Saint Anything

  “Sure. Just give me your address and a phone number, okay?”

  I did, and then we hung up. I went into the bathroom and washed my face, telling myself I could handle anything for twenty minutes. Then I went downstairs.

  Ames was at the stove when I walked in, his back to me. “Ready to eat? I’ve got the table set.”

  I glanced into the dining room: sure enough, the candles were lit, two plates laid out with silverware and folded paper napkins. “I actually, um, have a friend coming over. She’s bringing a pizza.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turned around to face me. “I told you I was cooking.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Your mom didn’t mention anything to me about a friend visiting,” he told me.

  She also thought Marla was going to be here, I thought.

  “It’s not very polite, Sydney, to make other plans when a person has gone out of their way to do something for you.”

  I didn’t ask you to do anything. “I’m sorry . . . I guess signals got crossed.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, not even trying to hide his irritation. Then, slowly, he turned back around. “You can at least have a taste. Since I’ve gone to all this trouble.”

  “Okay,” I said. It was weird to see an adult pout. “Sure.”

  At the table, he served us both, then picked up his glass of cola, holding it up. “To good friends,” he said.

  I clinked my drink against his, then took an obligatory sip as he watched me over the rim of his glass. I glanced at my watch. It had been ten minutes.

  “So I rented a couple of movies,” he said, twirling some noodles around his fork. “Thought we’d settle in on the couch, have some popcorn. Hope you’re a fan of heavy butter. Or else we can’t be buds anymore.”

  If only it were that easy. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He smiled at me then, in a forgiving way. Like I’d earned another chance or something. Everything was wrong here.

  Twelve minutes.

  “This is good,” I said, forcing myself to try the pasta. “Thanks for cooking.”

  “Of course.” He smiled, clearly pleased. “It’s the least I can do, since you’re stuck with me all weekend. Speaking of which, what are you up to tomorrow? I’m heading to see Peyton in the morning, but I’ll be free all afternoon. I was thinking we could hit a movie or go bowling, then have dinner out somewhere.”

  “I actually have a school thing,” I said. “It’s, um, kind of mandatory.”

  A pause. “On the weekend?”

  I nodded. “Community service project. I’ll be gone most of the day.”

  “Huh.” One word, so many connotations. “Well, we’ll see.”

  My stomach tightened, and for a beat or two, I was sure the few bites I’d managed to get down were going to rejoin us. But then, thank God—thank everything in the world—the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, leaping up and tossing my napkin onto my seat. Starting for the door, I hit the edge of the table with my hip, causing something to clank loudly. I didn’t slow down to see what it was.

  In the foyer, I flipped the dead bolt, then yanked the door open hard, clearly startling Layla, who was standing right in front of it, holding a pizza box. I could see Mac in the truck, parked in the driveway.

  “Hi,” I said, breathless. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Well, it’s nice to get such an enthusiastic welcome.” She looked up at the tall windows on either side of the door, eyes widening. “Your house is gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. Come in. I’ll, um, get the money for the pizza.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “It’s on the—”

  She stopped talking suddenly, staring over my shoulder. Instantly, her expression went from open and friendly to guarded. Before I even glanced behind me, I knew Ames had appeared.

  “This is the friend?” he said when I did look his way.

  “Layla,” I told him. To her, I added, “Come on in.”

  She didn’t move. Instead, she turned her head toward Mac. I couldn’t make out her expression, but a second later, he was getting out of the truck. When he joined her on the steps, she finally stepped inside.

  “Ames Bentley,” Ames said to them, extending a hand. “Close friend of the family.”

  “This is Mac,” I said. They shook. I took the pizza from Layla. “Come on in the kitchen.”

  We went, with me leading, Ames right behind, and the Chathams bringing up the rear. Right away, I saw Layla surveying the scene in the dining room. When she saw the candles, she looked right at me.

  “Pretty fancy,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Just showing off my cooking skills for Sydney,” Ames said. “Thought I’d wow her with my sauce, but she went and ordered a pizza. She’s a heartbreaker, this one.”

  “Where’s your mom, again?” Layla asked me, ignoring this.

  “She and my dad are at a conference.”

  “All weekend?”

  “Now, don’t get any ideas about parties,” Ames said, holding up his hands. “That’s what I’m here to prevent.”

  “I wasn’t going to have a party,” I said quietly.

  “Sure.” He grinned, then looked at Mac. “You guys want some dinner? Or a drink? Nonalcoholic only. House rules.”

  “No, thanks,” Mac said, just as his phone beeped. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen, then said to Layla, “Another order. I should get going.”

  “Lucky me,” Ames said. “Spending the evening with two lovely ladies.”

  In response, Mac just looked at him, his expression flat and unsmiling. After a beat, he said to Layla, “You left your stuff in the truck.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Right. I’ll come out with you.”

  He turned to walk to the door. As she fell in behind him, she looked at me, clearly wanting me to follow. Before I could, I felt Ames put his hand on my shoulder. “Little help cleaning up, Sydney?”

  I followed him back into the dining room, where he gathered up his plate. Lowering his voice, he said, “When your mom calls, you know I have to tell her about this.”

  “I’m not doing anything wrong,” I said.

  “She didn’t expect you to have company, though.” I looked at him, his head bent as he picked up his napkin, and felt a surge of anger bolt through me. Like my mom was anticipating what he’d intended for that evening. Turning toward the kitchen, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ll spin it the best I can. You just owe me.”

  To this, I said nothing, instead just standing there as, slowly, Mac’s truck began backing down my driveway. When he reached the road, his headlights swept across the window, catching me in their sudden glow. He sat there for a beat. Another. Then, slowly, he drove away.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Layla said, sitting down opposite me. “What the hell is the deal with that guy?”

  I looked down at my hands. After an awkward conversation in the kitchen, with Ames hanging on our every word, she’d asked to see my room, giving us an excuse to go upstairs. I shut the door behind us; she went to lock it, only to find there was no way to do so. When Peyton first got into trouble, my mom had removed the locks from all the bedroom doors, implementing the policy of Knocks Not Locks. It was, apparently, about respect and trust. Or so she said.

  “He’s my brother’s best friend,” I told her now. “And he creeps me out.”

  “Of course he does.” She said this flatly: a fact. “He’s creepy. He was with you that day, right? In the courthouse.”

  That explained the expression when she first saw him. Never forget a face. “Yeah. He, um, tends to stick pretty close.”

  She shuddered visibly. “What does your mom say?”

  “She loves him. It’s like he’s filled the hole my bro
ther left, or at least made it less empty.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He doesn’t notice much of anything when it comes to me.”

  I’d never thought this before, actually, but as soon as I said it, I realized it was true. My mom’s distraction was new, a result of cause and effect. My dad’s had always been there. Before Peyton, it was work. Before work, who knew.

  “Well, that sucks,” she said. She looked around my room. “So he’s here with you both nights?”

  “I was supposed to go to a friend’s. She got sick, so my dad asked him and his girlfriend to fill in last-minute.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Stomach bug,” I explained. “Apparently.”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t exactly disappointed,” she replied. “If he even invited her in the first place.”

  “You think?” I asked. She just looked at me. “The candles and dinner were a bit unexpected.”

  “Ugh.” She shuddered. “I’m glad you called me.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  She smiled. “We’ll deal with tomorrow night later. For now, though, I need to get a peek inside your closet. It looks massive. It’s a walk-in, right?”

  What followed was an extended tour of not only my closet—which was a walk-in, not that you could tell with the door closed, as it had been—but the entire house, with me leading the way. As Ames stood outside, smoking in the overhang of the garage, Layla oohed over the sunken tub in my parents’ bathroom (“Is that marble?”), wowed about the War Room (“Your mom is so organized!”), and repeatedly admired all the environmentally friendly touches my super-green mom had implemented throughout (“I can barely get my parents to recycle”). It wasn’t until I took her downstairs to see the workout room, though, that she really got impressed.

  It wasn’t the elliptical, weight set, treadmill, or mounted wide-screen TV on the wall that did it, but the door behind the stack of yoga mats, straps, and blocks. When I opened it, she let out a low whistle.

  “Oh, my God. Is that . . . a recording studio?”

  “A partial one,” I replied, fumbling for the light switch. Once on, it illuminated the small booth, soundproofed, as well as the board of various switches and knobs. No one had been inside for a while; the air smelled stale, and there were a couple of to-go coffee cups, along with a guitar on the small couch, resting as if it had just been put there. “It’s my brother’s. They were just about to paint when everything happened.”

  “Okay if I go in?”

  “Sure.”

  She stepped inside, and I followed, hitting another light switch, which brightened the booth and another row of bulbs overhead. I watched as she crossed over to the couch, where she picked up the guitar, admiring it.

  “Les Paul Standard,” she said, clearly impressed. “Wow.”

  I’d felt a little weird for this entire tour. It wasn’t until this moment, though, as she examined one of Peyton’s many expensive guitars, that I experienced something close to actual shame.

  “What are you guys doing in here?”

  I jumped, startled; I hadn’t heard Ames come in. “Uh, nothing. Just showing Layla around.”

  He glanced at her, there on the couch, then stepped inside, brushing past me. “You like guitars?”

  “Yeah,” she replied, not looking at him.

  Ames crossed over to the couch, which was small, squeezing in next to her. “Here,” he said, reaching over her shoulders to take both her hands. “I’ll show you some chords.”

  “I’m okay,” she replied. By her voice, it was more like Back off.

  Ames heard it, too, and did just that. Regrouping, he walked over to the opposite wall, where another guitar sat in a stand, and picked it up. Layla continued to ignore him, strumming, while he picked out a few chords, his brow furrowed.

  “Needs tuning,” he said after a moment. “But it’ll do for a quick lesson. Now, look. I’ll show you the basic chords. This is an F . . .”

  I watched as he demonstrated. Layla did not. When he noticed this, he moved on to actually playing, beginning a crude rendition of “Stairway to Heaven,” one of the first songs Peyton had learned in rehab. And then, when I didn’t think it could get any more awkward, he began to sing. His voice was thin and reedy, his eyes shut soulfully, as he teetered over the words of the first two lines. Sadly, we had to watch.

  It was just so awful, and I hadn’t thought anything could be worse than the dinner. I had the worst urge to just laugh out loud, but I knew I couldn’t, so I bit my lip. Then Layla also began to play. First quietly, but as she kept on, it grew louder, her fingers moving faster. I didn’t realize what was happening until she was suddenly playing right along with him. But she wasn’t just picking it out, like he’d been; clearly, she knew what she was doing. Ames realized as soon as I did and abruptly fell silent. Only then did she begin to sing.

  I remembered Layla telling me earlier that day, offhand, that Rosie was the one with the voice. If that was the case, she had to be at opera-like level, because Layla’s singing was gorgeous. Suddenly the room was filled with the sound of her voice, melodic and pure, while her fingers moved so quickly over the guitar strings, they were blurring. I was pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. I know Ames’s was. When she finished, it was like the air sucked right out from all around us. Silence.

  “Wow,” I finally managed. “That was amazing.”

  “You are pretty good,” Ames added.

  “It’s ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ Everyone can play that.” Layla put the guitar back where she’d found it, then looked at me. “Ready for pizza? I am.”

  We ended the night as Ames had planned, watching movies. He made his “famous” popcorn, drenched in melted butter, before settling smack in the middle of the couch facing the TV, so whoever else sat there had no choice but to be next to him. Layla chose the floor, then patted the carpet beside her. As I sat, Ames cut his eyes at me. He wasn’t even trying not to look annoyed anymore.

  The movies were romantic comedies, and Layla, the connoisseur, had already seen them both. She said we should go with the one that was funnier, rather than the one with the dreamy cover image of a couple in midkiss. Forgoing the popcorn, Layla opened her purse and pulled out a fistful of YumYum lollipops, then offered them to me. There was a root beer right in the middle, which I was sure was no accident. When she extended them to Ames, he shook his head.

  “Don’t like hard candy,” he told her. “And all those flavors are always too sour anyway.”

  This Layla didn’t even honor with a reply, instead just ripping a pink one open and sticking it in her mouth. I reached for some popcorn, starting to feel kind of bad for him. It was so buttery, it felt wet in my hand. I left it on my napkin.

  About halfway into the movie, there was a burst of music, and Ames pulled out his phone, glancing at it. “It’s your mom,” he said to me, then answered, putting on the speakerphone. “Julie, hey. How’s the vacation?”

  Layla was still sucking on her lollipop, her eyes on the TV, as my mom said the trip had been good, the flights easy, and they’d just had a great dinner. If Ames was going to tell her I’d invited someone she didn’t know to spend the night, he was taking his time.

  “Is Sydney there?” she asked finally.

  “Sure,” he replied. Then he handed the phone to me.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. I wished I could take her off speaker, but it felt weird doing it on someone else’s phone. Of course he wanted to hear everything that was said.

  “Hi, honey!” My mom actually sounded happy, and for a moment I felt bad for not wanting her to go on the trip. “How are you doing? Having fun with Ames and Marla?”

  “Marla’s actually sick. Same bug as Jenn,” I said. Ames was watching me still, eating a handful of popcorn.

  “Poor thing! That’s really going around.” A pause.
“Everything else okay, though? You had dinner?”

  “Ames cooked.” At this, he smiled mildly. “And now we’re just watching a movie.”

  “Well, that sounds like fun. It’s beautiful here. I haven’t seen a beach so white since . . . well, ever. I might even get a suntan.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Now, tomorrow, you know Ames will be leaving early to visit your brother. So you can go out for breakfast, or make your usual. I left money with him if you guys want to do dinner out or order in. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll be back by dinnertime Sunday,” she continued. “And tell Ames we’ll stop and pick up something, so he should plan to stay. It’s the least we can do for him helping us out on such short notice. And if Marla’s better, tell him to invite her, too.”

  Beside me, Layla removed her lollipop and gave me a look. Then, clearly and audibly, she coughed. Twice.

  On the couch, Ames shifted, putting down the popcorn bowl. The TV was on, dialogue still going, so I wasn’t even sure my mom had heard until she said, “Sydney? Is . . . is someone else there?”

  I looked at Layla, who gave me an almost imperceptible nod. Then I said, “Yeah. My friend I told you about, Layla? She came over with a pizza.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Stanford!” Layla called out. “It’s nice to meet you!”

  There was a slight pause as my mom, normally unflappable when it came to manners and civility, regrouped. “Hello there. I’ve heard a lot about you. I didn’t realize—”

  “Sydney’s kind of saving my life right now,” Layla told her. “We’re remodeling, and they just started repainting my room today and got new carpet put in. Combined, the fumes are awful.”

  On the couch, Ames looked at her. “Don’t worry, Julie,” he called out. “I’ll make sure she heads home soon so Sydney’s not up late.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Layla added, returning his stare. “It’s been airing out for an hour by now, so it should be fine to sleep in.”

  Now I began to catch on.

  “You’re staying in that room tonight?” my mom asked.

  “Um, yeah.”