Page 55 of My Favorite Lost Cause
“What’s with the attitude?” I demand. “I’m pulling every string I can pull to fix this, and you’re kind of being a dick.”
“No one asked you to pull those strings,” he grunts.
I’m used to Charlie being a jerk to me in harmless, funny ways, but this isn’t harmless or funny. And he’s doing it with anaudience. The guys beside him cease hammering, watching the argument unfold, and Elijah, carrying planks of wood over his shoulder, freezes. Great—every eye is on me as my anger turns into tears. “I’m going to the country club,” I say, my voice rough, “because I’m trying to help.”
I haven’t even reached the bottom of the stairs before Charlie’s there, extending a hand to help me down the last step.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, not releasing my hand. “And I would hug you right now but I’m filthy and you look beautiful. I appreciate it, Maren. I do. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Tell me you’re not mad.”
It sort of seems like you’re jealous.
It would do no good to say it aloud. “I’m not mad. But can you give it a rest with the Andrew stuff? He’s just trying to help.”
“No,” Charlie says, pressing his lips to my forehead, “because I still think Andrew’s a worthless dick.”
I want to cry, but I also sort of want to laugh as I climb in the car.
I drive through Oak Bluff and then another two miles to Palmetto Reserve, with its stately white mansion, rolling golf course, and ten glorious tennis courts occupied by blonde women with lots of Botox.
I’m taken on a tour of the facility by Kara, the membership director, who is vaguely aware of my career but particularly aware of my mother’s—for better or for worse.
“Is it true that she dated Shepherd Lawrence?” she asks.
I wince. My mother is very diligent when it comes to her weight, but less diligent aboutnotfucking other people’s husbands. Yes, it’s true, but I’m fairly certain Shepherd Lawrence was a newlywed when it took place.
“I really don’t know,” I tell her. “She’s been with my stepfather for so long. I barely remember who came before him.”
“Do you think your mother would have any interest in joining?” she asks.
Would the members consider that a boon or a liability? Would they love having a famous supermodel as a member, or would they deem ittawdry?
Both, I suspect.
“I’m sure she’ll come down to visit—as well as my father.”
She bites her lip. “Your father? Is that Jacob Duncan?”
No, Jacob Duncan was the rock star boyfriend who gave my mom a black eye, the guy Kit ended up fighting off with a golf club. He came before the boyfriend who stole a hundred grand of my mom’s money, but after the boyfriend who said I could have his Porsche if I let him spank me.
I shake my head. “My biological father is Yves Marchand, the artist? But I was adopted by Henry Fisher. You know, Fisher Harris Media?”
Her eyes widen ever so slightly. There is nothingtawdryabout having a billionaire who owns half the magazines in the country on your membership rolls.
“Oh, I had no idea,” she says. “You know, we’re having a big summer dance next Thursday. It might be a good chance for you to get to know our members.”
It also might be a good chance for me to make the contacts I need and bypass joining this club entirely—which is the reason I nod enthusiastically.
It has nothing,nothing, to do with wanting to attend a dance with Charlie.
The invitation she sends me home with is as heavy as a thin book and incredibly fancy.
Charlie is still working on the porch when I pull up, on his knees, muscles flexed as he hammers in a four-by-four. I’m grinning as I make my way over to him, unable to help myself.
He raises a brow. “You’re too excited, Maren,” he says, holding a nail between his lips. “That never bodes well.”
“We got an invitation to a ball!” I cry, too excited to contain my glee. “And it’sBridgertonthemed and being held in someone’s mansion.”
He sets the hammer down and removes the nail. “This is getting better and better,” he says dryly.
