Kissed by an Angel

by Элизабет Чандлер

  Ivy shrugged. "You're part of the in crowd, I guess."

  "You really are innocent!" he exclaimed.

  She wished that he would let go of her. She glanced past him to the next set of bleachers, where his friends sat. Eric Ghent and another guy were talking to Twinkie now and laughing. The ultra-cool Will O'Leary looked back at her.

  Gregory withdrew his hand. He left with still bright with laughter. When Ivy turned back to the pool again, she saw that three rubber-capped guys in identical little swimsuits had been watching her. She had no idea which, if any, of them was Tristan.

  Chapter 2

  "I feel like a fool," Tristan said, peeking through the diamond-shaped window in the door between the kitchen and the dining room of the college's Alumni Club. Candelabra were being lit and crystal stemware checked. In the large kitchen where he and Gary were standing, tables were laid out with polished fruit and hors d'oeuvres. Tristan had no idea what most of the hors d'oeuvres were or if they were to be served in any special way. He hoped simply that they and the champagne glasses would stay on the up side of his tray.

  Gary was struggling with his cuff links. The cummerbund of his rental tuxedo kept unwrapping itself from his waist, its Velcro failing to stick. One of his shiny black shoes, a size too small, was tied with an emergency purple sneaker lace. Gary was a real friend, Tristan thought, to agree to this scheme.

  "Remember, it's good money," Tristan said aloud, "and we need it for the Midwest meet."

  Gary grunted. "We'll see what's left after we pay for the damages."

  "All of it!" Tristan replied with confidence. How hard could it be to carry this stuff around? He and Gary were swimmers. Their natural athletic balance had given them the right to fib about their experience when they interviewed with the caterer. A piece of cake, this job.

  Tristan picked up a silver tray and surveyed his reflection. "I don't just feel like a fool-I look like one."

  "You are one," said Gary. "And I want you to know I'm not that much of a fool to believe your line about earning money for the Midwest meet."

  "What do you mean?"

  Gary snatched up a spaghetti mop and held it so its spongy strings flopped over his head. "Oh, Tristy," he said in a high-pitched voice, "what a surprise to see you at my mother's wedding!"

  "Shut up, Gary."

  "Oh, Tristy, put down that tray and dance with me." Gary smiled and patted the mop's spongy head.

  "Her hair doesn't look like that."

  "Oh, Tristy, I just caught my mother's bouquet. Let's run away and get married."

  "I don't want to marry her! I just want her to know I exist. I just want to go out with her. Once! If she doesn't like me, well…" Tristan shrugged as if it didn't matter, as if the worst crush he'd ever had in his life might really disappear overnight.

  "Oh, Tristy-" "I'm going to kick your-" The kitchen door swung open. "Gentlemen," said Monsieur Pompideau, "the wedding guests have arrived and are ready to be served. Could Fortune be so smiling upon us that you two experienced garcons would be available to help serve them?"

  "Is he being sarcastic?" Gary asked.

  Tristan rolled his eyes, and they hurried to join the other waiters at their stations.

  For the first ten minutes, Tristan occupied himself with watching the other workers, trying to learn his job. He knew that girls and women liked his smile, and he used it for all it was worth, especially when the caviar he was serving leaped like a fully evolved fish into an older woman's lap.

  He worked his way around the large reception hall, searching for Ivy, sneaking peeks while big-bellied men unloaded his trays. Two of them went away wearing their drinks and muttering, but he barely noticed. All he could think about was Ivy. If he came face-to-face with her, what would he say? "Have some crab balls?" Or perhaps, "May I suggest le bailee de crabbe?"

  Yeah, that would impress her.

  What kind of guy had he turned into? Why should he, Tristan Carruthers, a guy hanging up in a hundred girls' lockers (maybe a slight exaggeration) need to impress her, a girl uninterested in hanging in his locker or anybody else's, for all he could tell? She walked the same halls he did, but it was as if she traveled in another world.

  He'd noticed her on her first day at Stonehill. It wasn't just her different kind of beauty, that wild tangle of kinky gold hair and her sea green eyes, that made him want to look and look, and touch.

  It was the way she seemed free of things other people were caught up in- the way she focused on the person she was talking to, without scanning the crowd to see who else was there; the way she dressed not to look like everyone else; the way she lost herself in a song. He had stood in the doorway of the school music room one day, mesmerized. Of course, she hadn't even noticed him.

  He doubted that Ivy knew he existed. But was this catering thing really a good way to clue her in? After recovering a fat crab ball that had rolled to a stop between some pointy-toed shoes, he was starting to doubt it.

  Then he saw her. She was in pink-and pink and pink: yards of pink sparkly stuff that fell off her shoulders and must have had some kind of hoop under its skirt.

  Gary passed by him then. Tristan turned a little too quickly and their elbows hit. Eight glasses shivered on their stems, spilling dark wine.

  "Some dress!" Gary said with a quiet snicker.

  Tristan shrugged. He knew the dress was cheesy, but he didn't care. "Eventually she'll take it off," he reasoned.

  "Pretty cocky there, buddy."

  "That's not what I meant! What I-" "Pompideau," Gary warned, and the two of them quickly parted. The caterer snagged Tristan, however, and hauled him into the kitchen. When Tristan emerged again, he was carrying a lowlying spread of vegetables and a shallow bowl of dip-stuff that couldn't spill. He noticed that some of the guests seemed to recognize him now and moved quickly out of his way when he approached. Which meant he carried a full tray round and round, hardly needing to look where he was going, and had plenty of time to scope out the party.

  "Hey, swimmer. Sssswimmer."

  It was someone from school calling him, probably one of Gregory's friends. Tristan had never liked the guys or girls in Gregory's crowd. All of them had money and flaunted it. They did some stupid things and were always looking for a new thrill.

  "Sssswimmer, are you deaf?" the guy called out. Eric Ghent, thin-faced and blond, lounged against the wall, one hand hanging on to a candle sconce.

  "I'm sorry," said Tristan. "Were you talking to me?"

  "I know you, Waller. I know you. Is this what you do between laps?" Eric let go of the sconce and swayed a little.

  "This is what I do so I can afford to do laps," Tristan replied.

  "Great. I'll buy you ssssome more laps."

  "What?"

  "I'll make it worth your time, Waller, to get me a drink."

  Tristan looked Eric over. "I think you've already had one."

  Eric held up four fingers, then dropped his hand limply.

  "Four," Tristan corrected himself.

  "This is a private party," Eric said. "They'll serve under age. Private party or not, they'll serve whatever to whoever old Baines wants them to ssserve. The man buys everybody, you know."

  That's where Gregory learned it from, Tristan thought to himself. "Well, then," he said aloud, "the bar's over there." He tried to move on, but Eric placed himself squarely in front of Tristan.

  "Problem is, I've been cut off."

  Tristan took a deep breath.

  "I need a drink, Waller. And you need some bucks."

  "I don't take tips," Tristan said.

  Eric started to laugh. "Well, maybe you don't get them-I've been watching you bump around.

  But I think you'd take 'em."

  "Sorry."

  "We need each other," Eric said. "We've got a choice. We can help each other or hurt each other."

  Tristan didn't reply.

  "Know what I mean, Waller?"

  "I know what you mean, but I can't help you out."


  Eric took a step toward him. Tristan took a step back. Eric stepped closer again.

  Tristan tensed. Gregory's friend was a lightweight in Tristan's book, the same height but nowhere near as broad as Tristan. Still, the guy was drunk and had nothing to lose-such as a large tray loaded with vegetables.

  No problem, thought Tristan. A quick sidestep would send Eric plunging to his knees, then flat on his face.

  But Tristan hadn't counted on the bridal party passing through at that moment. Catching sight of them out of the corner of his eye, he suddenly had to shift direction. He slammed into the lurching Eric. Celery and cauliflower, mushrooms and pepper curls, broccoli and snow peas were launched toward a chandelier, then rained down upon the party.

  And then she looked at him. Ivy, sparkling Ivy. For a moment their eyes met, hers round as the cherry tomatoes that rolled onto her mother's train.

  Tristan was sure that she finally knew he existed.

  And he was just as sure that she'd never go out with him. Never.

  "Maybe you were right, Ivy," Suzanne whispered as they looked down at the splatter of raw vegetables. "On land, Tristan's a klutz."

  What is he doing here? Ivy wondered. Why didn't he stay in his pool, where he belongs? She knew her friends would be convinced he was following her around, and it embarrassed her.

  Beth picked her way toward them, spearing a tomato with her high heel. "Perhaps this is how he earns money," she said, reading Ivy's troubled face.

  Suzanne shook her head. "Throwing broccoli at the bride?"

  "That cute redheaded swimmer is here, too," Beth went on. Her frosted hair was up on her head that night, making her look even more like a sweet-faced owl.

  "Neither of them knows what he's doing," Suzanne observed. "They're here just for tonight." Ivy sighed.

  "I guess Tristan's hard up," Beth said.

  "For money or for Ivy?" Suzanne asked, and they both laughed.

  "Oh, come on, Ivy," Beth said, touching her gently on the arm. "It's funny! I bet his eyes got big when he saw what you were wearing."

  Suzanne made her eyes gigantic and started humming the theme from Gone with the Wind.

  Ivy grimaced. She knew she looked like Scarlett O'Hara dropped in a bucket of glitter.

  But it was the gown her mother had picked out especially for her.

  Suzanne kept humming.

  "I bet Gregory's eyes got big when he saw what you weren't wearing," Ivy told her friend, hoping to shut her up. Suzanne was in a plunging black sheath.

  "I certainly hope so!"

  "And speaking of," said Beth.

  "There you are, Ivy." Gregory's voice was warm and almost intimate. Suzanne swung toward him. He offered Ivy his arm. "We're expected at the head table."

  With her hand resting lightly on his arm, Ivy fell into step beside him, wishing Suzanne could go in her place. Her mother looked up as the two of them approached, beaming at Ivy in her plantation-poof gown.

  "Thank you," Ivy said as Gregory held out her chair for her.

  He smiled at her-that secret kind of smile she had first seen at the swim meet. He leaned down, his lips close to her bare neck. "My pleasure, ma'am."

  Ivy's skin prickled a little. He's playing, she told herself. Just play along. Since the swim meet, he had been teasing her and trying to be friendly, and she knew she should give him credit for that; but Ivy preferred the old, cold Gregory.

  She had understood completely his icy response when she arrived at his school. She knew it must have been a terrible shock when he found out that Maggie was moving her brood from their apartment in Norwalk to one his father was leasing in Stonehill, and that this was in preparation for marriage.

  Andrew and Maggie's affair had begun years earlier. But affairs were affairs, people said, and Andrew and her mother were such an odd romantic pair-a very wealthy and distinguished president of a college and his wife's hairdresser. Who'd have guessed that years after their fling, years after Andrew's divorce, he and Maggie would tie the knot?

  It had been a shock even to Ivy. Her own father had died when she was an infant. She had grown up watching her mother run through a series of boyfriends, and thought it would always be that way.

  Ivy leaned forward to look down the table at her mother. Andrew caught her eye and smiled, then nudged his new wife. Maggie beamed back at Ivy. She looked so happy.

  Angel of love, Ivy prayed silently, watch over Mom. Watch over all of us. Make us a loving family, loving and strong.

  "Should I tell you that your-uh-sparkles are dipping in the soup?"

  Ivy sat back quickly. Gregory laughed and offered her his napkin.

  "That dress can get you in a lot of trouble," he teased. "It nearly blinded Tristan Carruthers."

  Ivy could feel the warmth spreading in her cheeks. She wanted to point out that it was Eric, not she-"I feel sorry for the table he's waiting on tonight. He and that other jock," Gregory said, still grinning. "I hope it's not ours."

  They both glanced around the room.

  Me too, Ivy thought, me too.

  Shortly after the raw vegetable shower, Tristan was told he could leave and should leave, immediately. Tired and humiliated, he would have been glad to clear out, but he was Gary's ride home. So he poked around behind the kitchen until he found a storeroom to hole up in.

  It was dark and peaceful there, its shelves stacked with large boxes and cans. Tristan had just settled down comfortably on a carton when he heard rustling behind him. Mice, he thought, or rats. He really didn't care. He tried to console himself, imagining himself standing on the top winner's block, the flag of the United States rising behind him while the anthem played, Ivy watching on TV and sorry she had missed her chance to go out with him.

  "I'm an idiot!" he said, dropping his head in his hands. "I could have any girl I want and-" A hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

  Tristan's head shot up and he looked into the pale, triangular face of a kid. The kid, who looked about eight years old, was all dressed up, his tie knotted tightly and his dark hair plastered down.

  He must have been one of the wedding guests.

  "What are you doing in here?" Tristan demanded.

  "Would you get me some food?" the boy asked.

  Tristan frowned, annoyed that he had to share his hideout, a cozy place for pining over Ivy.

  "Why can't you get your own food?"

  "They'll see me," said the boy.

  "Well, they'll see me too!"

  The boy's mouth formed a thin, straight line. His jaw was set. But his eyes looked uncertain and his brow was puckered.

  Tristan spoke in a gentler voice. "Looks as if you and I are up to the same thing. Hiding out.

  "I'm really hungry. I didn't eat breakfast or lunch," the kid said.

  Through the door, which was open a crack, Tristan could see the other waiters whisking in and out. They had just begun to serve the dinner.

  "I might have something in my pocket," he told the kid, and pulled out a squashed crab ball, several shrimp, three stalks of stuffed celery, a handful of cashews, and something unidentifiable.

  "Is that sushi?" asked the boy.

  "Got me. All of this was on the floor and then it was in my pocket, and I don't know where this jacket has been, it was rented."

  The boy nodded solemnly and studied Tristan's selection. "I like shrimp," he said at last, picking up one, spitting on it, then wiping it clean with his finger. He did this with each shrimp in turn, then the crab ball, then the celery. Tristan wondered if he'd spit on each tiny nut. He wondered how big a problem this kid was carrying around to make him not eat all day and hide in a dark storeroom.

  "So," said Tristan, "I guess you don't really like weddings."

  The kid glanced at him, then took a nibble out of the unrecognizable thing.

  "Do you have a name, kid?"

  "Yes."

  "Mine's Tristan. What's yours?"

  The kid set aside the unrecognizable hors d'oeuvre and began worki
ng on the nuts. "I'd like dinner," he said. "I'm real hungry."

  Tristan peered through the crack. Waiters were rushing in and out of the kitchen. "Too many people around," he said.

  "Are you in some kind of trouble?" the kid asked.

  "Some kind. Nothing serious. How about your "Not yet," said the kid.

  "But you will be?"

  "When they find me."

  Tristan nodded. "I guess you've already figured out that you can't stay here forever."

  Squinting, the boy surveyed the shelves in the dim room, as if he were seriously considering its possibilities.

  Tristan laid his hand gently on the boy's arm. "What's the problem, pal? Want to tell me about it?"

  "I'd really like dinner," the boy said.

  "All right, all right!" Tristan said irritably.

  "I'd like dessert, too."

  "You'll take what I can get!" snapped Tristan.

  "Okay," the boy replied meekly.

  Tristan sighed. "Don't mind me. I'm grouchy."

  "I don't mind you," the boy assured him softly.

  "Look, pal," Tristan said. "Only one waiter left, and plenty of food. You coming with me? Good!

  There he goes. Raiders, take your mark, get set-" "Where's Philip?" Ivy asked.

  The wedding party was halfway through their dinner when she realized that her brother wasn't in his chair. "Have you seen Philip?" she said, rising from her seat.

  Gregory pulled her back down. "I wouldn't worry, Ivy. He's probably messing around somewhere."

  "But he hasn't eaten all day," said Ivy.

  "Then he's in the kitchen," Gregory said simply.

  Gregory didn't understand. Her little brother had been threatening to run away for weeks. She had tried to explain to Philip what was happening and how nice it would be in their big house with a tennis court and a view of the river, and how great it would be to have Gregory as an older brother. He didn't buy any of it. Actually, Ivy didn't, either.

  She pushed back her chair, too quickly for Gregory to stop her, and hurried off to the kitchen.

  "Dig in," said Tristan. On the box between the kid and him sat a mound of food-charred filet mignon, shrimp, an assortment of vegetables, salad, and rolls with lots of whipped butter.