No Strings Attached (18 page)

“It's circumstantial,” she told Mitch.

Those two made no secret of their guilty verdict. Privately, though, as she sat on the beach writing in her journal, Harper conceded there was more than a good chance Ali's sloppy habits, and open-door policy, had indeed led to the robbery. She'd personally replaced Ali's lost keys twice.

Ali's denials counted for something, Harper reminded herself. She'd taken full responsibility for the party, had even ponied up as much of the damage-repair expenses as she could afford. If this robbery had been her fault, Harper believed Alefiya would own it.

But just because she hadn't intentionally handed her keys to one of her guests didn't mean it hadn't gone down that way. Who, aside from Alefiya, had so many random guests, anyway?

Harper gazed out at the ocean. A lone jogger stopped to catch his breath.

Mitch.

She'd lived with him nearly two months now, and stood by her first impression: J.Crew-guy was stand-up, square-shouldered, straight-laced, and … pure. Her heart broke, he was so misguided in his misery.

What she wouldn't do to run up to him now, take him by the shoulders, and shake some sense into him. “Dude, you should thank Ali. Good you can't buy the cheating bitch a ring. Leonora's not worthy of you!”

Harper sat still. No way could she crush him now—even Joss agreed. Now was not the time to tell what Harper had seen.

Thinking about Joss, she went back to the poem that'd go with Joss's music. She was into him, no matter that she didn't want to be. She almost wished he'd do something crappy, reveal his inner asshole.

Only, not. Joss had remained amazingly cool. He'd lost two of his precious guitars, which he so didn't have the money to replace—and yet, had not rushed to judgment, had sided with her in defending Ali.

“Hey, Shakespeare, ever thought-a writing a movie? That's where the money is.”

Harper looked up and frowned. Mandy, in a barely there bikini, slinging a towel over her shoulder, plopped down in the sand next to her.

Crude, rude Mandy had been strangely subdued after the robbery, neither blaming nor supporting Ali. It had come out that she and Mitch were childhood friends—which now made a lot of sense to Harper. It explained tons about why these two opposites were so alike. And explained why Mitch's meltdown had pulled Mandy out of terminal self-absorption.

“How come you're not at Muscle Beach?” Harper inquired. “Isn't that where the daily manhunt takes place?”

Mandy slipped off her bikini top, exposing herself to the sun. “I need to get an all-over tan. My photo shoot is in a few days.”

“You're not posing nude, are you?”

“Why? Ya worried about me?”

Harper found that she was. “I just wouldn't want to see you—or anyone—being exploited, or taken advantage of. That's all.”

Harper was partly right about Joss. Losing his guitars
had
bummed him out, but not nearly as much as Mitch's behavior did. Joss had witnessed more than his share of meltdowns in twenty-one years, but he felt worst about this poor dumb housemate. All that pent-up good-guy rage had just spontaneously combusted! Mitch had not recovered emotionally—and he didn't even know the truth about Leonora yet.

It was Joss who went ahead and contacted the owners of
the house. It hadn't surprised him that they didn't, in fact, have theft insurance. Nor did they care to replace the furniture. The summer share clients would just have to deal. Soon enough, it was all good riddance, anyway. They should count themselves lucky the owners of the shit-shack weren't suing them!

Joss had hung up on the sleaze bags, knowing they'd be living in a bare house. The likelihood of the police recovering the stolen items was slim. Of course, he could easily replace everything—including Mitch's money. It'd mean nothing to him, really, his trust funds, all the other accounts in his name? They'd barely register the withdrawal. It would mean, of course, alerting his father to his whereabouts and risking being pulled back home.

Joss would've done it, anyway—running from that life seemed less important to him now—but if he did, he'd have to expose himself to the group. To Harper. She'd find out he'd been lying about who he was. Worse, if he replaced everything that'd been stolen, Mitch would go buy Leonora's ring. He couldn't let that happen.

Mandy was fuming. But not at Ali. She wasn't sure whether Miss Piggy had done anything or not. She simply couldn't be bothered sticking up for her. She had a photo shoot to get ready for.

Why had the thieves stolen her lingerie? What kind of sick pervs would do that? That was the big puzzle, she thought, as the sun's afternoon rays caressed her topless body. Of course they hadn't taken Alefiya's ugly, oversize garb, or Harper's ratty hippie chick rags—but why not Katie's exorbitantly expensive designer duds? Why
her
cherished collection of teddies, and thongs, and push-up bras? Why her accessories? Her jewelry had been costume, cheap stuff, but it was all she had.

Once she got famous, she thought, closing her eyes, she could afford the real things: those chandelier earrings, bejeweled belts, Judith Lieber beaded clutches, even real Manolos. Mandy licked her lips, picturing herself decked out royally. Like the outfit Paris Hilton wore, the one she'd cut out and put in her scrapbook.

Unexpectedly, a tear slid out. Why the scrapbook? It was a piece of her soul, the one thing that truly was irreplaceable. But, she rationalized, using a corner of her towel to dry her eye, the scrapbook chronicled her dreams. Once they became reality, she'd have tossed it out herself. So maybe the thief had done her a favor. Saved her the trouble.

What she didn't need was the distraction of Mitch. But she could not help herself. Mandy was worried about him. The dumb fuck was talking about taking on a second job! Like he wasn't wearing himself down as it was, doing that
hoity-toity bitch Leonora's business. He told her he was thinking of applying for a weekend lifeguard gig at Craigville Beach, soon as his hand healed.

“That,
plus
the tennis thing?” She'd been disbelieving. “What're ya, nuts? No one's worth killing yourself over, Mitch.”

He brushed her aside. “You go to that beach all the time. All I'm gonna have to do is sit up in the chair and relax. No one goes in the water. Everyone's too busy hooking up.”

Mandy wanted to believe that. But she didn't.

“Into each life, a little rain must fall.” That was one of the meant-to-be uplifting clichés Ali's mom said to cheer her up. “The purpose of bad things happening,” she'd remind her daughter, “is to make you appreciate the good things even more.” When Ali was a child, she'd believed that. She was no longer a child.

It took a lot to unhinge Ali, make her question her beliefs, but the climate at 345 Cranberry Lane, the “scorn-fest,” as Harper had called it, was making her come awfully close. The amount of animosity aimed at her weighed her down. It threatened to crush her spirit. She had misplaced a key here or there, that much was true. But she hadn't
given
anyone a key.

And okay, she hadn't done a background check on the few people—not that many!—who'd slept over. But Alefiya
trusted herself: She was perceptive about people. Those she befriended, those she'd been generous to, were not thieves.

No way was the robbery her fault.

Not one of her housemates believed her. Some were open-faced hostile; others said things behind her back. Didn't matter. She knew they all blamed her. The words “We want you to leave” had not been said aloud, but it was all over Mitch's face. Of all the share house people, his contempt was the one she could bear least. When a week had gone by and the anger toward her had not abated, she seriously did consider packing up and going home early.

Jeremy talked her out of it. “What if we search and dig up the missing keys?” he'd suggested. “If they're in the house, which I bet they are, maybe the others will at least
consider
it wasn't your fault.”

Ali didn't think that would help.

The next day, Jeremy had done the oddest thing. He'd arrived at the share house with a lantern. Ali was bewildered. “If you've come to help me search for the keys, a flashlight might work better.”

Jeremy set the lantern down on her dresser and recited: “‘From falsehood lead me to truth, from darkness lead me to light. …'”

Ali's hand flew to her mouth. A direct quote from Hindu scripture, usually recited on the festival of Diwali, on which
people lit rows of lamps along walkways and gardens.

Jeremy blushed. “It's a little early for your holiday, but I thought maybe you needed this now.”

The glow, from deep within Alefiya's soul, was brighter than a block of lanterns.

“Surprise!” Two voices, a guy's and a girl's, rang out, accompanied
by the sudden opening and shutting of the screen door.

Katie froze. Sunday afternoon, she, Harper, and Ali had joined forces to clean the kitchen, since Mandy was primping for her shoot, Mitch was at his weekend lifeguard gig, and Joss was still asleep. An uneasy truce had been reached since the robbery three weeks ago. Ali had found the missing keys. It had not convinced anyone of her innocence.

“Sur-PRISE!” The tandem voices again, coming from the living room now.

Katie, in scraggly cutoffs and a baseball cap, had been sponging off the stove. Harper, in overalls, was cleaning the refrigerator shelves, and Ali, in a long boy's T-shirt, had just started sweeping the floor.

“Anybody home?” the female visitor called out as two sets of footsteps came closer.

Katie knew the voice all too well. Her heart lurched. It was at that moment she truly realized how much she'd missed Lily McCoy, who had materialized, out of the blue, willowy, tan, toned, absolutely beaming—right in the kitchen archway.

Lily had arrived neither alone, nor empty-handed. A tall, angular hottie, blond hair brushing his forehead, was at her side, holding a huge Ziploc bag of live lobsters in one hand, a bottle of Cristal champagne in the other.

Lily herself was decked out in a Marc Jacobs mini, matching tank top with designer shrug. She carried a Dooney & Bourke clutch as her armpit accessory, and swung a plaid Burberry shopping bag in front of her. “Happy Birthday, Katie!” she sang out, running to embrace her. “I missed you so much!”

Katie stood rigidly, allowing Lily to hug her (while the swinging shopping bag grazed her butt). She let the soaking wet rag in her hand drop to the floor (instead of staining Lily's half-cardigan top, like she should have done).

Lily backed off and tilted her head sympathetically. “I know I'm not your favorite person right now, but best friends do
not
let birthdays go uncelebrated.”

Katie murmured, “Best friends don't abandon each other for—”

“This is Luke,” Lily said brightly, her arm snaking around
the cruelly thin (for a guy) waist of her boyfriend, the guy she'd deemed her “better offer.” Lily started to say something about “It's time you two met” when, jarringly, a pair of earsplitting noises rocked the house.

The refrigerator slammed shut and with such fury, the bottles in the door crashed into one another. At the same moment, the Cristal champagne smashed to the floor along with the bag of lobsters. Everyone jumped.

That's when Katie realized, to her horror, that Harper was right there.

And when Luke learned, to his horror, that Harper was right there.

The exes stared at each other, Harper's eyes full of fury, Luke's wide with the fear of the guilt-ridden.

Ali stared at the floor. The lobsters had crawled out of the bag.

Lily stammered, “What's going on? I don't get it.”

“You wouldn't,” Katie practically spat. “It involves human emotions.”

“Harper?” Luke advanced toward her. “What are you doing here?”

Harper pressed her back against the fridge and raised her palms defensively.

Ali, now clutching a lobster in each hand, inserted herself between Luke and a quivering Harper. “I don't know who you
are,” she said, not unkindly, “but I get the sense that Harper doesn't want you coming too close. Maybe you and your friend should visit with Katie in another room.”

“Harper, I'm so totally sorry—” Katie began, but Ali shooed them out. “Give her a chance to get herself together,” Ali whispered. “I'll clean this mess up—call me if you need support.”

“Thank you,” Katie managed to whisper.

“What happened to all the furniture?” Lily asked, surveying the bare living room. “Is it out being cleaned or something?”

“It's just out,” Katie answered.

Settling herself on the only place to perch, the low fireplace mantel, Lily crossed her long legs and patted the cold stone for Luke to sit next to her.

Like a well-trained puppy, he obeyed.

“Well,” Lily exhaled dramatically, “that didn't go exactly as I'd hoped.”

“Lily, what are you doing here?” Katie hissed, standing over her. “And how could you bring … him? Well, I guess neither of you knew. …” Katie sighed. Luke squirmed guiltily.

Lily widened her eyes, affecting a wounded look. “I want to make up, Katie. You haven't answered a single one of my calls, my e-mails, texts—nada. You act like I don't even exist.”

You should have thought of that two and a half months ago, Katie thought bitterly, her hands on her hips.

“It wasn't exactly easy to find you,” Lily complained, “just so you know. I went through a lot.”

Not easy? Katie thought. It
would
have been impossible if not for the robbery and, probably, the big mouth of Taylor Ambrose.

Lily whined, “Who is that girl, anyway, in the kitchen? What's her saga?”