No Strings Attached (7 page)

Experience of summers past had taught him that a communal breakfast would be a nice touch. After his run, he drove into town to get a dozen bagels, cream cheese, lox, freshly baked Cinnabons, and flavored coffee. His treat.

In spite of a few first-week flare-ups, the share house seemed
to be running smoothly. Issues were part of the game, what with half-a-dozen different personalities crammed into one small cottage. Mitch was sure they'd iron themselves out, given a few more days. Mr. Optimism, that's how he felt these days. And why not?

The tennis-playing patrons at Chelsea House in Chatham loved him. Already, week one, he'd snared a cache of new clients who'd signed up for the entire summer. Regulars guaranteed him a nice salary and, if he could keep his A-game going, hefty gratuities by summer's end.

The diamond ring he'd been secretly saving for would be his—Leonora's—ahead of schedule. They could be engaged by Labor Day.

Mitch had been bummed at the last-minute boot from Leonora's house, but now saw the upside. If the marriage proposal was to be a magical surprise, not living together was actually better. He kept his ever-expanding cash-stash in his room: An arrangement had already been secured with a jeweler to get a better-grade diamond if he paid in cash. This way, Leonora couldn't accidentally discover how much money he had spent and start asking questions.

So far, Mitch and Leonora had only seen each other once, briefly, in the week he'd been there, but they'd talked every night. Mitch had the tiniest sense that something was wrong, but Lee hadn't responded when he'd asked. Whatever. He'd
find out tonight. They were having dinner at Le Jardin, and face-to-face she never could keep a secret from him.

It was the aroma of the hazelnut and vanilla coffee Mitch had brewed that brought Harper to the kitchen counter first. No one did bagels like New York, but she had to admit, chomping heartily into the pumpernickel raisin, this came close. And the coffee wasn't from evil corporate monster Starbucks! Mitch got kudos for that, and for supplying the breakfast treats.

Cheerily, his square face aglow, he asked, “So, how goes it at day camp?”

Harper inhaled her coffee … mmmm … and shrugged. “It'll be fine. The campers are spoiled brats, and Katie caters to their every materialistic whim. …” She paused. “You didn't go there as a kid, did you?”

Mitch laughed. “Hardly. Thank you for thinking that, though. Very flattering.”

Harper cocked her head. “Why?”

Mitch was guileless. “Why am I flattered? To look like I could've spent my summers at the Luxor, as a rich guest? Who wouldn't be flattered?”

He wasn't being sarcastic. He really thought that was a good thing. So, he hadn't been a prep all his life. Although … Harper took in his polo shirt, collar turned up, and belted
Hilfiger shorts. He sure was one now. Mitch really did believe everyone aspires, or should, to the genteel life. Harper could've argued the point. But another sip of the glorious coffee, and the soft, still warm, inner-tube belly of the bagel, mellowed her. In spite of his superficial values, Mitch was a good guy.

“You're a freakin' buzzkill, Mitch, you know that?”

Harper spun around on her stool.

And there was Mandy, bedecked in one of her bawdy boudoir ensembles, waving a copy of the chore wheel in Mitch's face. “I'm not cleaning the stinking crapper.”

Harper had to clamp her palm over her mouth to keep from laughing. Could there be two people more opposite than Mitch and Mandy? And yet, there was this in common: They said exactly what was on their minds.

Mitch rounded the counter and put an outstretched hand on Mandy's shoulder. “No choice. Everyone's gotta do them. It's not a big deal.”

“Yeah it is—the upstairs bathroom stinks! From her I-don't-know-what, her curry smell!”

Harper nearly choked. Mandy had spoken her mind, all right. Her racist mind. Harper bolted off the kitchen stool. But Mitch was all over it. He tightened his grip on her shoulder. “I'll pretend you didn't say that. I'll get some deodorizing disinfectant. You can spray it first, and then do the cleaning.”

“I don't care if you fill the fucking room with fucking
Renuzit,” Mandy cursed. “That smell won't come out. And I'm not submitting myself to it. Besides,” she sniffed, “it's bad enough I have to live in the same house with her.”

Mitch growled, “You don't like her? You're an actress.
Act
like you do!”

“Good morning!” Alefiya sailed into the kitchen, her sunny voice matching her ear-to-ear grin. “Smells so good in here! What is it? Coffee? Oh, and Cinnabons, too! What's the occasion?”

Silence. Ali looked from face to face. “What's wrong? You guys are so grim. Did we lose our lease or something?”

Harper jumped in: “Mandy thinks it's beneath her to clean the bathroom. But that's how this week's wheel of misfortune spins.”

Ali looked puzzled. “That's the problem? Our bathroom upstairs? Forget it. I'll do it.”

Mitch eyed her warily. “You'll switch jobs with her this time, you mean?”

Helping herself to a Cinnabon, Ali answered, “I'll just do it every week. I don't care.”

Harper began to boil. She wanted to shake some sense into Ali, to tell her what a cheap little racist Mandy was. And look at her. Mandy wasn't even grateful! She just planted herself at the table and began butchering her bagel, tearing out the bready (caloric, and best) part.

“Ummm … delicious!” Alefiya managed that with her mouth full as she plopped down in the chair next to Mandy—who pulled hers away ever so slightly.

Mitch scratched his head. “You were supposed to do yard work, Ali. Do you want to hold off on that today?”

Licking the gooey sugary topping from her fingers, she said, “No, that's okay. I have to do the vegetable garden, anyway, so I'll do it all at the same time. It's all good.”

Harper forced herself to chill. “It is so cool of you to do that garden. I'll help if I can.” The garden was for her benefit. Ali's bid to fill the fridge with organic, homegrown veggies. The girl was just genuinely good-hearted. Harper wished her housemate could be more discriminating.

Katie waltzed into the kitchen. She looked like she'd been at a tween slumber party, in her drawstring Juicy Couture sweat bottoms and glittery pink tank top. Only, flip it: This was not sunny-side-up Katie. This Katie nodded curtly and made for the fridge. Flinging open the door, she whined, “Oh, sugar! Where's the orange juice? I just bought half a gallon two days ago.”

Oh,
sugar
? Harper guffawed, nearly sending coffee out her nostrils. Who talks like that?

“And good morning to you,” Mitch said genially. “How 'bout a bagel?”

Katie frowned. “Sorry. This stuff looks appetizing, I just like
to start my mornings with OJ. And I was positive I had plenty left. She directed her comment at Ali. “I happened to notice you having a glass yesterday. Any chance that might've been mine?”

Ali shrugged. “To be honest, I'm not sure.”

Katie's jaw clenched, but she managed to sound reasonable. “If you'd finished someone else's juice, you don't think you'd notice?”

Ali threw her hands up, surrendering. “I could be guilty. Sorry.”

Harper couldn't resist the urge to butt in. “How do you know
she
finished it? Maybe it was one of us.”

Katie colored. “It wasn't you. You only drink organic. It wasn't Mandy, who's off sugar. Mitch has principles, and Joss sleeps through breakfast. If it wasn't Alefiya, it was one of her overnight guests.”

Ali conceded. “Okay, sure, it was probably me. My bad. I didn't realize how much it meant to you.”

“Well, now that you know,” Katie said a tad too brightly, “kindly stick to your own stuff from now on.”

“Oooh, see Katie being cross,” Harper taunted. “See Katie being disapproving. Why is Katie really so cross?”

Katie scowled at Harper.

No one noticed Joss saunter in. Clad in shorts, wife-beater tank top, and sandals, he was a taller, buffer Ryan Atwood pouring himself coffee. Katie cut her eyes at him and sniffed,
“I'm just a little tired. I got in late from a date.”

“Miss Popularity strikes again,” said Harper. “Whatever. I've got a living room to dust and carpet fragments to vacuum. Toodles, y'all.”

Katie wasn't hungry. Her throat was filled with bile. Swallowing it was all she could handle. She didn't know who got on her nerves more: Alefiya or Harper. Not that Mandy, or whatever her real name was, was any great shakes either. She could barely believe she was stuck in this hovel with
any
of them.

Joss leaned against the fridge. “You were at The Naked Oyster last night, right? With a dark-haired guy? At the corner table, facing the bar?”

This caught Katie by surprise. “You were there?”

“I work there,” Joss said, “bartending.”

“Oh, duh.” Sweetly, Katie smacked her palm against her forehead. “I so knew that! I can't believe I didn't say hi.”

“Well, you looked kinda busy. Pretty … involved.”

Katie grinned. Since meeting Brian and Nate, she'd been out with each. They'd hit select bars in Hyannisport, plus (of course) the Cracked Claw in Chatham. She routinely ran into people who counted (translation: Trinity elite and friends), and, one juicy night, reminded a couple of Kennedy cousins that they'd partied together one weekend earlier in the year.
Brian had been big-time impressed. At Blend, the excellent new club in Provincetown, she'd spied her archrival, Taylor Ambrose, and her snippy sister Kiki—ha! As planned, she made sure to parade Brian in front of them.

Partly, she wanted word to get back to Lily that she was doing great without her (between air kisses and “Oh, my god, I love that dress!” convos, the subject of where she was living, or that she had a job, never came up). But mostly? Katie thrived on her life—did not want to think about the fact that she might not be enjoying this part of it for much longer.

Last night, Brian had taken her to The Naked Oyster in Hyannis. They'd washed down an entire seafood tower: clams, oysters, shrimp, lobster, and tuna sashimi—all Katie's favorites—with Stella Artois (for him), Perrier for her.

Twirling the straw in her drink, Katie'd toyed with confiding in him. Telling him the truth about her family, and asking for advice. And help. Maybe he'd have an idea, or simply excess cash he was willing to part with.

But Brian had wanted to go dancing. And at Fever, the nightclub of the moment, he'd run into a bunch of old frat buddies. Her moment was gone. By the time she got home at 3:15 a.m., she was too exhausted for a heart-to-heart; he was too inebriated to listen, anyway.

Joss smiled at her. “Glad you're having fun.” As a joke, he asked, “We're all having fun, right?”

Mandy purred. A glance in her direction told Katie why. The tawdry tramp was flashing knowing eyes at
Joss
. Who blushed! They're sleeping together! Interesting. She would not have made that connection. As she headed back to room to change for “kitchen cleanup duty,” she wondered again why Joss looked familiar.

Mandy rose to toss her leftovers into the already overflowing garbage. And, to move farther away from piggy Ali and closer to Joss. His unshaven morning face, long, tousled hair, and drooping jeans turned her on. A guy like Joss, while not exactly her prey, could serve several useful purposes—already had.

Mandy was here to make contacts, not friends. And who knew? Bartender boy had recently been inside an actual showbiz orbit. Friend of an aging rock star was better than no important friends at all. And though she hadn't approached it directly yet, Mandy believed she could prevail upon Joss to hook her up with Jimi Jones. Better yet, his agent.

Why should Joss do her any favors? Well, she'd already—and quite successfully, if she did say so herself—given him a taste of what she brought to the table. So to speak.

For all her nineteen years, Mandy was no naïf. You had to give something to get something—that's how it worked.
Especially in showbiz, it was all about who you knew. Or, in her case, who you could get to know quickly.

She'd worked a week's worth of swanky parties at Duck Creek Catering so far, and was, like, 0 for 6, netting no return on her slave-labor investment. Not that the mansions and resorts she'd gotten inside weren't something else! The clients were the disappointing part. Bunches of big ol' bores: corporate suits and their BOTOXed wives, or bankers, politicians, and stuffy New Englanders. Not a Kennedy or showbiz type in the bunch.

She'd had hopes for a Mr. Roger Durkin, at the Art Gallery party last week. He lived, he said, in California. His bank had insured the latest George Clooney movie. Mandy had popped another button on her top and started to tell him about her acting hopes, when Mrs. Insurance Guy rudely interrupted. So that was a bust. So to speak.

“He was so nice, so down to earth.” Alefiya, talking to Joss, was describing the owner of a mansion her landscaping company was working for. “If my friend Jeremy hadn't told me, I never would have known he was such a big star. Meanwhile, he ordered a rock garden and waterfall, and a statue of a kid in the middle—guess what part of the anatomy the water's coming out of?”

Joss was laughing. “Man, that is lame. But there ya' go: Money doesn't buy taste. I'm surprised he's supervising it himself.
Where's the million-dollar-a-year exterior designers?”

Mandy swung around. “You're working for a movie star?”

“He's from TV,” Ali answered. “This guy who used to be on
Friends
? He's from Boston originally. He lives in L.A. now, but when he was growing up, he dreamed of a place on the Cape. So now that he's a millionaire, he built this estate. I think his mom lives in it, but the other day he came out to talk to us himself.”