answer. Celeste snuck another sidelong glance. She was probably in her midforties and had that leathery, stringy look that came with decades of diets and sun-bathing. She looks like a chicken bone. Celeste bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. But she might have let out the tiniest noise, because the woman fixed her with an intense stare in the mirror.
Celeste immediately squashed all giggling and gave the woman the most sincere, polite, and demure grin she could summon. It must have done the trick, because the woman actually smiled herself and then, drying her hands on her gold jumpsuit instead of on the fluffy white towels laid out in front of her, she swept from the bathroom.
Celeste slowly followed and, nodding at the guests she passed, took up her post again at her mother’s side.
She spied the woman, who was now leaning over the front desk, terrorizing Michelle, the desk clerk. “Mom,”
she whispered. “Who is that woman?”
“That’s Mila Rotterdam,” her mother whispered back without changing her friendly expression.
Celeste’s heart almost stopped. “Oh my God, that’s her?” She dug in her evening bag and pulled out the little guest cheat sheet. The entry for Rotterdams read: Mila and Mason. Powerful Hollywood movie producers. Dislikes: 195
Chihuahuas. Special Requests: personal trainer visit, villa 2, 7
a.m. Food: Mila, allergic to pepper.
“There’s Mason over there,” Mom whispered. Celeste followed her mother’s gaze across the room to a little, wizened old man who looked more like George Burns than a movie executive. He was standing in a corner, staring down at a glass of water.
“Oh,” Celeste said, making a mental note to make sure Mila Rotterdam had everything her gold-laméd self desired through the course of the festival. This woman was the reason they’d had to deal with creating an hors d’oeuvres menu entirely free of pepper. Which was, it had turned out, an incredibly difficult task. Her phone beeped in her bag.
She dug it out and turned away from the crowd to take a look. Text from Nick. Celeste flipped it open. SCREEN OKAY.
ALL QUIET. Celeste smiled and was about to write back when her father leaned over and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Celeste, we need to start moving people into the lounge to start the cocktail party,” he said sotto voce.
Celeste nodded and turned to the knot of couples standing near her. “Excuse me,” she said with her best Pinyon-employee, daughter-of-the-owners smile. They looked up expectantly. “If you all would like to head into the lounge”—she pointed at the double doors—
“we’ll be serving drinks and appetizers shortly.”
Around the lobby, the groups began breaking up and trickling slowly towards the double doors at the opposite end of the room, laughing, the women balancing on their stilettos, everyone talking excitedly. Celeste could see Mila Rotterdam clutching the arm of a guy who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five and tottering toward the lounge. “… better serve some good liquor!” Celeste could hear her trumpeting. “The last place only had Wild Turkey.” Celeste caught her mother’s glance and discreetly rolled her eyes in the direction of Mrs. Rotterdam. Her mother sighed and nodded in agreement.
The dim, intimate lounge was perfectly laid out with sleek couches and low chairs. The soft lighting illuminated the little cocktail tables and the rich wood of the bar, but left the corners in shadows. A jazz quartet was playing in one corner. Huge potted ferns nodded their feathery heads in the corners, and votive candles flickered on the tables. Waiters in sleek black T-shirts were circulating with trays of Spanish cheeses, olives, feta dip, and lobster on water crackers.
As she looked around, Celeste felt proud. She lived at the best resort in Palm Springs. This scene belonged in a magazine. The last of the guests trickled in, and Dad shut the doors. The noise in the place swelled, and Celeste could hear laughter echoing above the conversation.
She collected a Perrier from the bar and started moving through the crowd, smiling and nodding. In the back of her mind, she wondered if Nick would change his mind and come over. “Another vodka tonic, sir?” she asked a big, red-faced man brightly. “Matthew would be happy to get you one.” She indicated the waiter who had magically appeared next to her.
Just then, her father laid his hand on her shoulder.
His face was calm and benign, but his eyes were
sparkling dangerously. “Celeste, dear, can I speak to you for a second?” he asked quietly. Uh-oh. She could tell that tone immediately. It was the “you’ve messed up, my dear, but I don’t want the guests to know there’s anything wrong” tone. She knew the drill.
“Sure, Dad,” she said cheerfully. Still clutching her water glass, she followed her father over to a corner partially masked by the bar.
“Celeste,” her father said. “You know the next few days are some of the biggest we’ve ever had here at the resort, right?” His forehead looked strained.
“Yes, Dad.” Celeste nodded. Did she ever.
“And that our family is going to have to work harder than ever to make sure that everything goes absolutely perfectly this weekend, right?”
“Yes, Dad,” Celeste said again. She felt like a robot who’d only been programmed with one phrase.
“Then why,” her father whispered harshly, “are those boys at this party?” He pointed. Celeste followed his hand and felt her stomach plunge into her shoes. Travis and all his buddies were coming through the doors—
laughing, talking, and most definitely not sober.
Chapter Twenty-three
Celeste convulsively squeezed her Perrier glass so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t shatter. What the hell were they doing? Travis had promised they’d stay away from the parties! She could hear her father breathing next to her like some sort of bull ready to stampede.
“Um, I have no idea what they’re doing here, but don’t worry, Dad, I’ll take care of everything,” she said hastily, before he could stride over there and take care of things himself. That
