“You have ten minutes, Celeste,” her father said, fix-ing her with a piercing gaze.
“Don’t worry about a thing! Look, that dude in the feathers is asking the bartender why we don’t have absinthe. You’d better go rescue him.”
Her father’s attention was momentarily diverted, and Celeste used the opportunity to slip over to Travis, who had flung himself on one of the sofas. His buddies had lined up at the bar, though she didn’t know why they were bothering. They were obviously already drunk.
Travis looked up as Celeste approached.
“Hey, babe,” he said easily, reaching up to pull her into his lap. His face had that slack, red look that she knew very well signaled “Drunk Travis.”
Celeste stood rigidly in front of him. “Travis,” she said through her teeth. “What are you doing?”
He looked around. “Nothing much. Just hanging out.
Why?”
“Why?” Celeste struggled to keep her voice down.
“You swore you’d keep your obnoxious friends away.
Now, I’m in deep shit—my dad is pissed beyond words.”
She realized she was clenching her fists so hard her fingernails were digging into her palms.
Travis looked around the room as if surprised to find himself there. “Hey, calm down,” he said, reaching up for her hands. She kept them closed stiffly at her sides.
“Don’t get so mad. We’re just hanging out. No one’s doing anything,” he said, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe you’d just completely ignore everything I’m saying like this,” she said. “Get your friends out of here, Travis—I mean it. Like now.” Celeste turned and stalked away.
She wove through the crowd and went up to the bar.
She leaned over the smooth dark wood. “Mike,” she murmured. “Can I have a wet towel?”
The bartender looked at her with concern. “Sure, Celeste, but what’s the matter? You look kind of red.”
He passed her a small white bar towel dampened with ice water. Celeste pressed it onto her forehead and the back of her neck.
“I’m okay, thank you. Just trying to cool down.” She handed the towel back and felt a hand on her arm. She whirled around, expecting to see Travis, but instead, Nick stood behind her, wearing a slim gray suit and a big grin. “Hey,” he said brightly as she stared at him. “The pool’s all set up, so I decided to come over to see how everything was going.” He looked around the room.
“This looks awesome. Everyone looks like they’re having a good time—even my mother.” He pointed at Mrs.
Saunders, who was in a corner stuffing feta dip into her mouth. “I need a drink—can I get a vodka and cran-berry?” he asked Mike.
Celeste scanned the room rapidly. She couldn’t spot Travis in the crowd, but that didn’t mean he had left. She took Nick’s arm and marched him away from the bar.
“Hey,” Nick protested. “I was just going to get my drink—”
“Look, Travis and his friends just crashed the party,”
Celeste told him. “My dad’s really mad, so don’t make anything worse, okay?”
“Wow, okay,” Nick said, looking her up and down
carefully. “You look incredible, by the way.”
Celeste could feel herself blush in spite of her irritation. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Look, I’ll go talk to them, okay? Maybe try to distract them or something,” Nick said.
“Okay,” Celeste replied doubtfully. “I’m not sure that’ll work, but you can try.”
“Trust me,” Nick said, winking at her. He stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and strolled away.
The guys were all clustered in a corner by now, laughing hysterically about something and downing Stella Artois like it was the last beer on earth. Already some of the guests near them were turning to stare at Kevin, who was six five and topped two fifty. His face was beet red above his yellow polo shirt, and he had already spilled some beer down the front. Celeste could see her father eyeing her from across the room. She sent him a sickly smile, trying hard to ignore the sense of impending disaster that was growing like a seed in her chest.
Her mother floated by, carrying a glass of champagne and looking as if she’d never thought about a thing in her life except picking out the perfect cocktail dress.
“Celeste,” she murmured out of the corner of her mouth. “I’ve just spent the last half hour reshelving the seafood that idiot of a sous-chef left sitting out on the counter. Hopefully, we won’t wind up with three hundred festival guests with food poisoning. Would you mind scanning the kitchen to make sure everything else is properly put away?”
“Sure, Mom,” Celeste said, eager to escape for a minute. She pushed open the swinging doors to the little prep kitchen just off the lounge. It just had couple of stainless steel counters, an industrial microwave, a mini oven, and a big refrigerator and freezer. Someone had stuck some lettuce in the sink, where it was rapidly wilt-ing. Celeste wrapped it up in plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge, and then started dismantling a tower of dirty appetizer plates to be taken over to the dish room in the main kitchen later. Suddenly, over the clank of china, she heard a woman’s shrieking in the next room.
Oh no. She wiped her hands on the front of her dress and rushed through the double doors.
The music was still playing but a group had gathered around Mila Rotterdam, who was standing up next to her seat, clutching the tablecloth. Something was wrong with her face. “I should sue every person in this place!”
she was shouting. “I gave specific instructions!” Dad stood next to her, patting her arm and trying to get her to sit down. All the guests near her were whispering and talking.
What the hell happened now? Celeste thought as she rushed toward the group. Mr. and Mrs. Saunders stood off to one side, their faces white. Nick, Travis, and Travis’s buddies were standing on the outskirts of the group, looking curious. Mila’s face had an odd, lumpy appearance. Her eyes were almost squished in pockets of puffy flesh, and
