by Libby Howard
“I believe I’ve seen both of your children swim,” I commented. “And I think the five gallons of marine sealant they put on that raft should be enough to keep it afloat.”
“I have my doubts,” he drawled. “But so far, so good. We got it off Suzette’s truck and into the water without any disaster. It seems to be floating for now. We’ll see how it does with four kids standing on top of it.”
The starting gun went off and the crowd all stood cheering as the rafts came into view. Hoskins Real Estate was in the lead, three middle-aged perfectly coiffed blondes paddling in a steady rhythm. Close behind them was the Farmer’s Coop team and Dial’s Pizzeria. The Fischer Plumbing team was already sinking fast and bailing with all their might. There was a shout, and the crowd erupted into cheers and laugher as the plumbers’ giant modified bathtub capsized, dumping them all into the water.
The announcer read off their names for the Wall of Shame and we cheered again as the men emerged dripping wet onto the shore. The pack of rafts began to thin out as the more seaworthy ones pulled ahead, and I caught a glimpse of our boat.
“There!” I shouted, jumping up and sloshing my champagne over the edge of the glass. “Look, they’re still afloat.”
They were, paddling like crazy with the girls up front and the two boys in the back. It took me a few seconds to register that there was a fifth figure in the boat—a tall dark-haired boy with broad shoulders and muscles on muscles.
I caught my breath and out of the corner of my eye, saw Judge Beck stiffen.
“What’s he doing on their raft?” he demanded. “When I left them, he wasn’t there. He’s supposed to be announcing.”
Someone else was clearly announcing, and it was just then that someone started to make a big deal about Holt Dupree on the Pierson Investigative and Recovery Services raft. It was all so awkward. This would definitely give J.T. some added press and promotion, but I knew Judge Beck was furious.
Of course, the question in my mind was ‘why’? Why was Holt Dupree on a raft with a bunch of kids—these kids in particular? And why was Judge Beck so upset? Did he know something about the charismatic young man that I didn’t?
“Chelsea was at that party last night,” I commented. “Maybe she invited him to be on the boat. It could be a completely innocent publicity stunt. He’ll get more press paddling with four kids than in the announcer booth.”
“Or maybe Madison invited him.” The judge narrowed his eyes as Holt skimmed his oar along the water and splashed the two girls. They both squealed. The boys laughed. And suddenly a race for twelfth place became a water fight in the middle of the river. The Hoskins ladies and the Coop were battling it out for the lead, but everyone’s attention, and the announcer’s as well, were on Holt Dupree and the kids as water flew, the teens laughed, and the raft rocked perilously from side to side.
Holt swung his paddle, and water drenched Madison, who retaliated. The football player ducked, and Henry jumped to avoid getting even wetter. It was too much weight on the right side of the raft. The whole thing lifted up, and with a chorus of screams, overturned.
I heard Judge Beck catch his breath as he set the glass of champagne aside and readied himself to dive in after his kids, but it wasn’t necessary. Five drenched heads popped up in the water, laughing and sputtering as they swam toward the shore. Holt got to the shallows first, standing, then turning around to scoop Madison up in his arms and carry her to solid ground. The crowd was thrilled. Judge Beck was less thrilled. With his hands in fists, he stomped down toward the water. I ran after him, hoping that he wouldn’t make the sort of scene that would alienate his daughter. There was time to discuss this with her later. Not now when everyone in the town was looking on, and the announcer was making some inane comment about damsels in distress.
Holt sat Madison down the moment they got to shore, and without so much as a lingering caress, dove back in to do the same to Chelsea. Judge Beck slowed, realizing that although Holt might be a flirt, he wasn’t doing anything terribly improper with his daughter. After Chelsea made it to shore, Holt went back and made a joking show out of trying to carry the boys out as well. Henry splashed him off, but the football player managed to grab Sean and haul him to land in a fireman carry.
“It’s just a publicity stunt.” I tugged on the judge’s shirt, trying to get his attention. “Don’t embarrass Madison in front of the entire town. She’ll never forgive you.”
Well, maybe not never, but it would certainly put a dent in her relationship with her father. I wasn’t sure if my words made Judge Beck hesitate, or the realization that aside from carrying Madison ten feet through shallow water, Holt wasn’t paying her any particular attention. The guy was high-fiving the boys and laughing as he pushed the wet hair off his forehead. Then he yanked his shirt off to yells and whistles, and tossed it into the crowd as he headed up the hill past us to J.T.’s tent.
“Sorry, Mr. Pierson.” He grinned and reached out to shake J.T.’s hand. “I think I blew our chance at first place.”
A crowd had formed, everyone taking pictures of the shirtless athlete. J.T. beamed.
“I don’t think we were in the running for first place anyway,” he told Holt. “Those Hoskins women win every year.”
Sure enough, the announcer shouted out that Hoskins Real Estate had won their fifth year in a row, in a very close run with the Farmer’s Coop. J.T. offered Holt sandwiches and went to get him a bottle of water. The kids joined us. Daisy handed them each a towel to dry off. And we turned to watch the rest of the regatta participants as they slowly sank, or capsized, or struggled across the finish line in their water-logged crafts. Judge Beck was still eyeing the football star with the kind of attention one gives a venomous snake. What the heck was going on? I got that he didn’t want his daughter getting in trouble with an attractive, charismatic, older boy, but this seemed personal.
I walked up to him. “Okay, spill it. This is a little overprotective, even for you. What do you have against Holt Dupree?”
“What do you mean?”
I laughed. “Come on. You bristle every time his name comes up, watch him like you expect his head to start spinning around, have a heart attack every time Madison is within twenty feet of the guy—what’s going on?”
Just to prove my point, Judge Beck shot the football star another glare. “When he was in high school, Holt Dupree had a reputation. That reputation followed him to college, and there was an incident. Charges were dropped, but judging from how he was as a teen…let’s just say I’m concerned.”
Well, if that wasn’t the most intriguing, vague statement ever. “I’m guessing he was accused of something with an underage girl?”
“Yes.” Judge Beck shook his head. “He was twenty and she was fifteen, so it’s not like the age gap was all that big. It was down in Louisiana. There was alcohol involved. He claimed she showed a fake ID to get in to the party and that he never touched her. Like I said, the charges were dropped.”
“But?” I pressed, knowing the judge knew more than he was telling.
“Who knows what happened? The accuser couldn’t pick him out in a line up. Holt had an alibi—he was out in the open with all the other partygoers, then with a different woman the rest of the night. There was no physical evidence.”
“I’m a huge believer in giving the victim the benefit of the doubt, but maybe Holt was innocent,” I said.
“Maybe, but back in high school, the guy went through girls like they were disposable napkins. The daughter of one of my golfing buddies attempted suicide after Holt forwarded around some racy texts and pictures she’d sent him. I don’t trust the guy, and I especially don’t trust him around my daughter.”
I caught my breath. “That’s horrible! That poor girl.”
“Robert pulled her out of school for the semester, hoping the scandal would die down. He ended up sending her to a private school out of town so she could make a fresh start somewhere.”
It made me think of Daisy’s and my
conversation during yoga this morning. Racy pictures and texts of Holt would have done nothing but made him seem like a stud, someone to be idolized, but for a young girl, the same thing would get her shunned. No wonder the judge was hyper vigilant.
And I couldn’t blame him. Madison was a smart, mature girl, but teenage hormones tended to overwhelm even the most level-headed girls, especially when there was a handsome football star smiling at you and inviting you to his party.
Chapter 6
“I heard from my sources that the party at Persimmon Bridge last night was quite the hit,” Daisy told me with a grin as we repotted geraniums in hanging baskets for my front porch. The kids were off at their friends’ houses for the afternoon, and Judge Beck had headed off with his golf clubs for a quick nine. I was drenched with sweat even in the shade of the gazebo, grateful for Daisy’s help so we could finish and head back in to relax inside where there was air conditioning and iced tea in the fridge.
“And…?” I prodded my friend as ran the tip of my shovel around the inside of the pot and gently tugged the plant free. “What’s the gossip?”
Daisy slid one of the hanging pots my way. “Evidently Holt Dupree doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t even inhale second-hand smoke, and he’s very careful about not being alone with any teenage girls.”
Which made complete sense given what the judge has said happened in Louisiana. The guy had an amazing opportunity to make it big. He’d be a fool to screw it up with a scandal or a criminal record.
“And he also went home with Kendra Witt,” Daisy confided.
I had no idea who Kendra Witt was, or why my friend thought that was salacious gossip.
“Please tell me she’s over the age of eighteen.” I patted some extra potting soil around the geranium and shot Daisy a wry glance.
“She’s late twenties and unmarried, but her boyfriend took exception to this liaison, and made a whole lot of drunken threats at the party once he realized Kendra had ditched him for the host of the party.”
Holt had been sporting a faint bruise on his cheek from the fight with Buck after the concert, but I didn’t remember seeing any other injuries. “I take it the boyfriend’s buddies restrained him before he could act on those threats?”
Daisy chuckled. “The guy was so blind drunk that he didn’t even know his girlfriend and Holt were gone until an hour after they’d left. His friends calmed him down and took him home to sober up.”
Sheesh. If the guy was that drunk and inattentive, no wonder his girlfriend took off for greener pastures. I wondered if there would be racy pictures of Kendra forwarded around after today. Hopefully the woman was mature enough to keep any selfies to herself.
“Did you ever hear about a scandal when Holt was in high school involving forwarding inappropriate pictures and texts from a girl?” I asked Daisy.
She frowned for a moment. “You mean Ashley Chen? I didn’t know her personally but some of my kids back then used to talk about her. From what I heard she’d been in therapy for clinical depression for a few years. Poor kid vanished after that thing with the pictures and text went down.”
“That makes Holt even more of a world class jerk,” I commented. “Forwarding things that were meant to be private is bad enough, but to do that to a girl who was known to be troubled is just cruel.”
“It is.” Daisy moved the newly potted flowers to the ground and grabbed another hanging basket. “The Chen family has big money. They live in that gated community off Cecil Road. The dad holds several pharmaceutical patents, the mom was a socialite with a trust fund— debutante balls and all that. I know it’s no excuse, but to a boy from Trenslertown like Holt, a fling with Ashley Chen would have been one heck of a notch on his bedpost.”
“Then why forward those pictures and text and ensure that girl will never be anywhere near your bedpost again?” I retorted, plopping another geranium in the empty basket.
Daisy sighed and dusted the loose soil from her hands. “This is going to sound horrible, but to someone who grew up like Holt, girls like Ashley Chen are forever destined to be a one-time, chance thing. What did they have in common? There was no hope for a relationship, even if her parents would have allowed such a thing. There were only bragging rights, the status he’d get for being a poor kid who got a rich-girl in the sack. And he had proof, so he used it.”
“How are you defending him?” I demanded, unable to believe that my best friend was sticking up for this jerk. “You counsel troubled teen girls, and you’re defending him?”
Daisy raised her hands defensively. “I’m not defending him, just trying to explain the mindset of these kids so you understand where they’re coming from when they do these things.”
“I don’t care how poor he was, that’s a horrible thing to do to someone,” I sputtered.
“I know, I know. Ashley is probably a really sweet girl and he completely betrayed her trust.”
I patted the soil around the geranium with a little more force than necessary. “So you’re saying all he cared about was the status he got for one night with a rich girl? How can someone be so selfish, so lacking in any sort of empathy or compassion?”
Daisy handed me the spade and I scooped more dirt into the hanging basket. “Holt is probably only in it for Holt. With a lot of these guys, it doesn’t matter who they hurt, or who they step on as long as they get what they want. I’m just trying to tell you that it’s often a common mentality for these desperately poor kids. The rich and middle-class kids are ‘others’ and they believe those rich kids are more than happy to crush them given the chance. They learn to take what they can, claw their way out any way they can, and not lose any sleep over hurting anyone.”
I remembered the concert, the girl-next-door with the rusted old car. “Except Violet Smith.”
Daisy gave me a sad smile. “Except Violet Smith and those like her, who work themselves to the bone to get two steps ahead. If she’d cheated and stepped on people she would have been six steps ahead with less effort. When poor kids look at Violet as a possible role model, then the local scammer as a possible role model, guess which one they’ll pick? The scammer makes more money with less effort. It took Violet years and a whole lot of student loans to get her degree, and now she’s got to try to find a job still carrying the stigma of being one of the Smith girls. The drug dealer’s got a better life, and all he has to fear is jail—which is where most these kids think they’re going to end up anyway.”
I guess incarceration wasn’t so much of a threat when most of your family had been in and out of jail your whole life.
I put a final pat on the soil and bent to gather up two other hanging baskets. Daisy picked up the other two and gave me a grin.
“Anyway, tell Judge Beck not to worry. Remember the redhead that joined us in the tent after the regatta?”
“Yes, I do.” How could I forget? She was beautiful—incredibly sexy in short shorts and a tight tank top. She’s walked right up and wrapped her arm around Holt, blatantly marking her territory. Holt hadn’t rebuffed her, either.
“That was Kendra Witt, and what Kendra wants, Kendra gets, at least until Holt tells her to shove off.”
“Didn’t look like he was telling her to shove off,” I drawled.
“She’s the flavor of the day, or at least of the weekend. She’ll be in for a rude awakening Monday, but until then she’ll make sure none of the other girls gets too close.”
There was one girl who hadn’t been the ‘flavor of the day’. I remembered the look in Holt’s eyes as he’d greeted her, as he’d watched her walk off to her rusted car. “Holt would have never forwarded pictures and texts of Violet Smith,” I said, confident that I was speaking the truth.
“No, he wouldn’t.” Daisy sighed. “Trenslertown kids stick together. That neighbor kid might steal your stuff or get into a fight with you, but when it comes to outsiders, the poor kids stick together like family.”
Chapter 7
That night we hosted a
pre-firework barbeque party at our house. Judge Beck had suggested it, partly I think as a sop for Madison not being able to go to the Persimmon Bridge party, and partly to keep the kids all at my house and not off somewhere with Holt Dupree. When the judge had awkwardly asked permission to host the party, I’d warmly told him that this was his home, and that a heads-up was all that was necessary. Besides, I loved Madison and Henry and truly enjoyed when Chelsea and Sean were over, filling up this big old Victorian house like a proper family should.
Coming downstairs into the dining room after my shower, I realized that my house was overfilled—less like a proper family and more like a frat house. I’ll give the judge credit, there was not a drop of alcohol in sight, but there were stacks of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, open chip bags spilling their contents onto the floor, much to Taco’s enjoyment, and nearly two dozen bottles of soda. There were also teenagers—lots and lots of teenagers. I looked in the kitchen and out into my yard, and counted, guessing that there were between twelve and fourteen kids here. No, there were another two over by the hot tub. Sixteen.
“Food’s on!” Judge Beck shouted as he came in the kitchen door.
I heard the shouts and cheers of the hungry mob, and a stampede of footsteps. Backing into a corner of the dining room so I wouldn’t be trampled, I laughed to see the judge make his way through the crowd of noisy, hungry piranhas.
“I’m sorry, this really got out of hand.” He ran a hand through his dark blond hair, leaving a streak of charcoal and hamburger grease along his forehead. “They were only supposed to have two friends each, but it spiraled out of control.”
“This is small compared to some of the parties Eli and I used to host.” I grabbed a napkin off the table, and tried to resist wiping the greasy dark mark from his face. “There were a few times when I was sure the police were going to show up. A dozen hamburger-eating kids won’t do anything thirty drunk adults haven’t already done.”
“I promise we’ll clean everything up.” He looked around and grimaced. “Although it might need to wait until tomorrow if we’re going to make it to the fireworks on time.”