No Strings Attached (5 page)

Katie contributed, “I agree. I've done lots of weekends,
like at my friends' parents' homes. And it always becomes this mass event—somehow word gets out, and even though you might've invited, like, ten people, before you know it, one hundred are there. It gets to be a scene pretty quickly.”

Mitch smiled at Katie. An ally. “Now, for the more mundane stuff. Food. You're responsible for buying your own, so label yours—it's really bad form to steal, or ‘borrow,' someone else's.”

He avoided sending a “this means you” message to Mandy.

“Now, money. There's a landline phone we can share, and even though you all have cell phones, we'll split the cost for local calls. Anyone calls out of the area, just keep track of it. I brought a laptop, which I can keep in the kitchen if you want. Wireless Internet, for whoever needs it. Anything any of us buys for the house is split six ways. I've already bought first aid stuff—you never know when you're gonna need 'em. I put everything in the downstairs bathroom. Also, the cleaning supplies—”

Mandy interjected, “Speaking of cleaning? You need to clean my room. The windows are filthy.”

“Actually, Sare—Mandy,” he corrected himself swiftly, “we're each responsible for our own room.”

He'd raised her ire, though whether it was his answer or his near-slip of her real name, he couldn't be sure. He rushed on. “What your rooms look like is your own business, but the
common areas, including this room, the bathrooms, and especially the kitchen, need to be kept clean. To keep it fair, we'll rotate those kinds of chores. The kitchen is the biggie. We don't want any kind of insect or rodent infestation.”

“Speaking of!” Mandy swung her legs off the couch and sat up straight. “I say we get to the rodent issue now.”

Alefiya blinked. “Clarence is a ferret.”

Mandy's face twisted into a clenched fist. “No pets,” she hissed.

Mitch sighed. “Usually, there
is
a no-pet understanding in share houses. But the truth is, I forgot to put that in the ad. …”

The look on the Indian girl's openly surprised face told him she was not going to volunteer to get rid of Clarence. “So, in fairness, I say we take a vote on whether the … ferret stays or not.”

Without Joss, and Alefiya of course, the vote was split down the middle: Mitch had to side with Mandy on this one; Harper and Katie were a team. They compromised: Alefiya agreed to keep Clarence in her room—at all times.

“Until Joss gets here,” Mandy had groused. “Then we'll take another vote.”

Mitch remembered one more thing. “No duplicating of keys. Do not give anyone else the keys to the house. Zero tolerance.”

“I don't like the rules,” Mandy sniffed, miffed at having to live with a ferret.

Then
leave
, is what he normally would have said. But in view of the situation, he backed off. “Let's see what happens. If something really bothers you, we can put it to a vote.”

“Oh, like we did tonight?” she groused again.

Which led to all of them talking at once—a chaotic overlapping of challenging one another, cajoling, squabbling, while Mitch pled for calm.

“What'd I miss?”

The screen door squeaked and, as if they'd rehearsed it, the five housemates turned toward it. Standing just inside the small foyer was a tall beanstalk of a guy with long, messy hair, ripped jeans, and a guitar slung over his shoulder.

Mitch found his voice first. “You must be Joss.”

(She Also Knows More About Harper Than She Should)

“Welcome, counselors, to the Kids Club at the Luxor. I hope
you're all ready for a wonderful summer—I know I am!” Eleanor McGeary, clipboard in hand, was exactly as Katie remembered her: robust, raisin-skinned, outdoorsy, and cheerful. As a kid, Katie had been a camper here while her parents, guests at the resort, were attending to their own priorities: supposedly, socializing and business. Which Katie now knew to be alcohol and fraud.

Ellie McG, as everyone called her, had been head counselor at the time. Now she ran the entire program. She remembered Katie and was beyond thrilled to hire her as a counselor and give her the assignment requested: the nine- to eleven-year-old girls—a group Katie liked best because they required the least amount of attention. In her (whatever, limited,
experience) tweeners were all about cliques, clothes, and smartphones—texting their friends at home—not traditional counselor-led camp activities. Leaving Katie more time at the Luxor to pursue her agenda: meeting hot, rich guys—paying guests and their friends.

“Katie! So terrific to see you.” Ellie came up and gave Katie a hug after she'd detailed the responsibilities to the group. “You've grown up beautifully, just as I knew you would.”

“And look at you!” Katie, on Charlesworth autopilot, returned the compliment. “You haven't aged a day.”

Ellie chuckled and wagged a finger at Katie. “You always did know exactly what to say.” And Katie heard her mom trilling, “Breeding will win out.” Her stomach turned.

Ellie turned her attention to Harper. “And you must be Lily. Welcome!”

Quickly, Katie cut in. “Actually, Ellie—here's the thing. She … Lily … couldn't make it. This huge family emergency came up at the last minute. So my good friend Harper Jones will be filling in. If it's all right.” Katie prayed it would be. It had to be.

Eleanor was taken aback. “Oh. I had no idea! I'm surprised no one mentioned it before today.”

Katie could practically hear Harper's echo, “So am I!” Accompanied by a purposeful kick to her shin.

“It just happened over the weekend,” Katie continued. “Lily's so devastated—she so wanted to be here this summer! Isn't it lucky that Harper's available? She's really great, and totally experienced. The kids will adore her.”

“It's a little late,” Eleanor pointed out. “Camp starts this afternoon and we don't even have an application, let alone any kind of background information—references, that sort of thing—on Harper, is it?”

It
was
late—exactly what Katie had been counting on. Too late for the camp to find someone else, making it easy for them to accept a substitute, Alt-Lily. Katie doubted Eleanor would quibble, let alone put the kibosh on it. She'd done her recon. Harper Jones had no skeletons in the closet, and, even better (and this was a dirty little secret she'd unearthed), Luxor Resort was sensitive to racial issues. They'd been accused of restricting golf memberships, and of profiling their staff. Putting the politically correct foot forward was important to them. Here was Harper, black, or least partly so. And here was a Charlesworth, vouching for her.

They'd hire her on the spot.

Harper hissed, “When exactly were you planning to tell me this? Before or after Camp ‘Sucks-or' deemed me unfit to be a counselor?”

“No way they wouldn't take you,” Katie assured her.
“Look, I'm sorry I didn't say anything before. I had my reasons. Please trust me, okay? Anyway, our campers are waiting. I'll explain later.”

With that, she broke into a smile and a trot, toward the gaggle of tween girls hanging out on the resort's tree-lined front lawn. The campers looked just as Katie imagined they would. The younger girls were ponytailed, cheerful, and chatty; the older ones, designer-bedecked, bored, sulky. The group replicated their counselors: one cheerful, the other Very Not. Harper had apparently settled for glaring at Katie the rest of the afternoon. It got irritating when Katie would make a suggestion like, “How about we call our group the Olympians?” and Harper would counter, “Rebel Grrlz is hipper.” Or when Katie decided they should go over their daily schedule first, only to have Harper chime in, “Screw that. Let's get some ice cream first—my treat!”

Harper Jones was an odd duck, all right, Katie thought, watching the Rebels dive into DoveBars and Godiva sundaes at the Luxor Java Café. No wonder Katie hadn't known her at school. Harper defined fringe. Even though she was pretty, she dressed like a hippie, all faded denim, leather-strap sandals. And was there no end to her “statement” T-shirts, like
REPUBLICANS FOR VOLDEMORT
or
CLUB SANDWICHES, NOT SEALS
?

Just like at school, she kept to herself here, too, preferring the beach and writing in her journal over anyone's company.

But all that was okay with Katie.

In the game of roommate roulette, she could have done much, much worse. What if Alefiya Sunjabi had been first to respond to Katie's ad? Katie had nothing against Ali personally—except for her relationship with cleanliness, which was casual at best. The girl was unkempt and unconcerned about what others thought of her. She left her smelly clothes draped over the sofas in the den, and Katie was constantly tossing her food remnants, also left all over the house, before they were covered in bugs.

Or Katie might've ended up sharing with someone like Mandy, whose itch to bitch, whine, and carp had not abated one iota. She strutted around half-dressed, like she was the queen sex bee of the house and everyone else, her wannabes. And the mouth on her! Truck driver talk (as Katie imagined it, since she personally had never met a truck driver) paled in comparison. Vanessa Charlesworth would've called Mandy low-class trailer trash. Richard Charlesworth would've just called her.

Why Mitch put up with Mandy was a mystery. Their den daddy was a find, a gem. Capable without being bossy, and unflappable, he handled Mandy firmly but fairly. Mitch had one more year at Harvard, where he was prelaw. Katie might have put him on her “to do” list—but the boy was taken (overtaken, you could say); he was a smitten kitten. Somehow, he managed to work “Leonora” into every conversation. Sweet.

Joss Wanderman was her big question mark. Because she
knew him. Only not by that name. Nor by any other moniker she could think of at the moment. But there was something
very
(as opposed to vaguely) familiar about the lean, lanky latecomer. She'd figure it out, sooner or later.

Katie was focused on the “now.” Time was her enemy, and it was a-wastin'.

Settling the group under a shady tree, she dialed up a big-sister persona. “Because you guys are cool, Harper and I have decided not to force some lame schedule of activities on you. We're the Rebels not for nothing! We'll rebel against the same old boring routine. Let's find out what you actually like to do, and plan our week around that. Agreed?”

Her answer was the rousing applause from her campers—even the older ones—and, unsurprisingly, a fierce glare from Harper. Katie hadn't consulted her about anything. She'd just economized, co-opted the whole Rebel thing, taking it one step further.

Later, Katie would confide that letting the girls do what they pleased (within reason—Katie was no anarchist) made for contented campers. Which translated into satisfied parents and bigger tips for the counselors. Surely Harper (just look at her!) could use the extra cash.

As anticipated, the Rebels self-divided into athletes and artists. Katie claimed the former—the swimmers, tennis players, soccer girls, and novice sailors—happily handing over the artsy,
musical, computer geekettes and drama princesses to Harper.

After promising to take them for weekly shopping jaunts, Katie wound up with some very pumped Rebels. Excellent! Now she was free to scour the boy-scape for candidates.

First stop: the Luxor swimming pool. A long, languid stretch of pristine chlorine, it was free-form, bracketed by a diving board and an excellent Jacuzzi. While her girls—Tiffany, Morgan, Jenna, Whitney, and Nicole—changed into their swimsuits, Katie donned her Hilfiger bikini and slipped into what Lily used to call her (f*** me) slides.

She wasn't out by the pool five minutes when she was approached. Awesome!

“Hi, I'm Mike, I've got the ten- to twelve-year-old boys.” A pale, skinny guy wearing red Reebok swim trunks and a water-resistant watch motioned toward the diving board, where his group was waiting for their lesson. “Maybe our campers can get together for swim period?”

Translation: Maybe you and I can get together.

Katie shot him a friendly smile. “Thanks, but I don't think so. This is our first day, and we need to bond as a group. Maybe another day.”

Translation: Not today, not this summer. Not you (no offense).

Just then, Katie caught sight of someone lounging on a chaise just outside the cabana. His legs were outstretched, a
frosty glass was in hand, and an iPod rested in that flat space where his Boss boy-kini ended and his cobblestone abs began. Mmmm.

Quickly, Katie rustled up a cache of comfy chaise lounges for her campers. She expertly advised them on applying “lots of sunscreen, first, and always.” While they were following directions, she sashayed over to Boss-boy. “Hey,” she said innocently, bending over a little to catch his eye. “Would you happen to know where I can score some towels?”

On cue, he shot straight up and removed the earbuds. He had thick black curly hair and a killer smile.

Katie pointed in the vague direction of her group. “I need them for my … sisters, and their friends.” Admitting lowly counselor status wasn't prudent.

He swiveled at the waist to point behind him to the towel cart. “Right there. They're big and bulky, though. If you need help carrying them, I wouldn't mind the distraction. I'm Brian, by the way.”

Standing, Brian looked even better than lounging. He was perfectly proportioned, and Katie found the gentlemanly offer smooth. When he removed his sunglasses, a startling pair of blue eyes twinkled at her.

Oh, Katie needed help, all right.

By the end of day one, Brian Holloway, headed into his senior year at MIT, followed by employment in his family-owned
Holloway Fund Management Group, wasn't even Katie's only candidate. Nate Graham was in the game too. During her group's tennis lessons, she'd wandered over toward the marina with a wire basket to see if she could round up the errant balls the girls had shot over the fence.