The Cousins Page 7

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  L’Etoile is a classic old-person’s restaurant. The wallpaper is floral, the chairs are low and cushiony, and everything on the heavy, gilt-edged menu is baked and costs at least thirty dollars.

  “If you want something that’s not on the menu, by all means let me know,” Donald Camden tells us as a server fills our water glasses. “The chef is a personal friend.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur, studying him surreptitiously over the top of my menu. He’s about Gran’s age and equally well preserved, with thick silver hair and a deep tan. There’s a ruddiness to his cheeks, either from the sun or his already being on his second drink. Ever since we arrived at the restaurant he’s been affable and seemingly at ease, asking questions about our jobs and how we like the Towhee program. Meanwhile I’m getting more and more nervous, because I still have no idea why we’re here or what he wants from us.

  “Can I get my hamburger with a bun?” Jonah asks, frowning as he studies his menu. He’s the least dressed-up person in the room, in a threadbare T-shirt, jeans, and ratty Van sneakers. At least Milly and I put some effort into our clothes after we looked up the restaurant online. But if Donald is annoyed by Jonah, he doesn’t show it.

  “Of course,” he chuckles. “The regulars here are very carb-conscious, but that’s not something you need to worry about.” The server returns to take our orders, and when he’s finished, Donald leans back in his chair and sips amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. “Have you had a chance to enjoy our beaches yet?”

  His glance around the table lands on Jonah, who slouches lower in his seat. “I’m not really a beach person,” he mutters.

  As far as I can tell, Jonah isn’t an anything person. He hasn’t taken part in any of the Towhee activities so far. A lot of the girls on our hallway think he’s cute—Brittany in particular makes a point of inviting him everywhere—but if he’s interested in anyone, he doesn’t show it.

  “I’ve heard Catmint Beach is nice,” Milly says. “You know, the one in front of our parents’ house.” She tosses her hair and adds, “It was my mother’s favorite.”

  I can feel myself go red. Gauntlet thrown, before the entrées have even arrived. But Donald barely reacts except to take another sip of his drink. “Catmint Beach is lovely,” he says smoothly. “Exquisite sunrises.”

  “What about Cutty Beach?” I ask.

  That’s where it all started to go wrong. I watch Donald Camden’s face carefully for some sign that Cutty Beach matters—that maybe it’s even tied to why my grandmother disinherited our parents—but he just shrugs. “Unremarkable.”

  Milly shifts restlessly in her seat. I think Donald picks up on the fact that she’s getting antsy with all the polite conversation, because he settles his glass on a coaster and leans forward, hands folded in front of him. “I could talk about our lovely beaches all day, but that’s not why I asked you here. May I be frank?”

  “Please,” I say, just as Milly says, “I wish you would.” Jonah mutters something that sounds like “I don’t know, can you?” but it’s too low for me to be sure. The server reappears just then with our food, and Donald waits until he’s handed all the plates around before continuing.

  “Your grandmother isn’t in the best of health. There’s no imminent crisis, but she’s increasingly delicate, and in my opinion, any disruptions in routine should be avoided. I fear she’s overextending herself with the hospitality she’s shown toward the three of you to date, and that burden will only increase as the summer progresses.”

  “Burden?” Milly says, looking affronted. “And what hospitality are you talking about, exactly? We’ve barely seen her since we got here.”

  Donald acts like she hasn’t spoken. “At the same time, an interesting opportunity has presented itself, and I wanted to share it with you. Are you familiar with the Agent Undeclared movies?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “Of course.” The first Agent Undeclared movie—about two college students turned high-tech spies—came out when I was in eighth grade, and was such a surprise hit that there have been two more since. I’ve had a crush on the lead actor, Dante Rogan, for years. Sometimes when Thomas is kissing me, I close my eyes and picture Dante.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the fourth one is filming in Boston this summer,” Donald says. “An old friend’s law firm does legal work for the franchise, and he shared that they’re in need of some help on set. Young people who could assist with gopher tasks and occasionally be present as stand-ins or perhaps even extras in crowd scenes. I wondered if you three would be interested.”

  “Would we ever,” I blurt out without thinking.

  “No promises,” Donald says, cutting into his baked scrod. “But if you’d like me to look into it, I’m happy to. Housing will be provided, and the pay is quite good, I hear. More than the going rate for resort work. It would be quite a win-win.” He pauses to take a careful bite of fish. “You three get the experience of a lifetime, and your grandmother, who’s not in the best shape to play hostess at the moment, can enjoy a quiet, uneventful summer.”

  “But we already have jobs,” Jonah says, looking pensive. “We can’t just leave.”

  Donald waves a dismissive hand. “The summer hire program at Gull Cove Resort always has more applicants than it can accommodate. There’s quite a lengthy wait list. I’m sure your spots could easily be filled.”

  “Would we get to work with Dante Rogan?” I ask breathlessly.

  Milly stands abruptly and drops her napkin on her chair. “I need the restroom,” she says. “Want to come with, Aubrey?”

  “I don’t have to go.”

  She smiles through gritted teeth. “So keep me company.”

  I don’t have much choice when she latches onto my arm and pulls. I follow her through the restaurant, weaving among mostly empty tables. Milly pushes through the door to the ladies’ room, steering me in front of a gilt-framed mirror above double sinks. The entire room smells like we just tumbled into a vat of potpourri.

  My cousin leans against the pink-tiled wall and crosses her arms. “Don’t you think this is a little weird?”

  Half of me registers her skeptical tone, but the other half is still imagining bonding with Dante Rogan over the coffee I’m going to fetch him this summer. “Working on a movie set? I think it’s amazing.”

  “Really?” she asks. “Because it feels like a bribe.” I frown, stubbornly resistant to her ruining my fantasy, and she sighs. “Come on, Aubrey. This is Donald Camden we’re talking about. Our parents’ archnemesis. He doesn’t have our best interests at heart.”

  “Archnemesis?” I almost laugh, but…she’s right. My father talked about Donald Camden constantly when I was growing up, always with a note of bitter resentment: Donald won’t return my emails. Donald says Mother’s decision hasn’t changed. Donald says it doesn’t matter that Father wouldn’t have wanted his children disinherited. All that matters is that he didn’t put it in writing. “So what are you saying? That Mr. Camden’s trying to get rid of us?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s what I’ve been saying, remember?”

  “But why?”

  Milly taps a finger on her chin. “I don’t know. But it’s interesting that he can’t, isn’t it?”

  As usual, I feel like Milly is three steps ahead of me. “Huh?”

  “Clearly, if it were up to him we’d already be gone. He wouldn’t need to dangle a plum job. He’d just have us fired. So whatever’s going on around here, Donald Camden and Mildred Story aren’t in sync this time. He can’t send a you know what you did letter and be done with it.” She peers into the mirror to smooth her hair, a small smile playing at her lips. “Which is kind of satisfying, isn’t it?”

  “So, what?” I ask. “Now you think Gran did invite us?”

  “No. Just because she’s willing
to let us stay doesn’t mean she brought us here.”

  I sigh. “You make my head spin, Milly.”

  She grins and loops her arm through mine, pulling me toward the bathroom door. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”

  Two days after lunch with Donald Camden, Mildred Story still hasn’t bothered to grace us with her presence.

  It’s four o’clock on Friday, an hour before it starts getting busy at The Sevens, which is what passes for a sports pub at Gull Cove Resort. I’m a busboy here, and it’s not the worst summer job I’ve ever had. Especially since it comes with free food.

  “What’s new, Jonah?” Chaz the bartender asks as I slide onto a stool across from him. Chaz isn’t nearly as much of a dick as the nickname implies. He’s an okay guy, actually, although he has a thick, dark, mountain-man beard that I’m surprised passed the Gull Cove Resort dress code. “You want the special today?”

  “What is it?”

  “Shrimp linguine.”

  I nod vigorously, and Chaz taps on the iPad in front of him. “You’re in luck,” he says, squinting at the screen. “No waiting. The kitchen just made an order for a customer who changed their mind. Someone will bring it by in a sec.”

  He turns and starts pulling glasses from a low shelf, arranging them in neat rows on the bar. The Sevens is a mix of high-tech and old-school; the televisions that line each wall are the biggest, most high-definition screens I’ve ever seen, but the interior of the restaurant is all dark polished wood, recessed lighting, and leather chairs. The bar is massive, propped up by two pillars on either end, with seating all the way around. Summer staff usually starts congregating here around four-thirty to eat, but I’m always hungry way before then.

  “First one here, as usual?” asks a dry voice behind me.

  I turn to see Milly in her work uniform: a black cocktail dress, black apron, trendy black sneakers, and dark-red lipstick that must be mandatory, because every waitress who works at Veranda—Gull Cove Resort’s fine dining restaurant—wears the same shade. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, her lashes thick with dark mascara. Or maybe she just has a naturally intense eyelash situation happening at all times.

  “I like the food,” I say, eyeing her warily as she slips onto a stool beside me. Other than the ferry ride and that weird lunch with Donald Camden, Milly and I haven’t spoken much since we got here. Which is exactly what I thought she wanted, so I’m not sure why she’s sitting next to me all of a sudden.

  The television in front of us is turned to CNN for a change—Chaz likes to get the news in before he’s forced to make it all sports when happy hour starts—and Milly’s eyes flick over the reporter on-screen. “Some investment banker’s been arrested for fraud again,” she says, a little louder than necessary. “Seems like a rampant problem in the financial industry. Has Uncle Anders ever come up against anything like that? Like, oh, I don’t know…a Bernie Madoff in Rhode Island, maybe?”

  Shit. I don’t have to look at her face to know she somehow stumbled across that little write-up in the Providence Journal from earlier this year. One disgruntled client lost the entirety of his retirement savings, his child’s college fund, and is now in danger of losing his family’s small business. Frank North, who recently filed for bankruptcy, called Anders Story “the Bernie Madoff of Rhode Island.” “His investment strategy was nothing more than a pyramid scheme,” says Mr. North. “And I was the last fool standing.”

  I wonder, though, if she knows that it’s true.

  Chaz saves the day without realizing it, clicking from CNN to ESPN. “The entire financial industry is a joke,” he says. “Bottom line is, nobody’s ever gonna care as much about your own money as you do.” His cheeks crease in a tired smile. “Says the guy who has none. You kids keep that in mind, though, when you’re out running the world. Either of you want something to drink?”

  “I’m all right,” Milly says.

  “A Coke would be great,” I say. I watch Chaz disappear behind one of the pillars before turning to Milly. “What do you want?” I ask bluntly.

  “You’re so touchy, Jonah.” Her brows draw together in an expression of mock hurt. “Can’t I just enjoy the pleasure of my cousin’s company?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She drops the pretense and pulls a cream-colored envelope out of her pocket, her tone turning businesslike. “Did you get one of these?”

  It looks exactly like the envelope that Donald Camden sent with his invitation to lunch. “Yeah. I was there. Hamburger without a bun. Remember?”

  “No,” she says impatiently, opening the flap and pulling out a card. “It’s a follow-up.” She hands it to me and I read the short note inside.

  I strongly urge you to reconsider my offer.

  The terms of employment are more generous than I realized.

  See below.

  Donald S. Camden, Esq.

  I stare at the number written at the bottom. It’s easily three times what I’d make at Gull Cove Resort. Then I turn the card over, but there’s nothing else. “I don’t know if I got one of these or not,” I tell Milly, handing it back to her. I have to fight to keep my voice normal, because that’s a lot of cash. “I haven’t checked my mailbox in a while.”

  “Hey, Jonah.” A girl’s voice, sweet and just a little seductive, interrupts us. It’s Brittany, one of the servers and a fellow Towhee. She smiles coyly and bats her eyes at me, like she’s been doing ever since we got here. Which is a problem. Brittany is cute, but I’m trying to keep a low profile. “I hear you’re the lucky recipient of buyer’s remorse.” She slides the plate in front of me and flips her thick blond braid over one shoulder at the same time. Milly folds her arms, watching us.

  “Thanks, Brittany.” The smell of garlic and seafood hits me and I’m instantly starving.

  She beams at me. “Anytime.” Her eyes shift to my right. “Hi, Milly. What’s up?”

  “Not much,” Milly says. “Just talking to my cousin. About family stuff.” The unspoken And you’re interrupting is so obvious that if I were trying to make something happen with Brittany, I’d be annoyed. But since I’m not, I just drop a napkin onto my lap and pick up my fork.

  “Okay, well.” Brittany twists her braid. “I have to get back to my tables, but…a bunch of people are going to Dunes tonight when their shifts are over.” At my blank look, she adds, “It’s a beach bar type of place? Well, not just a bar. You don’t have to be twenty-one to get in. They serve food, and there’s music and games. And it’s right down the street, so we can walk there. Do you want to come?”

  Not really. Again: nothing personal. But the less I socialize here, the better. “I don’t know,” I say. “I get really tired at the end of my shifts, so…”

  “Also, Jonah hates people,” Milly puts in, with the air of somebody who’s offering a helpful tip.

  Brittany blinks as I glare. “Can you mind your own business for once?” I growl.

  Milly spreads her hands. “Like I was saying.”

  “Well, let me know if you’re up for it,” Brittany says with a strained smile. She heads back into the kitchen, and I dig my fork into the pile of linguine in front of me with a vengeance.

  “You can leave anytime,” I tell Milly.

  She looks at my plate, brow furrowed. “That’s shrimp.”

  “No shit,” I say, taking as big a mouthful as I can manage. Milly just keeps staring, which is kind of weird and rude, until Chaz returns and sets a Coke in front of me. Her eyes stray to the thick silver band on his right index finger.

  “I like your wedding ring,” she says.

  “Not a wedding ring,” Chaz says. He pulls off the silver band and holds it up so a thin line that looks like a zipper is visible. “Guitar string,” he explains. “I used to play a lot. Still do, sometimes.”

  “Cool.” Milly gives him a half smi
le. “Are you any good?”

  Chaz puts the ring back on and makes a sweeping gesture around the bar. “Well, I work here, don’t I?” he says. “So…not good enough.”

  I’ve been inhaling my food during their entire conversation, and Milly keeps watching me. “Enjoying your dinner?” she asks when I stop for air.

  Chaz grins, stroking his beard. I can’t tell how old he is; he could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. “You have to ask?” he says.

  “You guys need a new hobby,” I snap. Meals are a highlight of this weird place, and their hovering is ruining mine.

  Milly slides off the stool. “I changed my mind,” she says. “I want a drink after all. I’ll get it myself, though.”

  “Something nonalcoholic,” Chaz calls as she disappears behind one of the bar pillars. “I know the exact level of every bottle and I will check.” He shakes his head, picking up a towel and a wineglass. “That kid knows her way around a bar.”

  She’s not the only one, I think, watching him polish the glass with slightly trembling hands. My favorite aunt, my mother’s youngest sister, has hands that do the exact same thing when she’s gone too long without a drink. She’s one of those high-functioning alcoholics who’s always slightly buzzed, but rarely drunk. Or maybe I’m just in denial about that. “I guess,” I say, pushing the last of my pasta away.

  “You guys are cousins, right?” Chaz asks. Like the entire island doesn’t know exactly who we are. I nod, and he asks, “You close?”

  “No.” Chaz raises his brows at my swift reply, and I add, “I mean, I hadn’t seen her for years before we started working here. Our families don’t exactly hang out.”

  “Well, now’s your chance to get to know one another, right? Family’s important. Or it should be, anyway.” Chaz’s lean face looks suddenly tired. He’s still polishing the same wineglass, which is streakier than when he started.

  Milly returns with a glass of water and hops back onto the stool beside me, putting the card from Donald Camden down on the bar. I can’t help myself; I pick it up again and look at the number inside. “So, listen,” I say. I lower my voice, but Chaz is already turning away to finish stocking the bar. “Are you thinking of doing it?”