Broken Hearts, Fences and Other Things to Mend (7 page)

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“Sorry,” she said, not taking her eyes from me, and I noticed

her voice was the same, raspier than you’d expect, like she’d been

a lifelong smoker, even at eleven. And though she didn’t look just

like as she had when we were kids, it was unmistakably her. She

had the same eyes, green and almond- shaped. Her hair was a

slightly darker shade than the bright blond I remembered, but it

was still long and curly, and it fl owed over her shoulders and down

her back.

I registered in a far- off, panicky way that she hadn’t taken

her eyes from me, and I could practically hear her brain whirring

as she leaned closer to me, studying my features. She narrowed

her eyes and a terrible, sick feeling overcame me. It was as though

I had just found myself in one of my worst nightmares. “Wait a sec-

ond,” she said, her voice cold. “Are you . . .”

“Where are my manners?” Josh said, smiling at me, clearly

not picking up on what was happening— namely, that I was prob-

ably about fi ve seconds away from getting my butt kicked. “This

is my sister, Henrietta. Hallie,” he corrected quickly after seeing

the murderous glance she shot him. “Hallie, this is Sophie . . .”

He paused, looking at me expectantly. “Curtis,” I said auto-

matically, because that’s just what I always said after Sophie. “But

wait,” I corrected quickly. “That’s not my—”

“Sophie,” Hallie repeated. I saw her eyes fl ick down to my
S

necklace, the name on the cup in my hand, then to my hair and

back to my face. “Sorry,” she said. The confusion— and fury— that

had been in her expression just a second before were now fading

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away. “I thought you were . . .” She shook her head. “I guess not.

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Never mind.”

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“No,” I said, but so faintly that even I could barely hear my-

self. “I’m not . . .”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she said with a big smile.

Nice to meet me.
Nice
. To
meet
me. These words reverberated

in my head. I knew that brave— and sane— people would have used

the moment to explain that, actually, we’d met before, we knew

each other quite well, and she was justifi ed in her hatred of me.

But I couldn’t help thinking about all the things that were

suddenly falling into place. My hair was an unrecognizable shade.

My nose was straight. And there was the simple fact that I looked

really different now than I had at eleven. I hadn’t recognized

Josh, after all. She didn’t know that I was Gemma Tucker. So

maybe I didn’t have to be her. This could be an opportunity to set

things right with Hallie. And I knew I’d never get a chance if I

told her who I really was. I found myself touching the
S
on my

chain, sliding it back and forth once before I smiled back at her.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I said.

“So you two met on the train?” Hallie asked, looking from me

to Josh.

“She kind of just fell into my lap,” Josh said, deadpan, and

despite everything else that was happening, I found myself smil-

ing at this.

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” Hallie asked, just as a low-

slung purple sports car jerked and sputtered into the parking lot.

I could see my dad behind one of the lowered windows, glasses

askew and hair rumpled. He looked exactly the same, which meant

he could give me away in a heartbeat. My pulse was suddenly

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racing.

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“No, I’m okay,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

“See you, Sophie!” Josh called, and I noticed that they didn’t

look in the direction of the sports car— and was thankful for the

fact that my dad’s head was turned away as they climbed into the

Jeep. Hallie sped out of the parking lot as fast as she’d pulled in.

My dad drove the car in front of the platform, opened the driver’s

side door, and, with some effort, hauled himself up out of it. All of

Bruce’s cars were either tiny convertibles or enormous SUVs that

looked like they were better suited for some sort of military op-

eration than a Starbucks run.

“Gemma!” my dad called, waving.

“Hi,” I called back, then looked around in a panic, to make

sure that Josh and Hallie were gone, worried they’d heard my dad

and my cover was blown.

The coast was clear, but a moment later, the true consequences

of this sank in.

Oh god. What had I done?

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“It’s good to have you here, Gem,” my dad said as we both

buckled our seatbelts and slammed the car doors. We’d got-

ten dinner at the Upper Crust, which my dad swore had the best

pizza in the Hamptons. And after we’d fi nished off a shared pie

(my dad was the only one who would ever share my sausage, pep-

peroni, and pineapple pizza) I was inclined to agree with him.

“I’m glad it worked out for you to come.”

“Me too,” I said as the lights dimmed with a subtleness that

seemed to indicate just how ridiculously expensive the car was. It

was like it was trying to ease you into the darkness gently. In the

slowly fading light, I could see that my dad looked like he always

did— slightly overgrown sandy hair, glasses with the lenses per-

petually smudged, wearing his uniform of jeans and untucked

button- down. But I couldn’t help notice, this time, deeper lines

around his eyes and much more gray in his hair. I tried to tell

myself that I only noticed these changes in my father because I

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didn’t see him very often. Probably if I only saw my mom a few

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times a year, I’d be thinking that she looked really old too. But

even so, it bothered me a little.

My dad started the car, then winced when it made a terrible

screeching sound. “Sorry,” he said, as the car jerked forward, seemed

to stall, then jerked forward again. “I haven’t driven a stick shift

in . . . well . . . ever.”

“So does Bruce still live in the same house?” I asked as we

sputtered down the road, the gears screeching, probably doing

huge amounts of damage to the really expensive engine. I looked

out at the scenery passing by, but wasn’t sure I recognized any-

thing. It probably didn’t help that it was totally dark out.

We had spent the summer at Bruce’s house the last time I was

in the Hamptons, and I was looking forward to staying with him

again. I always loved staying with Bruce, since his houses were

huge and professionally decorated, and the kitchens were always

stocked with trendy snacks and artisanal soda. I don’t think my

dad liked it quite as much. Though he and Bruce were old friends,

they had become more like just colleagues in recent years, which

meant that when we were in his house, my dad was basically on

vacation with his boss.

“Same as what?” my dad asked as he managed to make it

though an intersection successfully. “As when you were here be-

fore?” He glanced over at me, and I nodded. “Oh, no. This one is

more like a cottage. Tasteful and understated.”

That didn’t sound anything like Bruce. “Really?”

My dad sighed and shook his head. “No, not really.” He pulled

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onto a less- busy road, and I pressed the button to roll down my

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window and breathed in the cool, sweet- scented night air.

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“Where are we headed?” I asked.

“It’s a neighborhood called Quonset,” he said. “According to

Bruce, it’s going to be the next Montauk.”

“What does that mean?”

My dad just shrugged. “I’ve learned never to ask.” He unrolled

his own window and glanced over at me at a stoplight. “I have to

say, I like the hair, squirt.”

“Yeah?” I asked as I played with my bangs. I still wasn’t used

to it, and when I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the mir-

rored frames in the pizza parlor, I had done a double take. “It’s

mostly Sophie’s doing.”

“Well, I think it suits you.” Not that I had ever taken fashion

or beauty tips from my dad, but I still appreciated this. “Listen,”

he said as he signaled and turned down a gravel driveway so long

I couldn’t even see the house from the road, “I may not be able to

hang out with you this summer as much as I would like.”

“Work?” I asked, feeling like I already knew what the answer

was.

“Yeah,” he said with a grimace. “The studio’s not happy with

Time Flies
.” In addition to the other scripts my dad wrote— or

rewrote— he still worked on all the time- traveling- animal movies,

which had become a franchise, complete with celebrity voice actors.

“What animal is it this time?” I asked.

My dad winced again. “Penguins.”

I just stared at him. “But penguins don’t fl y.”

He sighed. “And with that, you’ve just recapped the last three

months of arguments I’ve been having with various studio

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executives.”

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I tried not to smile, but I found I couldn’t help it. I sometimes

wondered if my dad had been happier when he was writing books

nobody read, instead of writing movies everyone saw.

“Anyway,” he said, “we’re going to be back and forth to L.A. a

bit. But I’ll be around whenever I can. Do you think you’ll be okay

here if I’m gone?”

The house fi nally came into view, and I felt my jaw drop. It

was an absolutely enormous mansion, gray- shingled and sprawl-

ing. I could see a glimpse of the water to the side of the house,

and in front of it, a pool. “You know,” I said as my dad pulled in

front of the garage and killed the engine as the car gave what I

swear was a relieved sigh. “I think I’ll be fi ne.”

O O O

“You’re here!”

I had just stepped inside when I heard this greeting, and

looked across the foyer (which could have easily held my bedroom

back home) to see Rosie, Bruce’s longtime assistant, smiling at me.

With her cocoa- colored skin and model’s height, she had always

looked to me like she should have been in front of the cameras, not

working for an irascible producer behind them. She gave me a

quick hug, then stepped back and looked at me at arm’s length.

“Haircut? I like it,” she said, without waiting for me to respond.

“Bruce is about to get on a conference call, but I’ll bring you by

quickly— I know he’ll want to say hi.”

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“I’ll put this in your room, Gem,” my dad said as he lifted my

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bag and headed for the staircase.

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“Thanks, Dad,” I called. I followed Rosie across the marble fl oor,

looking for any evidence that Bruce’s kids were there as well. “So

is Gwyneth around this summer?” I asked. “Or Ford?”

Rosie gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, kid,” she said. “They’re

both in Hawaii with their mom. But I know they’re going to try

and come at some point.”

This was better than nothing, I fi gured. Gwyneth was a year

younger than me, and Ford was a year older. Since I’d grown up

seeing them both a few times a year, I knew them pretty well,

but my friendship with Ford had always been complicated by the

fact that he’d been my childhood crush, who had morphed into

my regular crush. Thankfully, he didn’t know this. And since he

lived in California, and I’d been with Teddy for the last two years,

it had never really been an issue.

I followed Rosie down a long hallway, both walls covered with

framed movie posters. That was one thing I knew I could count

on, what ever style Bruce’s house was currently decorated in— that

it would be fi lled to the brim with movie memorabilia. Movies

were Bruce’s life as well as his livelihood, and it was the whole

reason his children had the names they did. Ford came about dur-

ing a particularly diffi cult negotiation with Harrison Ford. In a

desperate move, Bruce promised he’d name his soon- to- be- born

son after the movie star, something that Ford’s mom hadn’t been

too happy to fi nd out about. And on top of that, the movie had

fallen apart after only fi ve days of shooting. Gwyneth had gotten