Thorn Abbey (14 page)

Mrs. De Villiers doesn’t offer me her hand but gives me a tight-lipped smile. She has this terrifying way of communicating complete and total disapproval without uttering a single word.

Franklin shoots me a sympathetic look.

Oh, God, this is already a disaster. Of epic proportions.

The maitre d’ hovers beside me. Why is he still there? Then I realize he wants me to sit. I twist my body awkwardly and sink down onto my chair at the same moment that he slides it out. It’s like a bad screwball comedy, and I almost fall to the floor.

The maitre d’ grabs my arm to steady me. “Pardon me!” he says, sounding mortified.

“Are you okay?” Franklin asks.

“I’m fine. I’m such a klutz!” I scramble onto my seat and
quickly adjust my skirt to hide the safety pins. “I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting!” I say a little too loudly.

“We just got here,” Max says in a tense voice.

“What can we get you to drink, Tess?” Mr. De Villiers asks me jovially.

“A Coke, please.”

“A Coke for the young lady!”

The maitre d’ bows and slips away.

I take a second to compose myself and check out Max’s parents. Mr. De Villiers looks like an older version of Max, with ruddy cheeks and thinning hair and a big linebacker’s build. Mrs. De Villiers is slim and regal and beautiful, with glossy, shoulder-length auburn hair and flawless, dewy skin.

I notice that she’s wearing gray slacks and a matching cashmere cardigan. Her only accessories are her wedding rings, a small diamond pendant, and a thin silver watch that I swear says “Cartier.”

I should have listened to Elinor and gone with the pants and sweater.

I should
not
have listened to Devon about tweaking my outfit at the last minute. Or about anything whatsoever.

A waiter comes by with my Coke, which is in a crystal goblet filled with crushed ice. Mr. De Villiers hands him his own empty glass and says, “Talisker. Neat.”

“Right away, sir.”

I take advantage of the distraction and discreetly rebutton the top of my blouse. Mrs. De Villiers narrows her eyes at me and clears her throat.

“Lucia. You haven’t touched your drink,” Mr. De Villiers says.

“I don’t care for this kind of vermouth,” Mrs. De Villiers replies testily.

“Well, this nice young man will get you another one, then. With a different vermouth.” He turns to me. “So, Tess! Max tells us you’re new to Thorn Abbey.”

“Yes, sir. I just started in September.”

“Tess is a fantastic writer,” Franklin pipes up. “Mr. Bagley asked her to read an excerpt from her
French Lieutenant’s Woman
paper to the class on Wednesday. It blew the rest of our papers out of the water.”

“Yeah, well, speak for yourself. I got an A-minus on mine,” Max boasts.

“Yes, well, I got an A,” Franklin banters back. “Tess is the only one who got an A-plus, though. She could teach us both a thing or two about modern literature.”

“I was never a big fan of Mr. Fowles, myself,” Mr. De Villiers says. “Now, Charles Dickens, he could spin a tale. I don’t suppose you kids read him in any of your classes? ‘It is a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done . . .’ ”

“It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ ” I finish.

Mr. De Villiers beams at me. “A fellow Dickens aficionado. Wonderful!”

The waiter comes by with more drinks. Mrs. De Villiers takes a sip of her martini and says, “Better. So, Tess. Max tells us your parents weren’t able to make it this weekend. Do they live very far away?”

Oh, God. The interrogation has begun. “Yes. I mean, no. My mom had to work tonight.”

“Oh? And how about your father?”

“My dad? He doesn’t live with us.”

Max raises his eyebrows at me.

“So they’re divorced?” Mrs. De Villiers persists.

I twist my napkin in my lap. “Not exactly.”

Now everyone is staring at me. I must sound like an idiot. Mr. De Villiers leans over to his wife. “It’s really not any of our business,” he says softly.

“No, it’s okay. The thing is, I don’t know very much about him because they’re not married. They were never married. He was my mom’s high school boyfriend, and after I was born, we never really saw him again.”

More silence.
So
awkward. I rush on, trying to fill it.

“He moves around a lot. I think he’s living in New Mexico
now. Like in Albuquerque or Santa Fe. His parents, they’re my grandparents I guess, live in Albany, and my mom runs into them once in a while. They said he’s working at a gas station or a garage or somewhere having to do with cars. And he’s in a band, too. The Tequila Shooters, I think . . . .”

I hear myself babbling on and on, and I can’t stop, although I wish I could. I watch Max and Franklin and the De Villierses watching me, pitying me, being freaked out by me, or maybe just trying to mentally erase me from their lives. I don’t know why I picked this moment to blurt out my entire pathetic family history. I’m sure Max doesn’t know, either. He looks more uncomfortable than I’ve ever seen him. Which is saying a lot.

And then somehow, Franklin saves the day. “Yeah, my cousin Phoebe was raised by a single mom, too. Yours sounds awesome from everything you’ve told me, Tess.” He turns to Mr. De Villiers. “And speaking of cars, sir, Max told me you just got a new Ferrari. Well, a new
old
Ferrari. 1956?”

“1957,” Mr. De Villiers says proudly. “A 250 GT California Spyder LWB. I’ve been dreaming about this particular model since I was barely older than you boys. Previous owner lives just outside Boston. In fact, Lucia and I are going to make a little detour and pick it up on our way home on Sunday.”

“
Must
we?” Mrs. De Villiers asks, scrunching up her face.
“I promised the Kennistons we’d attend their dinner party. It’s at seven.”

“Fine, you can drive back to the city without me. I’ll take the train into Boston. Max, you want to come with me and see the car? You’re welcome to join us too, Franklin,” Mr. De Villiers says.

“I’ll have to check my calendar. Coach might be adding an extra practice to prep for our match next week with Emerson,” Max says.

“Same here, sir. But thank you for the invitation,” Franklin adds.

The three of them continue talking about soccer games and vintage cars while Mrs. De Villiers quietly sips her drink. At one point, Franklin turns and smiles at me. I never told him a thing about my mom. But he just knew.

I mouth:
Thank you
.

Franklin mouths:
You’re welcome
.

I take a deep breath, feeling calmer than I’ve felt all night.

Until I notice Max glaring at the two of us.

T
HERE IS A BRIGHT FULL MOON IN THE SKY AS
M
AX WALKS ME
to Kerrith Hall. Which is good, since it gives me something to focus on while I fight back tears and wait for him to dump me.

He hasn’t said a word since we left the restaurant. His parents went back to their hotel, and Franklin went back to Chapin Hall. Mr. De Villiers gave me a hearty handshake and wished me “all the best.” Mrs. De Villiers said “nice to have met you” in a past-tense way that implied there would be no future dinners. And Franklin patted my arm and told me not to forget about Marilyn and Tony on Monday. It took me a minute to realize he was talking about the upcoming movie,
Some Like It Hot
.

But from Max? Nothing. We just walked toward Kerrith
like we did after the Corn Roast and our date at the dancing duck restaurant, except not speaking at all.

We pass the stone fountain, the library, Lanyon. The quad is more crowded than usual, with students and parents wandering around like tourists. Max stuffs his hands into his pockets and gazes out at the distance. I fill the uncomfortable silence with my own inner chatter, replaying the evening like an awful, but mesmerizing, car accident: the do-over, the do-over of the do-over, hobbling into the restaurant in Yoonie’s Cinderella shoes, practically falling on my butt at the De Villierses’ table, Mrs. De Villiers’s tidal wave of scorn and rejection, my failed Oprah moment as I spilled my broken-home sob story.

Mr. and Mrs. De Villiers are probably having their own postmortem recap session right this second:
What is Max thinking, dating a girl like that? Surely there’s someone more appropriate for him at Thorn Abbey. More like Becca Winters . . .

“Did I ever show you ‘The Eternal Spirit’?”

“I’m sorry. The what?” I’m so startled by Max’s out-of-the-blue question that my voice comes out in a squeak.

“Come on.”

Max takes my elbow and guides me off the main path, away from the busy quad. Pretty soon, we are alone on a narrow dirt trail that snakes behind Lanyon. We proceed single file. I don’t remember this from Devon’s unofficial tour.

The trail winds through a grove of hemlock trees. It’s dark back here except for the thin gauze of moonlight that filters through the branches. Something stirs in the underbrush and skitters away into the night. I jump back and give a little yelp. Max doesn’t seem to notice and plunges ahead, hands in his pockets, deep in thought.

And then, suddenly, we are in a small, mossy clearing. With two old-fashioned gravestones. And a marble statue of a young woman.

I gasp. Becca is buried
here
?

But why are there
two
gravestones?

“Um, Max? W-what is this place?” I stammer nervously. I don’t know why he would bring me here.

“This is where the Thorns are buried.”

“The Thorns?”

“You know. Augustus Thorn and his wife, Aurora. Thorn Abbey used to be their private estate ages ago, before it was a school.”

“Oh.” Relief courses through me. Max didn’t want to show me Becca’s burial ground after all. That would have been beyond horrible and creepy.

Max points to the statue. “That’s ‘The Eternal Spirit.’ It’s supposed to be Aurora. I guess she died when she was pretty young. He had it made in her honor by some famous sculptor.”

I take a few tentative steps toward the statue. Aurora Thorn is beautiful, with wavy hair cascading down to her waist and an angelic face. She’s wearing a long, lovely dress with a romantic, ruffly skirt and a rose tucked behind one ear. There is a ring of white rosebushes—real ones—planted around her feet.

The gravestone beside her is inscribed:

AURORA ELIZA THORN

1830–1858

Beloved wife

Flowers bloom and die

And bloom and die again.

Time may have taken you from me,

But our love is everlasting.

The gravestone next to hers is inscribed, simply:

AUGUSTUS FREDERICK THORN

1820–1879

I read the inscription on Aurora’s grave again. My heart plummets. Max is obviously trying to tell me something—about everlasting love, about Becca.

“I know why you brought me here,” I whisper.

“What?”

“You don’t want to see me anymore. You’re breaking up with me. And it’s okay. We can go back to being friends. I mean, that is, if you want to. Or we can just pretend we don’t even know each other.”

Max frowns. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, I get it. You still have feelings for—” I suck in a deep breath and clasp my hands to keep them from shaking. “Besides, I don’t fit into your world. I got that loud and clear tonight. Your mom hated me. Your dad probably hated me, too. I’m never, ever going to be the kind of girl they want you to be with. The kind of girl
you
want to be with.”

Max narrows his eyes at me. “Oh? What kind of girl do I want to be with?”

“The kind of girl who knows what to wear. Who knows how to act in fancy restaurants. Who doesn’t make a complete fool of herself when she meets your parents for the first time.”

“Are you
insane
?”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him. We’re standing so close that I can feel his breath on my face.

“Max, I—”

“Be quiet.”

The next thing I know, his lips are on mine, pressing, probing. A million shooting stars are fizzing and popping in my
brain. My legs feel as though they’re going to buckle out from under me. I’ve never been kissed like this. I will never be kissed like this again.

When we finally pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Okay what?” I gasp.

“I brought you here because I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Oh.”

“Seriously, I don’t know where you come up with these ideas about ‘my world.’ I like you
because
you don’t know what to wear. Or how to act in fancy restaurants. And my parents make everyone nervous. Especially my mom. My dad’s okay, but only after he’s had a couple of drinks.”

I’m still so dizzy from the kiss that I can barely process what he’s saying. “But you looked so miserable tonight. Like you were mad at me,” I manage.

“I wasn’t mad at you. Being with my parents stresses me out, that’s all. Plus you kind of caught me off guard with that outfit. It’s not like you.”

I run my hand across Priscilla’s black skirt, feeling the bumps where the safety pins are. “Devon and the girls thought I should dress up. You know, since I was meeting your parents,” I confess.

“Devon! I should have known.” Max’s face darkens. “If I
wanted to be with someone like her or her friends, I would. But I want to be with you. Do you understand?”

I stare at him in wonder. He wants to be with me.
Me.

“For a really smart girl, you can be really dense,” he says.

I grin. My heart is bursting with happiness. “Yeah, I know.”

He cradles my face in his hand and kisses me again—this time, more tenderly. A cold breeze comes up, and I nestle closer to him. He wraps his arms around me tightly. We stay like this for a long time, not moving.

Behind him, the statue of Aurora Thorn shimmers in the moonlight. And I finally relax. Max likes me for me. The dead are exactly that: dead. I don’t have anything to be afraid of anymore.