The Fortunate Ones

  So, in what I can only call a supremely pathetic act, I decline and bike home in the pouring rain. Water drips from my helmet into my eyes and I have to keep blinking to make out the road in front of me. My feet continuously slip off the pedals, and I suffer through it like a real champ. I commit all the bad parts to memory so I can wallow in my bedroom in peace while I continue to obsess over James…just for a minute, just to see if I can figure out who the woman was.

  And I do.

  I search #TwinOaksCountryClub on Instagram, and lo and behold, Little Miss Red Dress posted a photo of her afternoon meeting with James. It’s not of him. No, she took a picture of their food and drinks to brag about how #goals her life is. The caption reads: Having a great interview with THE #JamesAshwood at Twin Oaks Country Club! #CrabCakes #GoatCheese #Yum #Yummy #Lucky #Blessed #Soblessed

  I develop cataracts before I can finish reading all the hashtags she tacked on, but it doesn’t matter. Her profile says she’s a medical device rep, and she was interviewing with James at the club, so there it is, folks. She might soon be working for James’ company, but she’s not dating him. I might work at a country club, but clearly I missed my calling as a private investigator.

  Ellie texts me when I’m about to go to sleep.

  ELLIE: Oh whoops. Sorry, just seeing this. Are you still floating in the river? You should be nearing the Gulf of Mexico by morning. Should I pick you up in Galveston?

  CHAPTER SIX

  On days like this, I’m tempted to take extreme measures to secure an au pair position. The next time the agency calls me with an interview opportunity, I’m going to give myself a reverse makeover. Fake braces, dopey glasses, maybe a lisp—anything to pick up a new job so I can drop this one.

  “Um, yeahhhh, this is wrong…I asked for a virgin strawberry daiquiri and my friend asked for a virgin piña colada.”

  I take the drinks out of their barely-post-pubescent hands and swap them.

  “There you go. Do you need anything else?”

  The tween scowls. “But I already drank half of that one before I realized it wasn’t the right drink. I want another one.”

  I take a calming breath and try to harness every drop of patience I have left inside of me.

  “No problem. What’s your member ID number?”

  She pulls down her sunglasses so I can see her crystal-blue eyes. “I already gave it to you.”

  I want to drown her in that virgin strawberry daiquiri. Instead, I smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot it.”

  Her friend sneers. “Be nice to the help, Mercedes. She might be like…special.”

  Mercedes snickers and whispers loudly, “How sad. I mean, you’d kind of have to be to work here, right?”

  Even though I want to, I don’t engage. I keep my smile right where it is and ask again. “What’s your member ID number?”

  She rolls her eyes. “4387. The Johnsons.”

  She says it like she’s proclaiming to be a Vanderbilt, but I know better. I didn’t recognize her before, but now I do. From rumors passed around the club, I know her dad just got caught cheating on her mom with his tennis partner—his male tennis partner—and now it makes sense; this mean girl act is a defense mechanism. Soon enough, she’ll find a good therapist and learn to get her anger out by taking up kickboxing. For now, I give her extra whipped cream on her strawberry daiquiri and vow to stay the hell away from her for the rest of the afternoon.

  Another two hours pass, in which I schlepp food and drinks back and forth from the cabana bar to the kiddie pool. Fortunately, all the children over here are too young to be really mouthy. Plus, I’m the person bringing the candy and ice cream, so to them, I’m better than Elmo.

  “Oooh, look who’s over by the gate,” one of the moms says as I’m clearing her table of empty margarita glasses.

  “Oh god, he’s so hot,” her friend adds.

  “Megan! You just got married six months ago!”

  “Yeah, well, Mark isn’t exactly a wizard in the bedroom. Staring at James is probably the most sexually fulfilling thing I’ll do all week.”

  My neck nearly breaks at the mention of his name. I turn around, and sure enough, he’s over by the gate, leaning on the ledge and scanning the pool area. I conclude that he’s looking for someone a second before his brown eyes lock with mine. My stomach dips in a sensation I can only describe as euphoric and terrifying all at once, and that’s before he smiles and nods for me to come over.

  “Who is he looking at?” one of the moms asks.

  “I think the hot cabana girl.”

  For their information, I am a cabana woman, thank you very much.

  “Maybe he wants a margarita?” the first one asks.

  “Um, if that’s how he looks at you when he wants you to get him a margarita then sign me up for cabana duties.”

  My hand shakes as I reach for the last cup on their table.

  “Do you know him?” Megan asks me.

  I offer a hesitant smile and a quick shake of my head. It’s better if they assume he just wants a drink; I’d rather not be the topic of the gossip continually spreading through Twin Oaks.

  By the time I drop off my tray in the cabana kitchen and check my reflection in the back of a spoon (good, not great), James is standing just inside the pool gate, hands tucked in his pants pockets. It’s early summer in Texas, which means the temperature is already creeping into the high 80s. I’d be sweating bullets if I were wearing a tailored suit out here, but James looks like he’s hardly aware of the sun beating down overhead. Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t have pores like the rest of us. Still, in an effort to save us both, I direct us over to the shaded porch near the bar then turn to face him.

  “Going for a dip?” I tease.

  I swear his smile turns devilish.

  He nods toward the club entrance. “I just came from a lunch meeting. I need to get back to the office soon, but I wanted to talk to you.”

  I swallow down my eagerness. “Oh yeah?”

  “You know,” he says, brushing his hand along his smooth jaw, “I used to see you around the club all the time, but now that I have a reason to talk to you, you’ve been impossible to find.”

  The concept of him looking for me is hilarious given the biking-home-in-the-rain scenario I endured a few days ago.

  “Well, I assure you, I’ve been here,” I say, waving to the pool behind me. “Personally inebriating the rich, famous, and bratty.”

  That makes him smile just as the tweens screech in unison about a new Snapchat filter.

  “Right. Of course,” he says, glancing down to take in my Twin Oaks uniform in all its glory. I flush under his blatant perusal.

  “So what did you need to talk to me about so desperately?” I ask, catching my hands in front of my waist and wringing them out.

  He rocks back on his heels and glances away. His eyes narrow, and I almost think he’s mulling over what he’s about to say before he finally admits, “I could really use your help.”

  That’s how he says it, just vague enough that I have no way of knowing what he’s referring to.

  “With what?”

  He graciously ignores the high-pitched inflection of my words as he replies, “I’m attending a party soon, and I’d like you to accompany me.” A DATE? THIS IS AN INVITATION TO GO OUT ON A DATE. “My company is in need of a new CFO and the man I’d like for the job will be in attendance, as will his French girlfriend.”

  I shake my head, confused. Why is he giving me all these extraneous details? It’s a date—tell me what time you’re picking me up and let’s get this show on the road!

  He smiles gently before he continues, “You mentioned the other day that you’re fluent in French…”

  Of course. Duh. He doesn’t want me for romance, he wants me for my Romance languages.

  “So you want me to keep his date company for you?”

  A normal, decent human would at least act embarrassed by the bluntness of my question. Not James.

  He g
azes directly at me as he replies, “Exactly.”

  I spend a moment trying to decide how his request makes me feel. It’s not a date, that much is clear, but that doesn’t mean I should turn him down. For the last two and a half weeks, I’ve been replaying our conversation in the bar so often that I could recite it word for word on a Broadway stage in sync with music. But, if I’m going to agree to this, I want to know exactly where I stand.

  “So I’d be some sort of secret linguistic weapon?”

  He smiles and then wipes it away, like he’s entirely too amused by the question. God, he’s good-looking up close, all hard lines and contours with a pair of lips he can maneuver into one hell of a tempting smile.

  “I don’t know how I feel about that,” I continue on a shaky voice. “It feels a bit like being used.”

  “Would you rather I lied?” he asks with an arched brow.

  Yes.

  “No.”

  “Good, because I think honesty is important. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned.”

  I nod and do my best to slip into the persona he wants from me. “What’s in it for me? Will there be good food?”

  He chuckles. “Plenty, and of course, Jack and Coke.”

  He’s alluding to my drink from the other night. I’m surprised he remembers; maybe he’s replayed our encounter a time or two as well. The thought emboldens me.

  I shrug. Cool. Effortless. “Fine, I’ll go.”

  Still, I need to know my role. Online, I wasn’t able to find anything about a girlfriend or wife, but it’s not like his entire life is plastered on Google. He’s not a celebrity, at least not outside of Austin.

  “So you’ll introduce me as your friend then?” I ask before quickly adding, “I just want to play my part right.”

  Beneath dark brows, his coffee-brown eyes regard me with bold interest. “I’ll introduce you however you’d like.”

  The way he says it ensures I catch his meaning. It’s an invitation.

  But then he’s tugging out his phone and tapping away, dowsing the tension between us with a big bucket of ice water.

  “I’ll have my assistant drop off something for you to wear. What’s your email address? She’ll need to know your dress size.”

  I’m offended. “I can pick something up myself.”

  Thanks to my dad and Martha, I’ve attended plenty of fundraisers and galas. I know how to dress for an occasion.

  He shakes his head, no room for negotiations as he hands over his iPhone, open to a new contact page. I fill in my name, and though he only asked for my email, I give him my number too. Maybe it’s forward, or maybe it’s expected. I’ll never know, because just then Little Miss Virgin Piña Colada shouts about how slow the service is here. I have to get back to work.

  The moms stationed by the kiddie pool spend the rest of my shift trying to pry details of our conversation out of me. I keep my lips zipped, but it doesn’t help. By the end of the day, the entire club has heard about my poolside rendezvous with James.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It’s Saturday, and James’ party is tonight. I know this thanks to Beth, his assistant. She and I have been in constant communication since I agreed to be James’ secret weapon. Thank goodness for her, because the man himself has yet to use those nine digits I programmed into his phone. Would it have killed him to call or text to confirm that I still wanted to go? Maybe that way we could have gotten to know each other a little better and I wouldn’t be so freaking nervous about tonight. The details I’ve gleaned from Beth aren’t nearly sufficient.

  What is the fundraiser called? Have I heard of it?

  The party doesn’t have a name, and no, you haven’t heard of it.

  Who’s throwing it?

  The host committee wishes to remain private.

  Where is the party located?

  That information hasn’t been released to the public at this time.

  I’m half-convinced Beth is a robot, like Siri. Her responses are so austere and impersonal. I’ve even attempted to crack a few jokes, and I got crickets in response. I guess my humor doesn’t translate into robot binary. (Good to know in case they one day take over the planet.)

  Beth did tell me what time the party starts.

  9:00 PM.

  Now, it’s 5:10 PM, and I’m sitting in Milk + Honey in downtown Austin. You see, I’m a genius. I knew I needed to take extreme measures the moment I found out I would be attending a party on James’ arm—well, in the vicinity of his arm, at least. The point is, after I’m done at Milk + Honey, I hope I’ll be able to show James I’m so much more than an interpreter for hire.

  The genius part comes in because while I wanted to look my best, I also figured it might be a good time to give in to Martha a little bit. She wanted me to join her and Ellie for a spa day, so here we are. I think this is called killing two birds with one hot stone massage.

  We started the morning with manicures and pedicures. From there, we had hydrating facials and massages. During a short break, we snacked on quinoa salad with spinach and red wine vinaigrette and caprese skewers with balsamic drizzle. I’ve been dipped, lathered, waxed, and rinsed. I’m pretty sure the entire top layer of my epidermis has been stripped off at this point, and though I’m hesitant to admit it, I am actually having a good time with Martha and Ellie.

  The details aren’t that noteworthy. Our conversation has included such titillating topics as home renovations and Martha’s nagging tennis elbow. I did confide in them about how hard it’s been to find another position as a tutor, and Martha listened intently while encouraging me to keep looking. It’s the longest amount of time I’ve spent with her in years, and I’m finding it harder to dislike her as the day continues, which is annoying. I’ve grown comfortable with the distance between us, and I’m not sure what to do with these new feelings. I am the Grinch with an enlarged heart.

  Fortunately, we split up after a late lunch since they want to continue spa treatments (because somehow there are still more to be had) and I need start getting ready for the party. I have the hair stylist give me a Brazilian blowout so my dark hair hangs in glossy waves down my back, and then a nice woman named Linda starts applying my makeup.

  “So tell me, what’s the occasion?”

  Of course she has to ask—no one gets this gussied up without a place to go. Trouble is, I don’t know exactly where I’m off to tonight. I checked my email at lunch, but there was nothing new from Beth. The last I heard, I needed to be at home and ready to go by 8:30 PM.

  I give Linda a generic lie.

  “Just a fancy party thing.” I shrug. “I forget the name.”

  She waggles her eyebrows as if my ambiguity intrigues her even more. “What does your dress look like?”

  I still technically don’t have a dress. I gave Beth my measurements a few days ago, and I was tempted to tack on a few requirements—no ruffles, nothing too sparkly—but I resisted. For all I know, Beth the robot has more fashion sense than I do.

  All that is probably too much to unload on a complete stranger, so I tell her what I imagine the dress will look like. It’s a party, no doubt at some ritzy downtown hotel, so it will need to be floor-length and fitted, sleeveless and tight in all the right places.

  She hums in appreciation of my fictitious description. “I remember when I used to be able to wear slinky numbers like that. What color?”

  I smile. “Light blue.”

  To match my eyes.

  …

  When I return home, I’m a sore thumb inside the co-op. Fortunately, no one is in the living room, so I scurry to the stairs and run smack into Ian, the absolute last person I want to see.

  His eyes widen at my appearance. “Whoa…”

  I blanch. “Oh, hey Ian.”

  He doesn’t oblige when I try to skirt around him. “You look…” His gaze drags down my body, and I’m thankful I’m still wearing the tank top and yoga pants I threw on before the spa. “Amazing.”

  This is too awkward for words, so I
smile and nod. “Thanks.”

  He steps aside and I head for my room.

  “Where are you headed?” he asks, his tone more curious than anything. “I’ve never seen you done up like this.”

  I swallow and choose my next words carefully. Most of my roommates at the co-op—Ian included—make fun of my job at the country club. It’s kind of funny when you think about it: they make fun of the rich people who choose to spend their time and money at Twin Oaks, and my old classmates and members at Twin Oaks balk at the idea of these artist types living together in a co-op. I guess being judgey crosses all class lines.

  “Oh, yeah…just going to some party.”

  “For your dad?”

  Ian knows I come from a wealthy family.

  “Uhh, something like that.”

  He quirks his brow, and I can tell he wants to keep pushing the subject, but I don’t have time. It’s already 8:00 PM, and according to Beth, James will be here at 8:30. I wave bye to Ian and then bolt down the hallway. When I get closer to my door, I spot a black satin box with a matching ribbon sitting on the floor. Beside it, there’s another box, much smaller, but no less fancy. I turn back to confirm Ian’s gone, grab the boxes, and push into my room with a massive smile on my face.

  It’s my dress. I know it, and I have a hard time keeping myself from squealing with excitement. I’ve had romantic experiences in the past. College boyfriends packed me the occasional soggy picnic or threw together a mix CD full of songs about other peoples’ love, but this—this feels special, even if James didn’t pick out the dress himself. He definitely cared enough to ensure I’d have something beautiful to wear for the party.

  For him.

  No. Wrong.

  I’m attending so I can keep his business associate’s date occupied, and I need to remember that…but what was that he said at the end of our conversation by the pool? That I could be introduced however I chose? Surely he meant that to mean what I think he did.

  Whatever. Who cares. I have more important things to worry about, like these two boxes (!!!).