She didn’t know for sure, though. The test she’d stolen from Mugg’s Pharmacy sat unopened beneath a pile of sweaters in her closet. She was going to get through the Summer Gala tonight and then, finally, she’d take it.
Probably.
“Knock-knock!” came a cheerful voice at her door, accompanied by a loud rap on the wood. “You decent?”
“Yes. Come in,” Allison said. The door opened to reveal Archer in a tux, his bow tie already loosened. He grinned when he caught sight of her.
“Don’t you look fancy. Nice diamonds. Hey, guess what I found?” Archer let himself in and closed the door behind him, brandishing a green and gold bottle in one hand. “Dom Pérignon got separated from his friends.”
Allison frowned, her stomach filled with the now-familiar nausea at the thought of drinking anything alcoholic. “Can’t you wait till we get there?”
“You know what they say about a dream deferred,” Archer said. When she didn’t reply, he added, “It dries up like a raisin in the sun. Or festers—”
“I get it,” Allison snapped. “I took English composition with Ms. Hermann too, remember? All I’m saying is, maybe for once this summer, you could show enough restraint that you don’t make a fool of yourself or pass out before midnight. Or both.”
“Ouch,” Archer said, looking hurt.
“Mother spent a lot of time planning the gala, you know. It’s practically the only thing that’s made her even a little happy this summer. So how about you try not to ruin it?”
“I’m not ruining anything. God. Next time, a simple no thanks will do.” Archer shot her a reproachful look, and Allison was instantly sorry. She had no reason to lash out at her youngest brother like that. And no excuse, other than that she was a ball of jangled nerves every second of every day. That wasn’t Archer’s fault, though.
“I just meant—” she started, but Archer was already halfway through the door.
“Never mind. Message received. Dom and I know when we’re not wanted.”
Allison sighed and let him go. She didn’t know what to say anyway.
When she’d touched up her lip gloss as many times as she could stand, she left her bedroom and started down the hallway. As always lately, she was drawn to a door she usually avoided. She rapped lightly on the frame, and Anders’s impatient voice called, “Come in.”
He was fully dressed except for his tuxedo jacket, and the bow tie that he was working on while standing in front of the full-length mirror across from his bed. Allison’s reflection caught his eye, and he raised one sardonic eyebrow. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Allison closed the door and sat on the edge of Anders’s bed. “I’m just restless.”
“You take it yet?” he asked without preamble.
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “No.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Allison. At this point you’re going to give birth before you even acknowledge there might be a problem. Oh, screw this tie to hell and back.” Anders undid the entire thing and started over.
Allison wanted desperately to confide in someone about her fear of being pregnant, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother, Archer, or any of her friends. She’d fantasized briefly about telling Matt—maybe he’d finally return that call—but her pride wouldn’t let her. That left her with two options: keep bottling it up, or talk to Anders about it.
Anders, of all people. Who’d been born without the empathy gene. But maybe, Allison thought, he could rise to the occasion if the stakes were high enough.
“I’m scared,” she said.
Anders snorted, tugging at his bow tie. “I’d be scared, too, if I were about to introduce the Ryan gene pool into this family. Our collective IQs would drop like a stone.” Allison stared reproachfully at her brother, cheeks burning, as he added, “I don’t know why you ever slummed it with that guy anyway.”
“That’s all you have to say?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Take the damn test, then take care of the problem. And don’t be such an idiot the next time some townie loser pays attention to you.”
Okay. Rising to the occasion wasn’t going to happen. “You should talk,” Allison snapped. “High-and-mighty Anders Story, so above it all until Kayla crooks her little finger. Then you come running.”
Anders finished his tie and ran a hand through his hair. It was all spikes and cowlicks, nothing like the thick waves both Adam and Archer had. “I don’t run anywhere. I’m having fun. And I’ve managed to do it without knocking anyone up, so—you could learn a few things.”
“Was it fun when Kayla dumped you for Matt?” Allison knew her words had finally hit their target when Anders stilled, eyes narrowing at his reflection in the mirror. Part of her brain realized she should stop talking, but another part was viciously glad that he felt as badly as she did. Even if it was only for a minute. “She probably will again, you know. I’ve seen them flirting more than once this summer. Ironic, huh? We have all this”—her hand swept around Anders’s vast bedroom—“but it seems like the only thing those two want is each other.”
“That would be a mistake,” Anders said calmly. He picked his tuxedo jacket up from his desk chair and shrugged it on. “Now get the hell out of my room.”
Allison obeyed, already regretting letting her mouth run away with her. Anders would be impossible to deal with for the rest of the night. She went back to her room and shut the door, tracing the now-familiar path to the pile of sweaters in her closet that hid the pregnancy test. She opened the box and pulled out the slim piece of plastic inside.
Results in five minutes!
Before she could think too much about what she was doing, Allison headed for her bathroom with the test clutched in one hand. It wasn’t easy to pee in a ball gown, but it wasn’t impossible either. Then she set the test on the back of the toilet, washed her hands, and waited.
Barely a minute passed before the second line appeared, as strong and dark as the first. Allison’s stomach lurched, and the nausea that had been plaguing her for weeks couldn’t be contained any longer. She retched loudly into the toilet, over and over until her sides ached and her throat was raw.
When her stomach finally stopped heaving, she flushed the toilet and picked up the pregnancy test. She wrapped it in thick layers of tissue and tossed it in the trash. Feeling light-headed, she plucked her toothpaste and toothbrush from their holder and brushed her teeth for three minutes. Then she gargled with mouthwash, reapplied her lip gloss, smoothed her hair, and straightened her pendant.
She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. It was nearly time to leave for the Summer Gala, and Allison knew the image her mother wanted to project for the family: still mourning Abraham Story, of course, but strong and united, bright futures stretching endlessly in front of them. Not afraid, not rejected, not bitter, and definitely not pregnant.
Allison made her way down the curving staircase into the foyer, where Mother kept all of her favorite artwork. A man stood in front of the newest bronze, his head cocked as though he was trying to figure out what it was. Allison recognized Mother’s lawyer, Donald Camden, even before he turned at the sound of her approach.
“It’s a mother and her children,” Allison said, lifting her skirt as she negotiated the final two steps. “Mother had it flown over from Paris.”
“Your mother has interesting taste,” Donald said diplomatically, returning his eyes to the sculpture. “Though I must admit, I don’t see a family here.”
Not surprising, Allison thought. Donald Camden was the classic lifelong bachelor. He probably didn’t see families anywhere. “Are you Mother’s escort for the evening?”
“I have that honor, yes,” Donald said with a small bow.
Allison pursed her lips against another wave of nausea that, thankfully, passed. She gave him her best
smile. “We’re all looking forward to tonight.”
“As you should be,” Donald said formally. “The Story family never shines so brightly as it does during the Summer Gala.”
I can’t resist. Once I’m all decked out for the Summer Gala, in a perfectly fitted dress and borrowed diamonds—actual diamonds, for crying out loud—I text a picture to my mother. Headed for the gala, I type.
Her reply is instantaneous. Oh, Milly, that’s wonderful! You look beautiful! How is Mother?
I stare at my screen for a while before replying. That’s a loaded question. In the end, all I type is, We haven’t had much chance to talk yet.
Tell me everything once you do! Mom writes back.
I will, I reply, before slipping my phone into the pocket of my dress. This dress is the most perfect article of clothing I’ve ever worn—not only because it’s beautiful and fits me like a dream but also because it has deep pockets that hold a phone and a lipstick without ruining the line of the skirt.
Aubrey comes back from the bathroom, where Brittany, who’s working as a server tonight, took her to apply makeup because the lighting is better. I wasn’t sure what to expect, since Brittany’s a big fan of smoky eyes and bold lips for herself, but she used a light hand with Aubrey—just mascara, a hint of rosy blush, and lip gloss. It’s perfect, but Aubrey’s eyes are clouded with doubt when they meet mine. “Too much?” she asks.
“Not at all,” I say. It hits me then, like a punch to the stomach, that I should’ve been the one to do Aubrey’s makeup. I should have offered in Kayla’s Boutique, after I saw how uncomfortable she was with the whole process. But I didn’t, because I was still twisted with resentment over what had happened at brunch with Mildred.
It’s made me snappish all week, and Aubrey defensive, and now there’s this distance between us that I can’t seem to close. Even though I want to—much more than I want to be Mildred’s favorite grandchild. That feels like the poisonous apple in “Snow White”; a gift given with malice that I’ll instantly regret accepting.
So why does it still hurt that I can’t have it?
I push the thought away and tell Aubrey, “You look beautiful.”
She smiles shyly. “So do you. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
I have a sudden urge to grab her hand, to shake off all the tension of the past week and go back to being a team. I don’t know how either of us will get through tonight, let alone the rest of the summer otherwise. But before I can, Aubrey plucks a handbag off her dresser and darts into the hallway.
Jonah has already left. Carson Fine told us this morning that Mildred was sending a different type of car tonight—one that would accommodate ball gown skirts without wrinkling them—but that it would only fit two in the backseat. “You’ll need to be driven separately,” he explained. “Aubrey and Milly in one car, and Jonah in another.”
“Why don’t I just ride in front?” Jonah had asked.
Carson looked scandalized. “That’s not how it’s done.”
The whole thing is ridiculous, especially considering the dorms are a five-minute walk from the resort. But whatever Mildred wants, Mildred gets. So when Aubrey and I make our way outside, a gleaming car is parked right out front, and a chauffeur in full uniform—white gloves included—pulls the back door open. “Miss Story. Miss Story-Takahashi,” he says, nodding to us in turn. “Good evening.”
I stifle an inappropriate laugh. “Good evening,” I echo, sliding into the seat. The interior of the car smells incredible, like a combination of expensive leather and winter forest. Across from me, a console holds two chilled glasses of champagne. I settle my skirt around me as the chauffeur closes the door, then escorts Aubrey to the opposite side of the car.
When I’m satisfied that my skirt won’t wrinkle, I grab one of the champagne glasses and take a long sip. It would be rude not to.
Aubrey lowers herself carefully into the seat beside me, eyes widening when she spies my glass. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asks.
I know—I know—that she’s only asking because she’s nervous about tonight. Not because she’s judging me, or thinks she’s better than me, or any of the other uncharitable things that start buzzing through my head. But I down half the glass before answering coolly, “I think it’s a great idea.”
“Milly.” Her open, freckled face is troubled. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means, because I hate it too. Somehow, though, the same resentment that’s been curdling our interactions all week makes me tip my head and gulp the rest of the champagne. “Lighten up. It’s supposed to be a party,” I say, putting my empty glass down next to Aubrey’s full one. Then I see the tears forming in her eyes.
Another gut punch hits me, and this time, I grab her hand. “Don’t cry,” I say urgently. There are at least a dozen things I should say after that, but all I can manage to get out is, “Your mascara will run.”
Aubrey sniffs. “I don’t care about my mascara.”
“We’ve arrived,” the chauffeur says smoothly. I turn to look and we’re pulling up on the lawn in front of the resort’s side door. That was literally a ninety-second drive.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Aubrey, but that’s all I have time for before my door opens to reveal Donald Camden in all his silver-haired, tuxedo-clad glory.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m your escort to the gala.” He and the chauffeur help us out of the car, and then Aubrey and I are on either side of Donald and heading inside. We can’t talk, except to answer his polite questions as we make our way through the resort, and I feel restless and anxious about how we left things in the car.
“And here we are,” Donald says, pausing at the entrance to the ballroom. The room is filled with music and laughter and beautifully dressed people, the crystal chandeliers sparkling and making the tapestries on the wall glow a rich gold. A string quartet is set up on a small stage at the center of the windows, and circular tables are evenly spaced at one end of the vast room. For a second my spirit lifts—I really do love a party—and then Donald says, “Your grandmother requested that I bring you by one at a time so she can speak with each of you individually before dinner. She’d like to start with you, Aubrey.”
Of course she would. I swallow the words, but Aubrey sees them on my face anyway. “Maybe Milly should go first,” she says.
“No, it’s fine,” I say tightly, disengaging myself from Donald. “I’ll mingle.”
“Milly—” she says unhappily, but Donald is already ushering her toward the head table. I grab a glass of champagne from a passing server and take a much longer sip than etiquette would recommend. Then I work my way farther into the room.
The Summer Gala. I used to think it was a magical event, the absolute height of glamour. I loved looking at pictures of my mother in her white dress, and imagining myself transported in her place. Now I’m finally here, and all I can think is that I hope she wasn’t as miserable that night as I am now.
“Hi, Milly.” The quiet voice at my side startles me, and I turn to see Hazel Baxter-Clement looking tired and drawn in a wine-colored gown. Her dark hair is piled high on her head, and she’s holding a full champagne glass.
“Hazel, oh my gosh.” I grab her free hand with mine. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to talk to you at the funeral.” The burial after the Mass had been private, family only. “And I’m so sorry about your grandfather. He was a really sweet man.”
“Thanks,” Hazel says. “The good thing, I guess, is that he had a long life. And his dementia was getting worse, so…” She heaves a sigh. “Mom says maybe it’s a blessing that he doesn’t have to go through the late stages of that. I don’t know. I just wish he would’ve died in his sleep, or something more peaceful.”
I can’t think of anything comforting to say in return, because
she’s right. Drowning in the woods behind your own house is a horrible way to go. I finally settle on, “I know I only met him a couple of times, but I could tell how proud of you he was. And you took great care of him.”
Her expression darkens. “I don’t know about that. I let him go outside on his own that morning, and I shouldn’t have. But he was having one of his better days, and he said he was meeting a friend, so…”
The back of my neck prickles. “Do you know who?”
“No. I wish I did. Nobody’s come forward, and it would be nice to know how he spent his last morning.”
I pause, thinking about Dr. Baxter’s letter to Uncle Archer. There are things I should have told you long ago. “Had your grandfather, um, mentioned my uncle Archer recently?”
Hazel blinks. “About him possibly being back in town?” Some of her usual energy returns as she adds, “Is he really? People keep insisting they saw him last Friday, but nobody’s spotted him since. I’m not sure Granddad knew, though. He never said anything. Did you guys see him? Archer, I mean.”
I hesitate. It’s been over a week since we talked to Uncle Archer, and Aubrey is convinced he hightailed it off the island. We stopped by the bungalow a couple of times, but the shutters were always drawn and no one answered the door. So she’s probably right, and there’s no harm in feeding Hazel’s curiosity, especially after the week she’s had. “We did. He’d been staying in a little bungalow behind his friend Rob Valentine’s house, but—”
“Sweetheart.” A woman materializes beside Hazel, looking like her middle-aged doppelgänger. “One of Granddad’s classmates from medical school wants to meet you. He’s at Mrs. Story’s table. Can I steal you away?” She turns to me with an apologetic smile, and her eyes spark with recognition. “Well, goodness, speaking of Storys. You must be Milly. I’m Katherine Baxter, Hazel’s mother. I saw a lovely picture of you and your cousins leaving my father’s funeral in the Gull Cove Gazette.”
The Cousins Page 18