The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  “Our daughter has a girlfriend?”

  His wife gave him a faux disapproving glare. “She’s been dating Fern for three whole weeks.”

  “Our daughter’s girlfriend’s name is Fern?”

  Celeste suppressed a giggle. “Wait till you see her lip ring.”

  “Christ.”

  “She’s a nice kid, but I don’t think Violet’s that into her. She seems to have a crush on a new girl. She’s a little older, more conservative.”

  “Sounds like a step up from Fern.”

  “Come out and say hi.”

  He started to make an excuse—one more chapter, one more drink—and then he remembered. . . . He was Violet’s father: her engaged, present, hands-on father. He got up off the couch. “Let’s go party.”

  Celeste led the way to the pool, where a gaggle of unappealing misfits congregated around the bar. They were underage, but his wife had, surprisingly, allowed an alcoholic punch to be served. (“It’s cranberry juice, ginger ale, and a tiny bit of vodka,” Celeste whispered. “Don’t tell them how weak it is.”) Gabe pasted on a pleasant host-dad smile, but he was afraid it looked like a grimace.

  “Violet,” Celeste called, “introduce your friends to your dad.”

  “Everyone, this is my dad,” Violet mumbled. “Dad, this is everyone.”

  There was a chorus of muttered greetings, but Gabe didn’t hear them.

  Because he’d spotted her. She was standing next to his daughter, sipping a glass of punch, looking gorgeous in a white T-shirt and cutoff jeans. He could see the outline of a red bikini under her top, and the fuck-off necklace he had bought her sparkled at her throat. He felt a surge of anger, fear, and lust. Natalie’s eyes met his, reflecting his ambiguity.

  I hate you. I want you. I’m going to ruin you.

  Why was she here? What the fuck was happening? Gabe felt the weight of sixty odd eyes on him and realized he should respond. “Hi, kids.” His voice sounded high-pitched and strained.

  Natalie stepped forward then, her smile saccharine. “Thank you for having me in your home,” she said sweetly. She turned to Celeste. “Violet said it would be all right if I spent the night.”

  No. No fucking way.

  “Of course,” Celeste said, “We’ve got plenty of room.”

  Fern, with the lip ring, suddenly marched off toward the house in a huff, and Gabe worked out what was going on. Natalie was the new girl, the older girl Violet had a crush on. Natalie was using his daughter to get to him. She had befriended Violet, maybe even kissed her, maybe even more. And now she was here, in his home, planning to spend the night. Rage and fear blurred his vision, but he still clocked Natalie giving his daughter’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. His sugar baby was a psycho.

  Melody, the crazy paralegal, had accepted a payoff. But Natalie wouldn’t. She hadn’t gone to these lengths for money. It was never about that for her. Natalie was here to hurt him. To fuck up his daughter. To ruin his marriage. His chest constricted menacingly. If he had a heart attack right then, he would welcome it.

  Violet was scurrying toward the house, chasing after the jilted Fern. The horde of weirdos was buzzing about the love triangle in their midst. God, if they only knew it was a quadrangle. Celeste leaned in to his ear. “I’ll go in and check on the girls.”

  “Don’t,” he said. He didn’t want to be left alone with Natalie. “Let them work it out themselves.”

  But his wife was already jogging toward the house. He’d never been able to control her. A server in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was headed their way with a fresh tray of appetizers. The teens swarmed around the offering—faux chicken drumsticks—leaving him and Natalie standing alone.

  “What are you doing here?” he kept his voice soft, his tone casual. The freaks were too busy stuffing their faces with the food he’d paid for to listen in. But just in case . . .

  “Violet invited me,” she said, matching his frequency. “We’ve become friends.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “Not really.”

  He heard the threat in her voice, but he knew how to disarm her.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” he whispered. “How have you been?”

  “Not good,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry to show up here. I know it’s fucked-up. But . . . why did you lie to me? I just . . . I can’t . . .”

  She was going to fall apart right here, right now. Maybe he could attribute it to the Fern fiasco, if Natalie would play along. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “We’ll find someplace to talk.”

  Fern was stalking back toward them now, trailed by Violet and Celeste. The light-haired girl’s eyes were red from crying, but she looked calm, almost dazed. She passed by them and headed straight to the bar. Within moments, she had returned, a glass of punch in her hand.

  “Fuck you, whore.” She threw the red drink in Natalie’s face.

  “Jesus Christ!” Gabe cried.

  “Oh my god!” his daughter shrieked.

  The partygoers erupted in horrified delight. But Natalie said nothing. She stood stock-still, cranberry juice, ginger ale, and vodka dripping down her face. Her white T-shirt was stained red, looking uncomfortably like blood. Gabe felt an inappropriate surge of protectiveness toward her, a twisted desire to shove pasty Fern into the pool.

  Predictably, Celeste took control of the situation. “Fern, go to my car. I’m taking you home.” The girl sniveled but didn’t dare talk back to his authoritative wife. Celeste took Violet by the shoulders then. “Don’t let her ruin this for you. Stay with your friends, and I’ll be back in half an hour.” And then, Celeste turned to Gabe.

  “Get Natalie cleaned up,” she said into his ear. “She can borrow some of Violet’s clothes. And then get her out of here.”

  His wife hurried after Fern, and for a moment, he watched her go. His daughter was being consoled by her alternative friends, but Natalie stood alone. She hadn’t moved, was still dripping red punch, and crying. She was so pathetic, he almost felt sorry for her. But she was malicious and deranged, had come here to wreck his marriage, to fuck up his relationship with his daughter. She did not deserve his sympathy. But he couldn’t leave her standing there like Carrie on prom night.

  Grabbing her hand, he led the tearful girl toward the house.

  38

  * * *

  The T-Shirt

  It was the word thrown in Nat’s face, not the drink, that rattled her. Fern could not have known that Nat had been paid for sex, could never have guessed that it was Violet’s father who’d compensated her. But somehow, the younger girl had selected the precise word that would undo Natalie. Whore.

  She’d stood in shock as Gabe swore, Violet shrieked, and the other kids squealed and gossiped. Violet’s mother, Celeste, had taken control, insisted Fern had to leave, had driven her home. Nat had remained frozen with humiliation and shame, red liquid dripping from her face. And then Gabe had taken her hand, gently but firmly, and led her to the house.

  Without a word, he’d escorted her up the stairs, to the second floor, where the family slept. It felt private and intimate and inappropriate for her to be there. But it felt so good to be alone with him. She had always loved how he’d taken control, taken care of her. If it was over between them, why had he rescued her? Why hadn’t he comforted Violet or driven Fern home? As she stood dripping juice and soda and vodka on the hardwood floor, Gabe dug through a linen closet.

  “Dry yourself off,” he said, handing her a slate-gray towel.

  She complied, wiping the sticky liquid from her face and neck. Her makeup came off on the towel, and she knew she looked a smeared, smudged, tear-streaked mess. Gabe would find her repulsive. Crazy, obsessive, and hideous.

  “You have to leave,” he said, his blue eyes cold like they were the day he’d ended it.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “If my wife and daughter found out about us, it would destroy them.”

  Fresh t
ears sprang to Nat’s eyes. Violet was a good kid. Her mother had been warm and welcoming. Nat hated herself for what she’d done to them. But it was not her fault. It was Gabe’s fault. He had lied to her. He had cheated on his wife.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

  “I fucked up,” he said softly. “I didn’t think things would get so intense between us.”

  It was the first time he’d admitted that they’d had something powerful. She grabbed on to that. “We can work this out, Gabe. We just need to communicate.”

  “It has to be over between us. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care that you’re married!” Her voice was shrill, louder. “I still love you!”

  He grabbed her roughly by the arm and led her into a bedroom. She took in the muddle of pale blue sheets and pillows, the mound of a matching duvet. On the wall: a poster for a school play, a rainbow flag, a signed photograph of Gloria Steinem. They were in Violet’s room.

  Gabe went to his daughter’s dresser, yanked open a drawer, and grabbed a black T-shirt. “Get changed,” he snapped, tossing the shirt to her. “I’ll drive you to the bus station.”

  She hated him. He was dismissing her. He was looking out for himself.

  She loved him. He was taking care of her. He was getting her out of this mess.

  Their eyes locked then: love, lust, hatred, intermingling in a sick challenge. She pulled the stained T-shirt over her head and dropped it on the floor. She was in her bikini top, perfectly respectable, but the look in Gabe’s eyes was not. He wanted her. A surge of triumph, of power coursed through her, and she smiled. Reaching behind her, she undid the clasp on her tiny top, let it fall to the floor.

  He was on her then, his lips bruising hers, his hands rough on her breasts. He turned her around, pushed her up against the wall, and fumbled with the button of her shorts. Nat had never had rough sex, had never thought she would enjoy it, but she was aroused, almost rapturous. She reached back for him, groping for his belt. She wanted him so badly, didn’t care that they were in his wife’s house, in his daughter’s bedroom. But suddenly, he jumped away from her like she was on fire.

  She heard it then: feet climbing the staircase. Turning, she saw the terror in Gabe’s eyes. She could destroy him right now, ruin his relationship with his daughter forever. Or . . . she could save him. Nat pulled the black T-shirt over her head, slipped her arms through the holes, just as Violet entered the room. The girl’s pretty brown eyes landed on Nat first, and then her father, standing near the dresser, hands clasped in front of his crotch. What did the girl see? What did the scene look like?

  “Is it okay if Natalie borrows that shirt?” Gabe said. He was so quick, so smooth.

  “Sure,” Violet said, assuming nothing inappropriate. She smiled at Nat. “It looks good on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll be downstairs.” Gabe scooped up Nat’s T-shirt and bikini top, shot her a quick, warning look, then he was gone.

  Violet waited until she heard the rumble of her father’s descending feet before she spoke. “I’m sorry about Fern. She’s insecure and jealous. She has a bad temper.”

  “I noticed.”

  “She thinks there’s something between us,” Violet said, her eyes soft. “I was just wondering . . . Is there? Something between us?”

  Nat looked at Gabe’s daughter: young, vulnerable, hopeful. Nat should say no. She should tell this girl to work things out with Fern. Or to focus on her graduation, or her trip to Honduras. But Violet was her conduit into Gabe’s world. He could not dismiss Nat if she had a hold on his daughter. Nat could not set Violet Turnmill free.

  “I feel something,” Nat said. “But we have to take it slow.”

  Violet moved closer. “I don’t want to take it slow. I’ve never felt like this before.”

  “You’re just a kid.”

  “I’m eighteen. I’m an adult.”

  “You have to deal with Fern. You’re about to graduate. You’re leaving soon . . .”

  “I don’t have to leave.” Violet moved closer still. “I was only going to Honduras to piss off my dad.”

  Mission accomplished.

  “I could move into the city for the summer,” the younger girl suggested, tentatively touching the pendant on Nat’s chest. “We could hang out. Get to know each other better.”

  “Maybe.” Nat pulled the necklace away, dropped it into her T-shirt. “I have to go.”

  “Stay . . . Please.”

  “I can’t. You should be with your friends.”

  “I’ll tell them to leave. I want to be with you.” And then, Violet leaned in and, gently, timidly, kissed Nat on the lips.

  The girl tasted like weak cranberry punch and smelled like sunscreen. Her lips were full and soft, and Nat felt a stir of arousal. But she didn’t respond, didn’t kiss Violet back. Her lips were still sore from Gabe’s hungry mouth on hers. Moments ago, he’d had her pressed up against the wall, about to roughly take her from behind. And now, his daughter was kissing her, so softly, so tenderly. It was weird and sick and depraved. How had Nat’s life gotten so fucked-up?

  Violet pulled back, and Nat seized the opportunity. “I’ll text you,” she said, moving toward the door.

  “Promise me I’ll see you again.”

  Nat paused. “Of course. I’ve got your shirt.”

  She raced down the stairs to find Gabe.

  39

  * * *

  The Luxury Liner

  Gabe drove Natalie to Bridgehampton, where she could catch the Luxury Liner back to Manhattan. He had to speed to make the last departure at four forty-five. The Jitney had later shuttles, but that would necessitate a drive to Montauk. He didn’t want to be stuck in a car with Natalie for more than ten minutes. He didn’t trust himself around her. If he spent too much time alone with the crazy bitch, he would either fuck her or kill her.

  Celeste had still not returned from delivering the distraught Fern when he’d stuffed Nat’s sodden shirt and bikini top into a plastic bag, bundled Natalie into his Mercedes, and hit the road. Violet had stood in the driveway, watching Natalie leave like a lovesick puppy. He’d rolled down his window and yelled, “Get back to your party! Get back to your guests!” The girl glared at him but strolled back toward the pool.

  His eyes were firmly on the road when he said, “Promise me you’ll stop seeing Violet.”

  “Promise me you’ll stop ignoring my calls and texts.”

  He could have pointed out that there was no reason for him to respond to her. It was over. Finished. Kaput. But now he knew what Nat was capable of. He had to manage her carefully.

  “I promise,” he said, glancing over at her. She looked terrible—sticky, sloppy, disheveled—but he was still attracted to her. “We can talk next week, when I’m back in the city.”

  “Okay,” she acquiesced. “I’ll blow Violet off.”

  “Do you need more money?” he asked hopefully. “If I wasn’t generous enough when we met for lunch, I can give you more.”

  “This isn’t about the money,” she said, and he could hear the pain in her voice. “This is about us.”

  It had been worth a try.

  The Bridgehampton Community House with its two-story portico was visible now. The luxury bus was already there, loading a handful of unfortunate passengers who had to head back to the city on a Saturday afternoon. He’d purchased Natalie a ticket on his phone while she’d said goodbye to Violet. They were just going to make it. Stomping on the gas pedal, Gabe squealed onto the street, pulled the Mercedes up a few yards away from the massive idling cruiser.

  “I’ll be back in the city on Monday,” he said, turning to his sniveling passenger. “We can talk properly then.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” he said, hiding his exasperation as well as he could. “You have to get on the bus now.”

  She took a deep breath, her nostrils flaring slightly, her chest rising. But she didn’t move. Was she going to
defy him? Refuse to get out of the car? He would drag her by the hair onto that bus, if he had to. He’d do anything to get her out of here, away from Violet, away from Celeste. Exasperation and panic fluttered in his chest and throat. He was about to plead with her when she lunged.

  Her mouth came down hard on his, her tongue forcing its way between his lips. She had vaulted the console, was almost straddling him. Her breasts, under his daughter’s T-shirt, pressed into his chest. He didn’t want to respond, didn’t want her to know how hot she made him, but when her hand reached down to his crotch, his dick betrayed him. She stopped then, gave him a bleary, self-satisfied smile.

  “I’ll see you in the city,” she said. She got out of the car, grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat, and strolled to the bus.

  He tore out of there like a bat out of hell, but within a couple of minutes, he realized he had to pull over. Gabe’s heart was beating erratically, and for the second time that day, he worried he was about to have a heart attack. On the side of the road, he attempted to breathe slowly, deeply, but it felt like there was a giant rock pressing down on his chest. This feeling was strange, unfamiliar. He was sweating and vibrating, a lump of emotion lodged in his throat. He hadn’t cried in decades, hadn’t cried at his own parents’ funerals, but he was going to now.

  Gabe led a complicated life. He had a high-pressure career, shady business dealings, two homes, a wife with health issues, a difficult daughter, and a string of mistresses. Until now, he’d kept all the balls in the air with finesse and aplomb. But everything was spinning out of control. Celeste could find out about his affair, find out who it was with, and she would hate him. His first and only real love would hate him. Violet would hate him more, hate him longer. She would lose all remnants of adoration, admiration, and respect when she found out her dad had cheated on her mom with Violet’s own girlfriend. She would never speak to him again. Their community would find out and turn on him. He would be alone, a pervert, a monster, a laughingstock.