The Pact. Jennifer Sturman
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Jacob Furlong’s hawklike profile illuminated by a single porch light. Only the top of his daughter’s head was visible.
She let out a laugh that sounded tinged with hysteria. “There is no choice. You know Mother wouldn’t be able to deal. She’s shaky enough as is.”
“Your mother—” began Jacob, then stopped. He sighed. “Look, Emma, it’s time for us all to live our own lives.”
“Like you ever stopped?” she retorted. “Don’t you think it’s a little too late to start playing concerned father?”
Jacob looked like he’d been slapped. His craggy features seemed suddenly old and weary. He passed a hand slowly across his brow.
I looked at Peter and he looked at me. Silently, he helped me down from the counter, and we tiptoed back into the kitchen.
At least, Peter tiptoed.
I limped.
CHAPTER 3
The dining room was emptying out, and only a few swinging diehards remained on the dance floor. Judging by the unenthusiastic way the band was plodding through an old Sinatra tune, they seemed ready to call it a night. I spied Richard near the wood-paneled door that led out to the foyer, bidding the departing guests farewell. His double-breasted suit still looked as crisply pressed as if he’d just left the tailor, and a silk handkerchief peeked neatly from his breast pocket. I’ve never understood American men who insisted on dressing like Eurotrash.
A moment later, Emma joined him, her lips tightly set in a strained smile. I guessed that she’d walked around the outside of the club and reentered through the front. Richard slung his arm across her thin shoulders in a proprietary manner that made me want to slug him. It was all I could do not to rush to her side, pull her free from his slimy grasp, drag her into a corner and find out what was really going on. I couldn’t recognize my best friend in the woman I’d overheard arguing with her father just a few minutes before, and I was even more concerned and confused now than I’d been all through dinner.
But she and Richard were surrounded; the odds of getting a word with her in private were slim. I would have to wait until the party was over.
Peter and I headed back to our table, picking our way through the maze of abandoned tables and scattered chairs. The gentle pressure of his hand on the small of my back ignited a minor fire that radiated from the base of my spine up my vertebrae, around my neck and up to my cheeks, which felt distinctly flushed. At least the pleasant warmth managed almost completely to eclipse the pain in my foot, if not the uncomfortable thoughts in my head.
Thankfully, the bland cousin and Richard’s dreary colleague had disappeared, leaving only my friends, who seemed ready for the evening to be over. They had pulled their chairs away from the table and into a small circle. Jane had kicked off her shoes and was resting her feet in Sean’s lap. He rubbed her toes with the practiced expertise and serene composure of a happily married man. Matthew was ribbing Hilary about something or other while Luisa looked on, her eyelids drooping with the late hour. She’d arrived just that morning on an overnight flight from South America.
As we approached, they looked the two of us over with uniformly bemused expressions. My rather long and distinguished trail of romantic disasters was common fodder for group conversations, and I could tell they were looking forward to having some new material with which to enjoy themselves at my expense.
Peter made his introductions while I sank into an empty chair. If he noticed the way that Jane elbowed Matthew or how Hilary raised one inquisitive eyebrow he didn’t show it. He bore up well under Luisa’s coolly assessing gaze and acted like he didn’t see the exaggerated wink Sean gave me or the finger I flipped back at him.
Jane and Luisa bent forward to examine the stain on my dress. “It doesn’t look good, Rach.” Jane’s voice was somber. When it came to weighty matters of what could and could not be removed from fabric, Jane was an expert. I gazed down at the brown splotches despondently. The soda water treatment may have lent some romantic intrigue to the evening, but it hadn’t done much to undo the damage wrought by Emma’s great-aunt.
“However,” said Luisa in a stage whisper, “something else looks quite good.” She shot me a knowing glance. I tried to muster up a haughty look, but instead the flush in my cheeks deepened even further.
“Well, I think the time has come,” Matthew announced. “If we don’t get out of here soon they’ll be kicking us out. Peter, you’re staying at the Furlongs’ house, aren’t you? Do you need a ride there?”
“That would be great,” said Peter. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look even more adorably boyish than he had before. “I took a taxi straight here from the station so I don’t have a car. Let me just go get my bag—I left it in the cloakroom.”
“I’ll go with you,” Matthew volunteered, putting a hand on Peter’s unsuspecting shoulder and guiding him toward the exit. Sean gently removed Jane’s feet from his lap and rose from his seat to follow them.
“We’ll see you all back at the house,” he called over his shoulder with a barely disguised grin. This was more of a commandment than a suggestion. I watched their blue-blazered backs head toward the door, with Peter caught innocently in the middle, and inwardly groaned. The two of them could never resist the chance to play big brother, even though I had two of my own who were required by blood to play the role and did so exceedingly well. Peter would be thoroughly interrogated by the time they got back to the house, at which point Matthew and Sean would let me know in no uncertain terms if they found him a suitable candidate for me.
I sighed and turned my head to meet the unabashedly curious looks of my old roommates.
“Well?” asked Hilary.
“Well what?” I retorted with, I hoped, dignity. She stretched out one long bronzed leg and kicked me. Fortunately, she’d removed her high-heeled sandals. I tried to stare her down, but after a couple of seconds gazing at her jade green eyes I began to giggle.
“He’s cute,” said Jane. “I mean, I know old married women aren’t supposed to notice these things, but he really is very cute. And you certainly seem to think so. I haven’t seen you blush like this in years. He seems nice and normal, too.” In direct contrast to the sort of guy I usually went for, she was no doubt thinking but was too kind to say. She ran a hand through her bobbed brown hair, which gleamed in the dim light. Her arms were tanned against the simple blue sheath she wore.
“Quite handsome,” agreed Luisa, her faint South American accent elongating her words. She pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an engraved lighter before returning the case to an embroidered black evening bag. She inhaled luxuriously, exhaling a stream of smoke from her full lips. For what must have been the millionth time I wondered how she managed to keep her lipstick on for an entire evening.
“But why is he friends with Richard?” demanded Hilary. “I mean, do we know if he’s worthy? Can he possibly be worthy?” Ah. The question on all of our minds. Trust Hilary to be the first to pose it aloud.
“Oh, do be quiet, Hilary,” said Luisa. “Rachel’s a grown-up. She can take care of herself.” These were disingenuous words from the woman who’d taken it upon herself to cancel a date she deemed “inappropriate” for me our senior year.
“I’m sure the Inquisition will have that all figured out in no time,” I said, referring to Matthew and Sean. I paused then continued in a more serious tone. “I have to admit, I have the same concern. I mean, Peter seems smart and nice, and he’s a really good dancer and he smells incredible, and he’s got the most wonderful eyes and he has a great sense of humor—and did I mention how good he smells? But he’s a friend of Richard’s.” The way I said Richard’s name could leave no doubt as to how I felt about him. “Peter said that the two of them grew up together and that they haven’t really been in touch for years. And he seemed pretty surprised that Richard wanted him to be his best man. That’s a good sign, but is it enough to outweigh being friends with Richard