Page 48 of The Treasure House

Marly tried to catch Freddie’s eye, but he was busy staring down at Priscilla like a goof. She sighed and ate a bunch of sandwiches, roamed the foyer, did laps of the patio, and grew more and more restless and despondent. Being fourteen-but-not-yet-fifteen was a total drag.

About the time the band launched into “Que Será, Será,” Marly gave up. She headed outside and parked herself on the lawn under a maple tree, waiting out the rest of the night. She wished she’d brought her book. Forever Amber was a hell of a lot more interesting than this. Amber was in debtor’s prison and had just taken a highwayman as a lover. Marly sighed and leaned back on her hands, gazing out at the dark bay.

She hadn’t gotten a sail or a dance today. It was so unfair.

“Hey, pixie stick, everyone’s worried about you.”

Marly looked up to see Freddie de Marche crossing the lawns in his lazy, loping way.

“Liar,” she sniped. “I bet nobody even noticed I was gone.”

“Well, no, maybe not,” he confessed, “but they will notice. Eventually. Maybe when it’s time to leave.”

“Not always,” Marly grumbled.

The thing about not being wanted was you started to feel like you deserved it. Like maybe you were annoying, or drownable, or just plain forgettable.

“Are you skipping out on your first dance, kid? After all the fuss to get here.” Freddie was wearing a preppy houndstooth sport coat. He looked pretty flash, all dressed up.

“Skipping out on my first and my last,” Marly said definitively. “It’s snoresville in there.”

He gave her a knowing look. “It won’t be snoresville when you’re older,” he promised, “and there’s some boy you want to dance with. Closest thing to heaven, remember?”

Marly pulled a face.

“C’mon, half-pint, I owe you a dance.”

“Forget about it,” Marly sighed. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Freddie scoffed. “It’s paying off my blackmailer, remember?”

“Well, consider her paid.” Marly kicked her heels into the lawn. “I don’t want any stupid dance anyway.”

Freddie looked up at the sky. “Ah, you’re killing me here. Where’s your sass gone?”

Marly shrugged. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“So we’ll dance here.”

“There’s no music.”

“Sure, there is.” He cupped a hand to his ear. “If you listen hard, you can hear that godawful ‘How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?’ song playing.”

Marly snorted.

“Do you know how to dance, or do you want to stand on my feet, and I’ll shuffle you around like a little kid?”

“Get lost.”

He grinned and tugged her to her feet. “Wait for it, in a minute they’ll play something else. You don’t want to waste your dance on Patti Page.”

“She’s so wet. I don’t get why people like her.”

“Tell me about it. My mom thinks it’s cute. She turns it up every time it comes on the radio.” He pulled her arms into position.

“Ugh, mine too.”

“This is better,” Freddie said as another sickly old ballad started up.