“Ned Foster,” Frank says, pondering the name. “Huh. Can’t say that I do. But there is a 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 of watermelon 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, I think I’m about as pathetic as they come.
Setting my jaw and chucking the watermelon rinds into the bushes, 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 smooths 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 of 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? 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 to 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 lampposts 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.
Until We Meet Again Page 4