“Very well. But I'm going to be less involved in it from now on,” Cammie replied.
Adam's eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
She shrugged. “It's Ben's thing, not mine. I mean, it was fun getting it started. I enjoyed the challenge. But it's like a twenty-hour-a-day, seven-days-a-week job to keep it going, keep it hot. …” Her voice trailed off as she played with her antique silver watch.
Adam contemplated her. “So you're on to the next?”
“I'm going to spend more time promoting Champagne,” Cammie explained, looking up to face him. “You know, the petite model I'm managing?”
“Right.” Adam nodded. “Watch it, though,” he teased, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “The next thing you know, your father will take you on as an agent at Apex, and you'll be his Mini-Me.”
“I don't think so,” Cammie mused, shaking her strawberry-blond curls. “I don't want to work for anyone else.”
Adam took a sip of his beer and ran a finger around the rim. “Well, Cam, if anyone can make Champagne into a supermodel, it's you.”
Cammie looked at him hopefully. “You think?”
“I know,” Adam insisted, his brown eyes adamant. “When you set your mind to something, nothing can stop you.” He glanced around at the dozens of people mingling before dinner was served. “Ben here?”
Cammie brushed the curls out of her eyes. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just wondering,” Adam said. He hesitated for a moment. “You know I want you to be happy, right?”
“Right,” Cammie agreed softly. She did know that. With Adam, she'd never doubted it for a second. He was such a great guy. And she had dropped him like a Prada knockoff. “So what about you?” she wondered. “Are you excited about Michigan?”
Adam scratched behind his ear, something, Cammie knew, he tended to do when he was nervous. “Hey, next year real life starts, right?” He grinned and drained his beer. “And Beverly Hills High will be nothing but the people I hung out with in high school.”
Cammie felt a pang somewhere near her heart. She supposed he was right. You left high school behind like childhood and moved on, and never looked back except to laugh at how crucial it all seemed to you at the time.
“Hey, I see a friend of mine,” Adam said. “You take care, okay?” He gave Cammie a quick peck on the cheek, and then he was gone.
Cammie looked after him. And it felt as if she was leaving behind more than high school memories. She was leaving behind the very best of herself.
Anna watched Pedro Munoz raise his champagne glass as he finished a toast to Sam and his son.
“No matter how much you beg me, Samantha, I won't recount for all the guests my son's most embarrassing moments growing up. Although I do remember this one occasion when he was playing soccer for his elementary school—”
“Por favor, no, Papa! Hay mas buenos cuentos!”
Eduardo raised a hand in protest, though he was smiling. All the guests at Sam's rehearsal dinner who were under the age of thirty sat at a horseshoe-shaped table at the front of the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. For the first time since President Kennedy and his wife had visited in 1962, the lounge was closed to regular hotel guests in favor of a private party: Sam and Eduardo's wedding rehearsal dinner. Anna was impressed that Jackson Sharpe had such clout. Or maybe it was Pedro Munoz, who might have threatened that no president or prime minister in the Organization of American States would ever stay at the hotel unless it made this accommodation.
“Go on, Pedro!” Cammie urged. “I can tell some of Sam's embarrassing stories too!”
Everyone laughed, Sam buried her head in her hands, and Pedro went on. “I will leave it to my son to recount. Suffice it to say that it involved Eduardo, in a very important game, dribbling a football—you call it a soccer ball—the length of the field and scoring a goal … without realizing it was his own team's net that he was shooting at!”
He held the champagne out to his son. Veuve-Clicquot 1977. The rehearsal dinner party had already consumed a case of it. “Eduardo, my son, you may have not been the most successful football player, but your aim is true in the most important things. You have chosen a wonderful girl. We will be proud to have her in the family. To my son and to Samantha!”
“To Eduardo! To Sam!”
All around the room, people picked up the cry, raising a toast to the soon-to-be newlyweds and shouting their names. Anna looked at Sam. Her friend was smiling, but she seemed a bit pale. Had to be nerves, Anna decided.
Not that Anna was immune to nerves. Luckily, her father was no longer a source of worry—she'd left him happily watching DVDs at the hospital, in Susan's capable hands. But tomorrow night, her life was going to change. She'd either go back East, or go to Bali.
Jackson, who was the master of ceremonies for the evening, took the microphone from Eduardo's dad. He wore black razor-pressed trousers and a yellow silk shirt under an unvented Ralph Lauren Black Label sport coat, and looked like the movie star he was. “It's been a great evening so far,” he pronounced. “And fortunately, Pedro's English is a helluva lot better than my Spanish!”
Pedro called out, “You will learn, Jackson! Just pray that I am not your teacher!”
Jackson waited for the thirty or so assembled guests to stop laughing.
“I would just like to say to my little girl …” He looked over at Sam. “I had my doubts about this wedding.” There were murmurs in the crowd, and Anna saw anxiety flit across Sam's face. “But now that I've gotten to know Eduardo and his wonderful family, I'll be honored, as of tomorrow, to start calling them
our
family.”
The crowd gave a collective “awww.”
“Tonight,” Jackson continued, “the lovely Citron Simms will entertain us, with her brother, Django, on the piano. Eat and drink, everyone. And have fun!”
With that, Jackson put down the handheld mic, and Citron, looking beautiful in a white silk skirt and black silk capris, sang the opening notes of “My Funny Valentine,” which made sense, because Sam had once mentioned that it was her father's favorite song. Django did some amazing flourishes on the piano. He'd dressed formally, in a dark charcoal Yves Saint Laurent suit, white shirt, and gray tie. As Anna watched and listened, she couldn't believe someone so talented had been living in her father's guesthouse this whole time. Funny how the most amazing things sometimes turned out to be right under your nose.
The rehearsal dinner had been a stunning affair, as lavish as some people's weddings. A friend of Jackson's—a former teen megastar who had gone to law school when he'd outgrown his cuteness, and had then gone on to become a justice on the California Supreme Court—would perform the wedding itself. The members of the wedding, which included Sam, Dee, Anna, and Cammie, plus Eduardo, and the parents on both sides, were asked to come early. Eduardo's older brother, Paco, who owned one of the premier soccer teams in Lima and the largest television station, would serve as best man. He was here with his wife, a lovely blond Russian woman named Alina, whom he'd met at Harvard. She worked with him both at the television station and with the soccer team.
All the female members of the wedding party had dressed in style. Anna had on a miniskirt by Alaïa, black stockings by Juicy Couture, and a black blouse from Givenchy. Dee wore a tailored Bebe suit, with a Coach clutch and their newest signature jewelry, while Cammie was absolutely dazzling in a gold mini Dolce & Gabbana. As for Sam, she'd come in a calf-length lavender skirt from Dior with a black off-the-shoulder cashmere tee by Ralph Lauren. The guys had been asked to wear sport coats and jeans—casual Los Angeles chic. What was under the sport coats ranged from a black T-shirt (Logan) to a white dress shirt (Jack) to a plain white T-shirt (Parker Pinelli). Ben was nowhere to be seen; Anna assumed he was busy with the club and would make it late (not that she cared).
The eating and drinking had been exquisite. In addition to the champagne, there was sauvignon blanc and delicious, slightly biting burgundy from Jackson's favorite cellar in Beaune. They'd started with a cold lobster bisque, moved on to a diced mushroom and cucumber salad with truffles and fresh croutons, then had a choice of either Jamaican jerk chicken fresh from a pit that had been dug especially for this meal, or pan-seared halibut with wilted endive and capers. As a kind gesture to Eduardo and his family, there was a potato cart that featured many different varieties of the Peruvian staple, including a small red baking potato that tasted like a cross between a conventional potato and a macadamia nut. Anna ate three of them, dripping with clarified butter. Dessert was to be fresh-picked strawberries shipped in from a farm in New Mexico, dipped in melted Belgian chocolate.
“Are you having a good time?” Dee asked, as she sidled up to Anna with her arm through Jack's. “I hope everyone likes the food and the decorations. Do you think I did okay?”
“Here's my answer: Jack, whatever you do, do not lose this girl,” Anna advised, to which Dee grinned happily
“I'm not planning to,” Jack declared. “When you find a good thing, you hang on to it.”
“When do you head to Princeton?” Anna asked, buttering a roll.
“I go back next Wednesday. Going to be weird without Ben, though. He's staying here to run the club, at least for the year. I'll miss him.”
Anna nodded noncommittally. So Ben was sticking around. Back when they'd been dating, she'd thought about how convenient it might have been once she headed to Yale, since Princeton was only a few hours’ drive. But none of that mattered now.
“But I'll still have great company,” Jack finished with a grin, kissing Dee on her pink cheek as he pulled her onto his lap.
“You're going too?” Anna asked, surprised.
“Yeah, I just decided the other day. And I'm going to college, too,” Dee chirped, as Jack smoothed a wisp of her angelic, shaggy blond hair. “Maybe just community college at first. But I've decided I want to become a wedding planner!”
“That's fantastic news. Bravo for you guys,” Anna declared, raising her glass of champagne in a toast. It seemed like everything was really coming together for Dee, and she was truly happy for her.
“Thanks.” Dee took a sip of her own champagne, then pushed her chin toward the door that led to the outdoor patio. “Anna, Logan's looking for you.”
Anna looked. Logan was standing on the other side of the enormous dining area. He caught her eye and motioned for her to come to over. “Excuse me,” she said to Dee and Jack, and made her way toward him.
He was sitting at one of the rose-petal-covered circular tables. He rose when she approached.
“Anna Percy.” He was deliberately and amusingly formal.
“Logan Cresswell,” she countered. “I remember when you ate nothing but cherry Popsicles for two weeks when we were in kindergarten. You mother was not happy.”
“My mother was rarely happy,” he observed. “And as I recall, the same could be said of yours.” He sat and patted the soft cushion of the seat next to him. She sat too, and he entwined his fingers with hers. That was when she noticed the envelope on the white tablecloth in front of them; the envelope that held the plane tickets to Bali, the flight that left the day after tomorrow.
Logan looked at her meaningfully, waiting for her to take hers.
Anna's eyes immediately swept around the room, as if to take in all that she'd be leaving behind. She saw Sam and Eduardo kissing, his eyes laughing down into hers. Cammie was flirting with an actor who had been in Jackson's last movie—Anna couldn't remember his name—as he gave her a sip of the champagne from his flute. Sam's parents and Eduardo's parents were in intense conversation, with Jackson's arm slung around the back of his ex-wife's chair. Citron was singing “The Way We Were,” which even Anna, who really did not know movies very well at all, knew was from a tearjerker about lost love.
And at that moment, Ben walked in.
Light from the chandelier bounced off his face so that he seemed to glow. Images tumbled through her mind. How he had made her laugh on the plane that day they'd met, by pretending to be her old friend so that she could escape from the boor seated next to her. The time they'd gone to Hustler, the sex superstore, and Anna had found the nerve to model a pair of red plastic pants that zipped all the way around, which had them dying of laughter. The time they'd made love on his boat, the only noise the gentle crashing of the waves outside.
She looked back to Logan. He was still holding her hand. Her eyes focused on the plane tickets.
Here he was, this wonderful guy, offering a dream, an escape, or maybe just a pause in her life so that she could catch her breath. In her mind's eye she saw herself in Bali, on the beach, in a bikini, letting the ocean do all the worrying. And in her fantasy, she turned and smiled at the boy next to her, and it was …
Not Logan.
It could only have been a millisecond, but it felt like two years, because she didn't know what to say. And she didn't know what do, not in any big way. But suddenly, she knew what she should
not
do.
“I can't go with you,” Anna said quietly.
Logan's blue eyes bore into hers, waiting for more of an explanation.
“I know going to Bali is the right thing for you, Logan,” Anna continued. “But it's not the right thing for me.”
Citron's voice soared. Something about how it was the laughter they would remember, this couple who had loved and lost each other.
“I can't say I'm not disappointed,” Logan remarked, letting go of her hand. “So you're going to Yale, then.”
“I … There's something I need to do first.” It was a lame explanation, but it was true. “You're really amazing, Logan. Maybe that sounds flimsy—I don't know—but I mean it. I've loved every single moment I spent with you.”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “I wish you the best, Anna Percy. Always.” With that he stood, gave her a sad half-smile, and wound his way through the guests until she could no longer see him. He was gone.
Thursday night, 9:51 p.m.
S
am had three thoughts as she finished her seventh strawberry dipped in Belgian chocolate. One, this dessert was so good that she could eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and postclubbing snack. Two, she didn't know how regular brides planned a wedding that was seven or ten or fifteen months away, and thus had hundreds of days to obsess and worry, even if they had a professional wedding planner like Fleur Abra instead of a supremely talented amateur like Dee Young. And three, it better not rain tomorrow night when they were out on the boat. Rainstorms were rare in Los Angeles in August, but it wasn't impossible. What a mess that would be.