No Strings Attached Page 11

  “Lucky for me you’re here,” she managed, furiously sponging off the stovetop. “How come you’re not at work?”

  “Donated my shift to another bartender—guy’s desperate for dough.” Joss handed her a roll of paper towels. “Here, use this. I’ll get the floor.”

  “Thanks,” Harper murmured. She wanted to say, “For everything, for saving me from further humiliation.” But the words didn’t come.

  “Well,” Joss mused as he wiped up, “hope you weren’t jonesing for pasta. This dinner is beyond saving.”

  “No big,” she said. Then her stomach growled. Loudly.

  Josh laughed. “Hey look, I got the night off. So why don’t we just chuck it … as it were … go out to dinner instead?”

  Harper shook her head, more adamantly than she’d meant. “No! I mean, thanks and all, but …”

  “But what? I know this place, you’ll dig it—a real Cape Cod experience, on the beach up in Wellfleet. Been there?”

  “I’m a vegetarian.” And she’d blurted that, why, exactly?

  “Then don’t get a hamburger. Chill, it’s just dinner.”

  It wasn’t. Just dinner, that is.

  It was the best time Harper’d had in weeks! Joss had nailed it. The Beachcomber was her kind of place: kick back, outdoor, a bar-restaurant, with an awesome view. It was snuggled atop a dune, overlooking a wide, pristine beach. They got there just at sunset. The sand seemed to be bathed in hues of rust, orange, red-clay; and the ocean, a dark navy.

  The Beachcomber wasn’t visible from the road; you had to know about it. Hence, the place was filled with locals: a homey mix of singles, couples, families, in their faded denims, Old Navy tees, sandals, and flip-flops. Not a Katie-type in sight. Harper and Joss bypassed the green-and-white-awninged bar, and settled at one of the few tables still empty.

  “This place has been here for decades,” Joss told her. “It’s famous for its authentic Cape Cod oysters, and after dark, it’s a big music scene. Concerts on the beach: jazz, rock, punk, reggae—you name it. Everyone’s played the Beachcomber.”

  “You’ve been here before,” Harper noted.

  “Once—which makes me qualified to order for both of us.”

  Harper couldn’t suppress a grin. Joss was so sure of himself, he just took over. He’d picked the place, driven them here in his cute rented convertible—he’d even maneuvered their seats so they’d both be facing the ocean. Was it because he was older—at least twenty-one, she calculated—or was he hardwired that way? Both, she thought.

  “We’ll have a dozen bluepoint oysters on the half shell to start,” he told the waiter, “a mountain of your greasiest onion rings, and a couple of beers.” He turned to Harper. “Uh, unless you don’t want beer?”

  “Sounds like it’s part of the oyster/onion ring Cape experience.”

  Joss conceded, “It is. You kind of have to.”

  “Then I kind of want to,” she said with a real smile.

  To the waiter, Joss joked, “The lady is an oyster virgin, so we’ll start her on the classic, then build to more exotic varied types. If she’s up to it, that is.” He winked.

  Harper leaned back, clasped her hands behind her head, put her feet up on the extra chair. “How’d you know I’ve never had oysters?”

  “Just a guess. Not many neighborhood hangouts in Boston—or New York—that serve ’em. It’s not like HoJo’s fried clams, or The Original Ray’s Pizza, if you know what I mean.”

  “What do they taste like?” Harper was suddenly hyperaware that Joss was sitting really close to her.

  He ran his fingers through his long curls. “Hard to describe. I think you’re just gonna have to decide for yourself.”

  When their order arrived, Harper was about to decide to order something else. Oysters weren’t much for eye appeal. She knew what they were: plump bivalves—muscles, really—in simple juice. Only they looked like pearly gray lumps of quivering phlegm-y slime, set in a ragged shell. Dude, it looked like something you’d send flying out your throat, not down it. Not that Harper would dare say that.

  She didn’t have to.

  “Not much of a poker face, are you?” Joss grinned. “Don’t be grossed out. Here, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Harper watched, transfixed, as Joss demonstrated. “First, we dab a little cocktail sauce just here.” He spooned a drop of the red sauce onto the fat middle of the oyster, then, with his thumb and forefinger, lifted the ringed shell. “You hoist it up to your lips, open your mouth, stick your tongue out, tip your chin up … and let it slide down your throat. Hmmm …” He winked at her and took a slug of beer.

  “I don’t know …” Harper was dubious. What if she choked on the thing? What if it got stuck in her throat?

  “Don’t be a wuss,” Joss needled good-naturedly. “Nobody respects a wuss.”

  “A wuss? Did you just call me a wuss?” Harper attacked the oyster, drowning it first in cocktail sauce. She shut her eyes—and just did it. The slippery thing slid down, sort of like a log flume ride. She tasted mainly the cocktail sauce—that was a relief!

  “Beer chaser,” Joss advised, handing her a bottle. “Next time, slow down so you can actually savor it. By the way, chewing is acceptable too.”

  Harper reached for a comeback, only seeing herself—the fading sun glinting off her blond streaks, the mile-wide smile, her dimples—in the mirror of Joss’s swimming-pool-blue eyes, she forgot what it was. Then she noticed what he was wearing. A purple-and-white-striped button-down beneath his jacket. “That’s not the shirt—”

  “You threw up all over?” He finished her sentence with a laugh. “Nah, that one didn’t make it.”

  The elephant dropped onto the table. Time to do the right thing. Haltingly, Harper did. “About that night … I’m so very sorry, so ashamed, I don’t usually—”

  “Get hammered and hurl over the first guy who comes into the room?”

  Harper fixed her gaze straight ahead, to the line where the water met the sky: the horizon. A lone boat tossed on the choppy water, and a lone tear wiggled its way down her cheek.

  Joss leaned over and pulled her to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to trivialize it. I figured something monumental must have happened.”

  “You could say that,” Harper whispered, tempted to let herself go, lean into his chest.

  “You don’t owe me an explanation,” Joss said sincerely. “It’s cool, really, we’re good.”

  Harper swallowed and pulled away. “Katie got in my face with some nasty stuff. I reacted badly.”

  If Joss knew more—and by this time, he probably did—he didn’t let on. He did empathize, though.

  “I get it. I’m slow to burn, but push my buttons, and man, all bets are off. Back in high school, this jerk ripped into me, talked real trash about my dad cheating on my mom. I didn’t even know I had it in me, I just hauled off and dropped him.”

  Harper quipped, “Put the ‘fist’ in pacifist, did you?”

  “Oh, yeah. Didn’t go unnoticed. Our school was right across the street from the police precinct. New York’s finest earned their rep that day.”

  Harper lit up. Joss had just said the magic words: “New York.”

  Katie Whispers in the Wind

  Had Harper or Joss been looking out at the water as keenly as they were eyeing each other, they might’ve spotted a small luxury yacht called Lady Blue cruising Cape Cod Bay. But by the time Nathan Graham’s family-owned ferry passed by the Wellfleet inlet, the two were animatedly comparing experiences in New York and having an oyster eat-off.

  It was just around 9:30 that night, and Katie stood at the railing, Nate’s arms locked around her. She took in the shoreline, dotted with restaurants, souvenir shops, surf shacks, beaches. Her eye settled on a cute place with a green-and-white-striped awning, tables situated just at the top of a dune. How sweet is that? she thought, never guessing that Harper and Joss were sitting there. Nate leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “You cold, cupcake?�
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  Katie burrowed into him. “Not anymore.”

  “Mmmm, ’cause we can go inside the cabin anytime you want,” her date pointed out, in that sweetly suggestive way of his.

  “I like being out on the open water, under the moonlit sky,” Katie replied. “There’s something so romantic about it, like possibilities are limitless.”

  She’d gotten romantic with Nate Graham in record time, even for her. But what choice had she had? Brian had bruised her ego, rushed her, all before she’d had a chance to ask him for help.

  She could try again. Brian had called repeatedly, tried to woo his way back into her good graces. Was it worth it? Though she’d met Brian and Nate the same day, Katie had chosen Brian first because he seemed like the better bet. Brainy, brawny, an old-money blue blood. The type she understood, and thought she could manipulate.

  But, no—Katie’s mind was made up. Brian’s ship had sailed.

  Nate, though he’d demonstrated squeal appeal for her prepubescent campers, had stalled at number two, because he wasn’t really Katie’s type. Short and wiry with blond bed-head spikes, Nate had grown up here on the Cape, vaulted from high school straight into the family business, which was boating.

  His family came by its money via the fleet of ferries they owned and operated all over New England, an empire that had started with Nate’s great-granddad and continued to flourish under the helm of his parents, himself, and his siblings. They had docks at Hyannis, Provincetown, Wellfleet, and Barnstable Harbor and did healthy business taking tourists to and from Martha’s Vineyard, Nantucket, and, of course, on scenic cruises around the Cape itself.

  The vessels reserved for the family’s personal use went beyond ferries to sailboats, skiffs, schooners, motorboats, yachts—all fully staffed. There was, Katie quickly calculated, quite a cache of cash at Nate’s disposal. He’d do quite nicely at the keeping-up-appearances game. Aside from that, he really was a nice guy.

  “Sure you want to stay outside?” Nate asked. “I think we can be pretty romantic if we go inside.”

  “In a little while,” Katie answered. “Let’s go around the tip of the Cape one more time, okay? I want to see Provincetown again.”

  “If that’ll make you happy, Katie,” Nate said, suddenly serious. “You know, don’t you, you’re the kind of girl a guy would do anything for. Why you’re wasting your time with me, that’s the mystery.”

  Katie softened. “You’re sweet, you know, really sweet. Hey, could you bring me another drink? A wine spritzer, or just sparkling water, either one.”

  “Hi-yi, Captain.” Nate gave her a mock salute. “But there’ll be a charge for that. You have to pay in advance.”

  Katie threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him. “What’s the toll?” she asked coyly.

  “I’m thinking one of your special sweet kisses should do it,” he murmured.

  “And I’m thinking I can do better than that,” she told him, moving her hand down his back, sliding it under the waistband of his briefs. It was a promise of more to come, though she felt secure that Nate, unlike Brian, would not push her. This beau was younger, just eighteen to Brian’s twenty-two. Vive la différence! She didn’t have to pretend to know more than she did, to have experienced more than she had.

  Maybe she would sleep with him, and maybe even confide in him. Maybe Nathan Graham would give her the life raft she longed for, something for her to hold on to, to save her from drowning in disgrace along with her family.

  Or maybe not. She wasn’t lying when she told Nate how much she loved being out on the open water, seeing the world from the sanctuary of a private yacht. Maybe she wouldn’t think about the end of the summer.

  But as she waited for Nate to return, Katie stood perfectly still at the railing, letting the ocean breeze blow her long hair back. “What’s gonna happen to me?” she wondered, whispering into the wind.

  Mitch and Mandy Take It Sweet and Sour

  “Hey, Mandy, hold up a minute.” Mitch stopped her as she sashayed out of the house, her stilettos clicking.

  She waved at him. “No time, chico. My ride’s almost here.”

  It was just past 10 p.m. on Saturday night. Both had been out all day, only returning to the cottage for a quick shower before heading out again for the night. Mitch, who’d worked late, was meeting up with Leonora, hoping to finally understand what was tearing his beloved apart. By now, he’d diagnosed severe unhappiness in his girl. But if he didn’t know the cause, he had no hope of fixing it.

  He wasn’t sure what Mandy was up to, only that he didn’t like it. Admittedly, he hadn’t seen a lot of her post-party, but to his eyes, she looked more and more like a cheap … you-know-what … every day. Tonight, she’d squeezed herself into some way-too-low, too-tight tank top that practically pushed her boobs up to her chin.

  “Make some time,” he urged. “Five minutes—you can spare that much for an old friend, can’t you?”

  Mandy snapped her gum and winked at him. “Oh, Mitchell, you always did have a way of persuading the girls. Hang tight.” She flipped open her cell phone, hit speed dial, and after a few seconds, said, “Hi, Timmy-cakes—yeah, it’s moi. I’m running a little late. Be ready in ten minutes.” After listening for a second, she added, “I’m always worth the wait, aren’t I?”

  Suddenly feeling like an eavesdropper, Mitch cleared his throat. “Sounds like someone you care about. I’m happy for you.”

  She regarded him warily. “Care about? Yeah, I’m a regular Care Bear. Especially tonight, since he’s taking me to the Skinny Dipping set!”

  “The Skinny Dipping set?”

  “Yeah, that new movie—haven’tcha heard about it? It’s got Jude Law, been filming over on Martha’s Vineyard. Timmy’s the best boy.”

  Best boy? Mitch scratched his chin. He’d never heard Mandy refer to anyone that way.

  She threw her head back and laughed. A cascade of brassy red curls caught his eye, and instantly took him back to the time when those ringlets were strawberry-blond pigtails, and this overly made-up woman a chubby, bright-eyed girl named Sarah.

  “You have no idea what I’m talkin’ about, do you, Mitchell? You don’t know movie-speak.”

  He flushed. “Educate me.”

  A “best boy” described Timmy’s job, not Mandy’s feelings about him. Those pretty much began and ended with his contacts. “Timmy’s friend is the still photographer on the set. D’ya know what that means?

  “Not the cameraman, but the guy who takes pictures of the actors?” Mitch guessed.

  “A-plus for Saint Mitchell,” Mandy said without sarcasm. “So his name is Joe Lester, and after they wrap tonight, Tim’s gonna introduce me. And,” she continued, her spirits high, “if all goes well, he’s gonna book time for my photo session. My first professional photo session. Whatcha think—Mandy’s not doin’ too bad for herself. A fat girl from the projects?”

  Mitch had a soft spot for that twinkle in her eye. It had always attracted him, made him believe in her, even though he had no real reason to. The odds of Mandy Starr—née Sarah Riley—of the downtrodden Dorchester Housing Projects becoming a movie star were pretty much slim, and none.

  Yet still she believed in herself. Mitch couldn’t find it in himself to contradict her.

  “So what’d ya want to talk to me about?” Mandy asked.

  Mitch scratched his head again, uncomfortable. “Well, it’s … I don’t know. That guy, that Tim. He’s been spending an awful lot of time here.”

  “Your point?” The twinkle in Mandy’s eye had disappeared.

  “Well, I just mean, how well do you even know him? Is he trustworthy?”

  She bristled. “How well does anybody know anyone? As far as you or anyone in this house is concerned, he’s my boyfriend. That’s all you need to know. End of story.”

  “Whoa, slow down, Mandy. I’m just asking a question. I see him—we all do—hanging out here even when you’re at work. And I just want to make sure you’re
okay with that.”

  “Just spit it out Mitch, okay? You think, what, he’s gonna rape and pillage if I’m not around to keep an eye on him? Have you had this finger-wagging scolding with Alefyia? She brings home anything that isn’t nailed down.”

  Mitch frowned. This was not going the way he’d hoped. “My concern isn’t for the house. It’s for you. I don’t want to see you being used. Or getting hurt.” There, he’d said it.

  The hint of a smile returned to her freckled face. Tenderly, Mandy cupped his chin. “We’re not in Dorchester anymore, Mitch. You’re not the cops and you don’t have to protect me anymore. We’ve both come a long, long way. So trust me, okay?”

  Impulsively, he hugged her. “Take care of yourself, Sarah.”

  She pulled away. “Right back atcha, Mitchell. Sometimes I think it’s you who needs taking care of.”

  Mandy always did have good gut instincts. Mitch was very not okay. And he could not, for the life of him, figure out why. Okay, the summer had gotten off to a shaky start, but he was proud of the way he’d adjusted, put together the house share. That was something. It showed versatility, adapting to adversity. It showed he was resilient, strong, a leader.

  They were just the attributes a girl like Leonora admired, needed, wanted. The qualities that would make him the husband she deserved, the father of her children, if all went well.

  And the fact that he loved her desperately, would do anything for her, forgive anything. Didn’t that count? So what had changed?

  The night of the party, he’d called Leonora—not to ask for her father’s help. Anything but. He was his own man, and if he had to be held accountable for the damage, so be it. At least no one had been injured, or gotten really sick or anything. When Leonora immediately offered to have her father call the county police commissioner, he told her it wasn’t necessary. But she kept pressing, insisting she let Mr. Quivvers help. And Mitch interpreted: Leonora wouldn’t want her future husband to have a black mark on his record. Only because it meant she still loved him, still cared about their future together, had he swallowed his pride and allowed himself the benefit of Lee’s well-connected dad. For her sake.