“So you decided to remedy that?”
“Moves are stressful. And her parents split. And making friends here isn’t easy. You know that.” I’m animated now, building my case as if what came next was inevitable.
Rescues happen to be my specialty, and no one is more in need of rescue than Polly McGinnis. One day, I found her by herself with two skinned knees on the low, narrow bridge at the entrance to our street. I was out for a walk, and she had blood trailing down both of her legs and into her newly scuffed-up Rollerblades.
“I hate these stupid brick roads,” she had moaned.
There was something about the loneliness radiating from behind her eyes. It scraped against a feeling I tried not to name orthink too much about. I had once been a girl alone in a too-quiet house with the hum of a heater rumbling through the air.
“They’re a bit much, right?” I agreed.
We both nodded, though the fact of the matter is people here are obsessed with these roads. Winter Park is a tropical paradise with a New England flair—everything the creative director for a Vineyard Vines summer catalog could ask for. And residents happily shell out piles of cash for the privilege of living here—embracing the posh zip code and the way their tires rumble over uneven brick.
But that day on the bridge, I flipped the brick roads off with both middle fingers as I helped Polly remove her Rollerblades and offered a couple Band-Aids for her knees. And this small act of kindness triggered the sort of loyalty I might expect from feeding a starved stray kitten. Since then, Polly’s become a familiar presence in my house, palling around like I’m her rich, childless aunt.
Because at this point, I basically am.
I don’t tell Beau that helping Polly feels like helping the kid I once was. He’d understand, of course. Beau knows everything there is to know about me. But I don’t like to dwell on that part of my past—I don’t like to dwell on any part of my past, in fact.
Instead, I tell him about Polly’s wailing over the sleepover and the fear she’d die friendless and uncool without committing so much as a single prank. “And then Polly asked, ‘What if we TP a house?’ ”
Beau cocks his head to one side. “And thenyousaid, ‘I’m a thirty-five-year-old adult, so I’m going to help you walk this idea back.’ ”
“No.Isaid, ‘Let’s roll Carol Parker’s beloved fence.’ ”
Maybe not my finest moment.
But Polly needed a boost. And I know what it feels like to be the kid no one notices, the one drifting on the periphery.
That Carol was the target of our prank was only slightly selfish. If Winter Park is heaven, Carol is its most devoted apostle. She’s also an interminable gossip. Trading on scandal is a socialsport around here, and Carol is such a prolific busybody I sometimes wonder if she mutters “You’ll never believe what I heard” in her sleep. And ever since my nouveau riche self parked in “her” spot at the club, she’s had it in for me.
Beau shakes his head, and his laugh drops to something low and a little sexy. “You TPed Carol’s house…because Polly cried.”
“Don’t look so surprised. You like my schemes.” I shrug. “And anyway, what else was I supposed to do? It’s not like I’m a licensed therapist.”
“I guess we’ll talk about that later, because Gemma’s here. She’s in the foyer.”
Gemma. Another name in my mental roster of dark horses. If Polly’s my pint-size neighbor sidekick, Gemma’s my grown-up project.
Still buried under a silk dress, my phone starts vibrating again—a low, insistent rattle against the custom wood of the island. But I ignore it, instead grabbing the Neiman Marcus bag on the island and a garment bag hanging by the door. Then, brushing past Beau with another kiss, I head toward the front of the house, where Gemma is waiting.
“Hey, Este,” she says as I round the corner. “You look great.”
The designer dress I don’t remember choosing comes into full view now—the shimmer of the satin is too delicate to be practical—and I feel a flare of self-consciousness. Gemma is wearing a button-down shirt and high-waisted navy trousers, crisp and unfussy—her unofficial work uniform. And the contrast between our outfits feels like a fault line. Once we were both chasing a break. Now our lives have split in opposite directions.
My cheeks heat, and I wonder if she sees it, too. The fork in the road where I got lucky and she didn’t.
I first met Gemma ten years ago in California, and she’s the only person from my past life I still talk to. Way back then I was an aspiring corporate executive. She was bartending at a place near my office. After Beau and I left the West Coast, I lost touch with everyone from that part of my life. But about a year ago—when photos of Nora and me briefly went viral after Will hadgone missing—Gemma found my private Instagram. The new account. The one I made when Beau and I moved to Florida.
The bar where she worked had closed, and she was looking for a change. Not long after, she moved here, trading L.A.’s cutthroat service scene for something in the Central Florida hospitality industry.
Tourism and hospitality are sizable economic pillars here, and Gemma has a gift for thoughtful touches so perfect they almost seem subliminal. I helped her land a part-time gig with Marcus, managing Lemon & Fig. Next week, she has an interview with one of the new hotels down by the theme parks. Something that might be the next step on her career ladder.
I’ve been where she is—hopeful, hungry, and almost there. I like helping her. Maybe I need it more than I want to admit.
Beau’s money makes our lives feel like a glass-bottom boat. We can see everything happening around us, but we’re insulated. Remote. We skate above the grind of other people’s jobs and skim over gossip.
That’s the way I prefer it. Or at least, I tell myself I do. Who wouldn’t?
