Snark and Stage Fright

Book 5 in the Snark and Circumstance series

Stephanie Wardrop

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2015 by Stephanie Wardrop

SNARK AND STAGE FRIGHT by Stephanie Wardrop

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Swoon Romance

Cover designed by Su Kopil of Earthly Charms

Cover copyright © by Swoon Romance

To Chimp, Grady, and the H-Bomb.

Stephanie Wardrop

1 
It’s Just People

You would think that on a cloudless, picture-postcard-perfect summer day, lying on a raft beside my boyfriend in his pool, I would be incapable of worry.

But I am good at what I do.

Michael’s pool is one of my favorite places in the world, because it looks like it was carved out of the woods by nature herself, like a little lagoon accidentally popped up in a New England backyard about a century ago. It’s very rocky and ferny and surrounded by beautiful exotic plants, lush green and fuchsia and orange-colored plants that shouldn’t thrive in Massachusetts but grow here like the happiest transplants ever. And a month ago, on the night of the school prom, when I was one of the least happy transplants to New England ever, Michael and I met here and finally admitted that we actually really liked each other. It’s where he kissed me for the very first time. So I should be luxuriating here on the raft with him, basking in the sun and the enticing smells of chlorine and sunscreen, but I’m not.

I’m too busy panicking because in a few days I am going to be spending a week at Michael’s family’s summerhouse. Before I’d moved here to Longbourne a year ago, I’d never even met someone who has a different house for different seasons. I don’t even know what you wear at a summerhouse, but I tried to sound casual as I tugged at my Target tankini and asked Michael, “So it’s your dad’s sister’s house, right? And it’s on the beach?”

Michael nodded and stirred the water with his fingers, making his own personal tiny tidal wave and watching it crash against the side of the raft. One of the reasons I love him is because he seems so serious on the outside but in private he does these silly boyish things like making private tsunamis in the pool. And I have to admit he looks really good wet, with his dark curls plastered to his head like one of those statues of Apollo at a Greek temple, only with a tan, since he’s been teaching little kids to swim every day at the YMCA in Netherfield.

“Are people going to be, like, walking around in straw hats and white linen dresses all day, sipping smart cocktails and playing croquet?” I asked.

Michael lifted his sunglasses, revealing his now squinting dark eyes as a familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“We’re going to my aunt’s house on Cape Cod, George, not into a deleted scene from
The Great Gatsby
.” He laughed. “We’ll drive there, and traffic might be a pain, but we don’t require a time machine.”

I could tell he was amused but a little weary of my pre-travel angst. But summer family get-togethers at my house involve rickety metal grills, inflatable pools for the kids, and lots of potato salad. I’m not sure Michael understands I feel about as comfortable walking into a weeklong celebration for his cousin Rose’s wedding as I would be to crash-land on an island overrun by cannibals. Cannibals wouldn’t care if I wore last season’s sandals or sipped out of the finger bowl. They wouldn’t even have finger bowls.

I fretted, “Your mom said a bunch of your cousins will be there, home from college. And lots of aunts and uncles, and your grandmother, who doesn’t like me … ”

He propped himself up on one elbow as best he could without tipping the raft and asked, “George, are you afraid of families in general or mine in particular?”

“Yours in particular. Some families, from what I understand, are wonderful. Mine is just embarrassing. Yours is … formidable.”

He shook his head and before I knew it, he’d grabbed my arm and pulled me into the water. For a few seconds I was so startled to find myself underwater I didn’t even move, and then I felt his arms wrapping around me and pulling me up to the surface and over the side of the pool, where we hung as I caught my breath.

“No decent lifeguard would intentionally drown someone just to show off his skills in saving them,” I grumbled as I pushed my wet bangs out of my eyes with one hand.

“I wasn’t drowning you, but I
was
saving you—from yourself. Because you’re building this trip up into something it isn’t,” he sighed and wiped some wet strands of hair off my nose. “It’s just people, George. My people.”

“Exactly. And I am not good with people.”

He hoisted himself up out of the pool, then held out a hand to help me up, saying, “If you’re going to worry about the trip to my aunt’s house, then it should be about the lack of unchaperoned moments like this for the next week. You’re right—a bunch of my cousins will be there, and my grandmother, and aunts and uncles, and my mom and dad for part of the time.” He took my hand and led me over to a big striped lounge chair, where we curled up together and he kissed the back of my neck, murmuring, “What worries me is the lack of moments like this.” He turned my head so he could put his lips on mine; they tasted like pool water and iced tea and I drank it in eagerly.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to sneak behind a sand dune for a moment or two like this,” I assured him, and we kissed until I felt like I could brave that island of cannibals as I long as we got to do this, too.

2 
The Glass Boat

But days later, when I stopped on the gray stone walkway in front of his aunt’s house so abruptly that Michael almost plowed into me, I knew that I hadn’t just been invited to Cape Cod; I had been invited to another world.

“Don’t worry.” He laughed as he eased past me with his big, blue Ralph Lauren duffle bag. Walking backward, he explained, “This is my aunt’s house, not my parents’ place. We’ll be able to go to the bungalow tomorrow after my parents get here.” He grinned rakishly, saying, “My aunt and uncle didn’t think it
proper
to leave us un-chaperoned overnight. So your virtue remains safe for at least another twenty-four hours, Miss Barrett.”

I wiped my brow with the back of my hand for dramatic effect and sighed, “What a relief!” Then I said, “It’s an impressive house. It looks like a glass boat.” I remembered then that one of the articles my mom had found online had described it as a “contemporary architectural take on an eighteenth-century sailing vessel.” Apparently the Obamas had “vacationed at a house just down the private road and hoped to be back again this year.”

Sensing my hesitation, Michael sighed a little and resumed walking forward. “It’s too much like an aquarium, actually, with all the glass. And look, from here you can already see the people inside it, going about their business. I was serious when I said we’d have no privacy.”

“It reminds me of a dollhouse we used to have,” I agreed, half worried that when we got inside, some giant hand would grab me and, after changing me into some more elegant or fabulous outfit than the tan shorts and striped tee I had on, pose me on a divan or something. And that made me realize that even if I weren’t about to be turned into a human Barbie doll, none of the clothes in my suitcase would ever be good enough for a place like this. None of the clothes I had ever worn would be good enough.

Michael explained, “The land belonged to my great-great-grandfather and it used to have a couple little bungalows, like my parents’ down the hill there, but when my aunt inherited it, her husband knocked down two of the houses to build this testament to his genius. He’s a pretty famous architect.”

I considered feigning a sudden-onset and very contagious illness but instead said simply, “I know,” and he raised his eyebrows. But by then we were at the massive red front door so I was spared sharing with him the fact that my mom had been cyber-stalking his family’s properties. I took a deep breath, smelled sea air, and felt a little better for it.

When he opened the massive front door, a voice within called with delight, “Michael’s here!” Almost immediately, he was swallowed by the arms of a woman with graying blond hair and a laugh like sleigh bells. “And he brought the famous girlfriend! Hellooooo!” She extended a soft-ringed hand and, before I could ask why I was so famous, she introduced herself as Marilyn, Michael’s father’s sister. “Come in, come in! Anthony will take your bags to your rooms. Let me get you some drinks and you can join everyone out on the terrace.”

She swooped us along like a cartoon duck herding her ducklings through the massive living room in which all the furniture seemed to be made out of chrome and black leather and glass. It was obvious that these people didn’t have pets or small children, whereas at my house, on any given day, you can usually scrape enough feline fur off the couch to craft a whole new cat.