. Who could believe it? When are you going to college, kiddo?”
“His pop back home has it all set up,” Ned answers for me,
his smile positively brimming with pride. “He starts Harvard
in the fall.”
The middle-aged men all nod with approval and lift their
brandies to me. I want to tell them to save their breath. I
want to tell them that my father may have it all set up, but
that doesn’t mean I’m going. But I offer as genial a smile as I
can manage.
Aunt Eloise joins us. She’s Ned and my father’s older sister.
She lives an hour or so away and acts as Ned’s mother hen,
always keeping an eye out for the lonely old bachelor. Tonight,
she’s wearing her gaudiest dress, a knee-length number with
sewn-on pearls and crystals. She wants to look like the wildest flapper in the room. Anything to hide her graying hair and
sagging face. I try my best to compliment her. Aging does vex
her so.
“Lonnie,” she says loudly, already tipsy. “There you are. Fay
was looking everywhere for you.”
“I’m all right, Aunt Eloise,” I say, giving her a quick peck on
the cheek.
“You lovely boy.” She laughs, touching my face. She turns
to her companions. “Such a treat to have him so close by for
the summer. We begged and begged. Didn’t we, Ned? And he’s
having a fine time. You’re having a fine time, aren’t you, Lonnie?”
“Sure am.” I check to make sure Fay’s still waiting for me.
She is, but she’s passing the time chatting with some tall, grinning joe who can’t keep his eyes off Fay’s bosom. My left hand
tightens into a fist.
“I better run,” I say. “Fay’s waiting for me.”
“Of course,” Ned says, giving me a pat on the back. “You
have fun. But be back by midnight to blow out the candles!
There may be a surprise waiting for you.”
He winks at his friends. There’s a dancing girl in the cake.
I’ve already heard from Charles. With a weary smile, I remind
myself to act surprised.
“See you later.”
I weave my way past the jubilant partygoers into my uncle’s
house. When Fay spots me approaching, her lips curl in an
irrepressible smile. I come up beside her. The fellow gives me a
dumb look.
“You got a problem, pal?” he asks. “I was talking with the lady.”
“You were trying. Here’s a hint for next time: her eyes are
up here.”
Fay laughs behind her hand. The rube bristles, but he can
read the writing on the wall.
“Ah, keep her,” he says. He fiercely smoothes his hair back
and sulks off. When he’s gone, Fay folds her arms.
“Well, I had to get your attention somehow.”
“Believe me, you have it.”
She smiles and straightens my tie, even though it’s perfect as
is. “Now,” she murmurs. “Where were we?”
“I believe you wanted to help me relax.”
“That’s right.” She turns and glides up the stairs with the grace
of a cat. I take a step after her, but something makes me pause.
The thought of the strange girl on the beach. Silly, perhaps. I
don’t even know her. But even that brief encounter reminded
me of everything I’ve let myself fall into this summer. The parties, the gang of friends, even Fay. They seem to be everything
I want. And yet…why do I feel like I’m floundering and doing
nothing to stop it?
Fay pauses on the stairs, looking back at me. She tilts her
head just so, beckoning. Maybe it’s because I’m a weak man,
but I accept what Ned and Fay and my father place before me.
Self-loathing settles in my gut like a coiled snake. Thrusting
my hands into my pockets, I follow Fay into the whispering
shadows beyond the party.

breakfast, the omelet Frank made me is cold. Mom’s
wiping the counters and calling for Eddie to pick up his racecar track. When she notices me, her eyes shadow with an
inscrutable look.

“I’m surprised you slept in so late. You went to bed pretty
early.”
I shrug and slump up to the bar. I stab a fork into the rocksolid omelet.
“Have one of these instead,” Mom says, sliding a raspberry
pastry across the granite bar. I accept the olive branch with a
smile. A half smile, really. It’s the best I can manage with the
mood I’m in this morning.
Frank glides in, the Wall Street Journal tucked under his arm.
“Mornin’, Sassy Cassie. Have a good rest?”
I shrug, hoping my mouth full of pastry will excuse me from
having to make small talk.
Frank pours himself a glass of orange juice. “So, did you have
a nice time at the party last night?”
“Mmm,” I mumble noncommittally through my food. My
mind is pulled once again to my strange, ultimately frustrating
conversation with Lawrence.
“Keep getting to know the folks around here,” Frank says,
giving an optimistic wink. “Lots of really great people.”
“Mm-hmm.” I say again. I mentally calculate my fastest tactful
exit from this conversation.
“Some really important people too,” he goes on, thinking I’ll
be impressed. But his words do spark a question.
“That reminds me,” I say. “Someone at the party was talking to
me about Ned Foster. I’m guessing you know who he is.”
“Ned Foster,” Frank says, pondering the name. “Huh. Can’t
say that I do. But there is Foster family over near Weston. Old
stock. They’ve had relatives here since the eighteen hundreds, if
I’m not mistaken.”
Just as I thought. Crest Harbor royalty.
Mom points at Frank suddenly, her memory jolted. “Didn’t a
Foster build this house back in the nineteen twenties? I think I
remember the real estate agent telling me something about that.”
“Could be,” Frank says, sipping his orange juice. “You know I
don’t pay attention to that kind of stuff, Cuddle Bug.”
I’d normally roll my eyes at Frank’s nicknames, but my mind is
too busy turning over what Mom said.
“So, do the Fosters still own this land or something?” I ask.
“Are we renting from them?”
“Oh no,” Mom says. “No, the Fosters sold the property not
long after they’d bought it. Rather suddenly, I guess. Can’t
remember why.”
I stab my fork into the raspberry center of what’s left of my
pastry. What was Lawrence talking about then? Is he some kind
of expert on the old homes of Crest Harbor or something? I sure
hope not. That would make him both stuck-up and pretentious.
And intriguing.
And stupidly attractive.
His smile lingers in my mind like a dull ache. I puff out a
breath. No, he’s a jerk. Don’t forget how he acted last night. Like
he owned the whole town.
So, why do I still want to find out more about him?
Because I’m stupid. I accept this fact.
“Can I hang out with Travis today?” I ask, looking up at Mom
hopefully. He’d know more about Lawrence, I’m betting.
“Not on your life. Your butt is grounded, Cass.”
“He can come here.”
“Nope. You have chores, then summer reading, and then, if
I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you have your laptop after lunch.”
I sigh loudly. “Fantastic.”
Mom’s face is an iron wall of indifference to my plight. “You
made your bed, now you have to lie in it.”
I flop off the bar stool and march toward the stairs. “Actually,
I didn’t make my bed yet this morning. But I think I will go lie
in it.”
“I’m so proud,” Mom calls as I stomp up the stairs.

Being grounded isn’t the worst punishment Mom could have
given me, if only because it’s almost no different from the
rest of this summer vacation. But somehow I’m in my worst
mood yet. As two uneventful days lurch by, the restlessness
morphs into bitterness. Soured like old milk.

By the third day, I’m in such a lousy mood that the sound
of Frank slurping his watermelon after dinner sends me to the
edge of hysteria. I need to get out of here fast. I grab two dripping slices and announce that I’m going to get some fresh air.
Mom and Frank can barely mask their relief. I’m sure I’ve been
an absolute treat to be around.

Munching the watermelon, I tromp out onto the lawn. As
I walk, I realize I’m headed to the beach. Of course. I hesitate
for a moment. How pathetic is it to go back there? Very. But
then again, at this point, how’s that any worse?

Setting my jaw, I press ahead. I need to see the beach again.
I need to get its association with Lawrence out of my system.
As I approach the pathway, the sound of surf drifts toward me,
making my heart skip a little. Which is ridiculous. Glaring, I
push through the bushes and burst out onto the sand.

And there he is.
Lawrence. Emerging from the water. Shirtless. Wearing
funny, little swim trunks. He smoothes the water from his tousled hair and his eyes lock on mine.
I would chalk this up to a really pathetic daydream on my
part, if not for the equally stunned expression that crosses his
face. For a split second, we stare at each other. “Cassandra?” he
calls over the pound of surf.
He takes me in, as if checking if I’m real. I’m at once aware of
the watermelon juice on my chin, of my too-short, shredding
jean shorts, of my hair in a scraggly bun. I scrape my arm over
my mouth.
“What on earth are you doing here?” I demand, marching
down to the grass so he can hear me.
“I’m…swimming?”
My eyes unavoidably go to his bare arms and chest. His body
is firm, but not in the gross, too-much-weightlifting kind of
way. He’s not buff but clearly strong. As I stare, a trickle of
water slides down his bare chest, like liquid gold in the early
evening sun.
I snap my gaze back up to his face. Focus, Cass.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “I can see that you’re swimming. I mean,
what are you doing here? On private property.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, laughing a little.
These rich people really are too much. There’s probably a
path to this beach somewhere over by the point, which makes
it as good as public property, right?
“It’s quite an unexpected surprise to see you,” Lawrence says,
his smile derailing my train of thought.
I brush a windblown strand of hair from my face and fold my
arms.
“Listen—”
“I’m glad you came back,” he says, stepping forward to grab
his towel. “We ended on such a bad note the other night. I
thought for sure I’d never see you again.”
His words throw me off. Suddenly, the crisp response I had
vanishes on my tongue. He gives his hair a quick rub with
his towel, giving it that perfectly sexy, tousled look. Then he
smiles, putting the final seal on my tongue-tied state.
“Did you come for a swim?” he asks. “The water’s excellent.”
“Uh, no. I was…brooding again, I guess.”
“Seems to be a favorite pastime of yours. What burdens you
so, Cassandra?”
I roll my eyes. “I told you already.”
“That’s right,” he says, pointing. “The subtle anguish of
life.”
I nod, though I’m surprised he remembered. “Something
like that.”
“I hoped you were simply trying to get a laugh out of me.”
Lawrence looks into my eyes, his gaze piercing. “I’d be sad to
know you truly are unhappy.”
My stomach flutters. I look away from him. “Don’t worry.
I’ll live.”
“You know, brooding can only get you so far. You really ought
to try a swim. The ocean’s good for the soul.”
“I’m okay just looking at it.”
Lawrence turns a glance to the waves beyond, sparkling in the
golden evening sun. “True. It’s undeniably lovely. The second
most beautiful thing to look at on this beach.”
“Oh gosh. You really are a player.”
“I’m a man bound by truth.” He drapes the towel around his
neck. Then he lifts his chin, as if trying to remember something.
“Of truth and sea, her eyes become
Bound, endless in the vast beyond.
And morning starlight’s milky shine
Reverberates her soul in mine.”
I bite back what certainly must be a dopey grin. I’m a sucker
for a boy who recites poetry. “Is that…Byron?” I ask, uncertain.
Lawrence laughs. “No, though I’m quite flattered. That’s
my poetry.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your poetry? As in, you wrote it?”
“Tried to.” When I offer nothing more than skeptical silence,
Lawrence says, “Is it really so hard to believe?”
This information still needs processing. After a restless three
days trying very hard not to think about Lawrence, seeing him
again, shirtless and reciting poetry, is seriously throwing me for a
loop. I start to walk along the shoreline. He keeps pace beside me.
“Well,” I say carefully. “You don’t meet many guys that write
poetry. And those that do are…” I start to say “not as hot as
you,” but thankfully stop myself.
“Are what?” Lawrence asks. “Drunks?”
“Not exactly the word I was looking for.”
“I’m not. Just so you know.”
I smirk. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
We walk in comfortable silence. Lawrence bends his head a
little to meet my gaze. “So, what did you think? Of my poetry,
I mean. Did you like it?”
“Not bad.” This downplayed response takes some effort.
“I’ll accept that.” Judging by his smile and the way he keeps
his eyes on me, I can’t help but feel that he’s well aware the
effect he has.
“Don’t you have a shirt or something?” I ask, trying my best
not to look at him.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“No,” I say with an incredulous laugh that comes across as
trying way too hard to sound incredulous. Lawrence holds a
smile, and I feel my face flush. Get on your game, Cass. This
is ridiculous.
Lawrence walks up the beach and grabs a white linen shirt
that had been hanging on the bushes. He pulls it over his head
and jogs back to me. I’m ready for him.
“So,” I say, as he comes to my side, “I assume you write poetry
to help convince ditzy blonds that you’re deep and interesting,
and then they’ll want to sleep with you.”
Lawrence presses a hand over his heart. “She strikes to kill!”
“I’m calling it as I see it.”
“Well, in this case, you happen to be wrong.”
“I don’t think I am. I’ve got you pegged.”
“Not quite.” The corners of Lawrence’s smile fade. That
distant, pensive look returns. “Actually, I’ve never shared my
poetry with anyone else. Other than my father. And he made it
quite clear how useless he thought it was.”
This slows my pace. If Lawrence is playing me, he actually
deserves serious props, because, holy crap, he’s convincing.
“It’s not useless,” I say softly. “What I heard wasn’t, anyway. I
mean…maybe the other stanzas suck.”
Lawrence doesn’t reply. I bite my lip. I don’t want the conversation to end. Not yet. I need to investigate more. Time to
lower the wall of sarcasm a bit.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think it’s pretty awesome that
you write.”
“Thanks,” he says, but he still seems distant.
A particularly large wave rushes up, the white foam lapping
our feet. I turn to dodge it and notice that the sun has slipped
behind the house and out of sight. The clouds burn red and
purple. It’s a hot, humid night, and the wind carries the scent
of sea and fresh-cut grass. As I breathe it in, a warm, buzzing
sense of well-being spreads over me. For the first time in a long
time, I feel the strongest urge to get out my canvas and brushes.
That sky represents everything that’s perfect about summer.
“Beautiful sunset,” Lawrence says, following my gaze.
“It’s flawless.”
Our eyes meet, and there’s something in his expression that
I can’t put my finger on. I get reckless when I’m happy, so I
decide to fish it out of him.
“So,” I start to walk again, “you say you’ve never let anyone
read your poetry.”
“That’s right.”
“Then why did you recite some to me?”
“A good question,” Lawrence says, nodding. “Why did I?”
“Do you not know, or are you trying to be cute?”
“I really don’t know,” he admits. “There’s something about
you…”
It’s the kind of line every artsy girl wants to hear. And as
clichéd as it might be, I melt a little inside. This guy is good.
We walk down closer to the shore. The cool water skims
against our toes. Lawrence bends to pick up a rock and gives it
a firm toss into the ocean.
“What is it?” he asks. “What is it that makes you so different?”
“I’ve always been weird. It’s kind of my thing.”
“That’s not what I meant. It’s not every day you meet a girl
who knows poetry.”
I shrug. “I guess not, though I don’t know a ton. I’m more of
an artist. Painter.”
Lawrence stops, staring at me. “That so?”
“Yes, but I’m not the drunk kind either. Only during my
blue period.”
He nods, impressed.” I think that’s swell,” he says earnestly.
I laugh at his choice of words. “Yeah. It’s really swell.”
“What do you paint?” He seems genuinely interested.
“Well, I’d paint that sunset, for one thing.”
“Ah, yes. You do landscapes then?”
“Sometimes. I paint a little of everything. Whatever reaches
out and grabs me by the collar.”
Lawrence hasn’t taken his eyes off me. His smile of unmasked
admiration makes my heart blossom in my chest.
“I knew there was something different about you.”
“Oddly enough, I feel the same about you.” I’m getting dizzy
trying to figure this guy out. It’s exciting and puts me on alert
at the same time. “Can I ask you a random question? Were you
raised in a foreign country? Or maybe a hippie commune? A
friendly cult?”
Lawrence looks amused. “No. Why?”
I shake my head. “No reason.”
“We really are a pair of odd ducks, aren’t we, Cassandra?”
“The fact that you use the phrase ‘odd ducks’ illustrates
that perfectly.”
He looks at me again in that way of his. Bold, unassuming,
and curious, as if he’s taking me in and not afraid to show it.
“I want to know more about you,” he says. “If you’ll give me
the chance.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I might be open to that.”
“Why don’t you come in the house? Our cook can get you
some ice cream while I change. And then we can talk more.”
“You live close to here?” I ask.
Lawrence points toward my house. “I’d say it’s pretty close.”
I perk up. I thought all of the neighboring houses were
empty, their owners off in Europe or the Maldives or whatever
obscure, luxury vacation spots the wealthy flock to. But he’s
close? That means we can actually see more of each other? I’m
grounded, but I can get around that.
I cast a glance down at my ragged, watermelon-juice-dripped
shorts. Maybe it’s vain, but if we’re really going to hang out I
want to look cute.
“Give me five minutes to change?”
“Sure, unless you were hoping to go for a swim.”
Does he think this is my bathing suit or something? “No,” I
say. “That’s your thing, remember?”
I start toward the house. I don’t want to give him a reason to
change his mind. “Meet me out front by the street, and then
we’ll walk to your place?”
A flicker of confusion crosses Lawrence’s face, but he shrugs.
“I guess, if you want, but—”
“I know it’s lame, but I’m a girl. Humor me.”
I turn back to the house before he can respond. Leave them
wanting more, Jade always says. I roll my eyes at my own
thoughts. It’s ridiculous how excited I feel right now. I prance,
literally prance, back into the house.
Mom and Frank are chatting in the living room. In a single
bound, I fly over the back of the white leather couch, drop at
Mom’s side, and latch my arms around her in a bear hug.
“What on earth?” Mom asks. “Who are you, and what have
you done with my mopey teenage daughter?”
“I’m still her,” I say, batting my eyelashes sweetly. “Only now
I want a suspension of my grounding.”
Mom smirks. “I should have guessed.”
I jump to my knees beside her to properly beg. “Okay, so I
met this guy the night of your party—”
“Oh dear,” Mom says, taking off her reading glasses.
“He’s really nice. He’s very polite. We’re going to hang out
for a little while.” I grab her hand and press it to my cheek.
“Pleeeeeeease?”
Mom turns a skeptical look to Frank, but he’s already sold.
“It’s nice to have our happy Cass back.”
“True,” Mom says. “You have been a pill lately.”
I nod. “I know. But I swear I’ll stop. I’ll be better. I’ll be an
absolute delight.”
Mom and Frank laugh—a promising sign—and then Mom
sighs. “Fine. But you’d better be back by curfew, kiddo.”
“Absolutely,” I vow.
Mom rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. I throw another hug
around her. “You’re the best!”
As I gallop up the stairs to my room, I catch them exchanging amused and exasperated whispers. Doubtless, a conversation about the tempestuous nature of teenagers will ensue. And
rightfully so. But I don’t mind. Right now, all I care about is
finding a cute outfit, brushing my hair, and getting my butt
out to the street.
Digging through the tangled mess of my closet, I manage
find a cool blue T-shirt and a less shabby pair of shorts. A high
ponytail masks my unwashed hair, and a cute pair of earrings
finishes the look. I purposefully don’t spend too much time
getting ready. I don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard.
Even though I kind of am…
As I run back downstairs, I can’t suppress my smile. It’s silly
to be so excited, but my excuse is that I’m not excited about
seeing Lawrence, per se; it’s more that I’m just happy something interesting is happening in general.
I force my pace to a slow, casual stroll as I walk the long
driveway. I pass the gate and look down both directions of the
street. In the twilight, only the lamp posts show any indication
of civilization. Cicadas buzz loudly in the surrounding hedges.
The glint of fireflies flickers in the woods beyond. And then,
somewhere in the distance, like in a horror movie, a dog barks.
But there’s no sign of Lawrence.
My lips purse in a little frown. I took longer than five minutes to get ready, but not that much longer. I peer down the
street again. Nothing. My mind starts to tick through possible scenarios. Did he wait and think I wasn’t coming? Did he
get detained at home? Maybe his parents are holding him up.
Maybe he’s getting ready himself? I’ll give him five minutes.
Ten minutes pass.
Then fifteen.
Twenty…
A knot sits heavy in the pit of my stomach. I’ve been stood
up. Was this all some kind of sick joke? The thought makes
me queasy. He doesn’t seem like the type. Or does he? Didn’t I
see the warning signs right from the start? But I ignored them
because I was attracted to his brooding, poetry-reciting self.
Which is probably exactly what he’d planned.
Feeling sick, I stare up the street yet again, hoping against
hope that I will see his dark outline appear. My pathetic hope
fills me with a surge of shame. He’s not coming. I must look so
stupid waiting here on an empty street. My face goes hot, and I
dash back to the house. I can’t get inside fast enough.
As I head upstairs, I hear Mom’s voice.
“Cass? You’re back?”
My promises of sweet, cheerful behavior taste like salt on my
tongue. I want to yell at her. I want to act out. I want her to
know I’m in pain. But I swallow the words down.
“We’ve decided to meet another time,” I call, trying my best
to sound normal.