Page 14 of The Party Plot

“Yes, just a friend. But part of me always wished they would get together. Maybe it would have been different.” She grimaced, continuing to scrub the sink. “She used to sparkle, that girl. Before Howie Bonard came along and sucked all the life out of her.”

“He’s running for congress. Or, no, his brother is, right?” The family were local royalty, the kind of old-money dirtbags that Casey tried to avoid. He hadn’t met Howie Bonard, only his brother, Wayon, who had reacted to Casey with over-friendliness and barely concealed disgust. As if he’d been afraid of the gay rubbing off, or of Casey hitting on him.Please. Some of us have actual taste.

Questionable taste, maybe, Casey reflected, considering Laurel. But taste nevertheless.

“Running for congress, running just about everything around here…” Miss Mina shrugged, trailing off.

Casey jumped as his phone buzzed again in his pocket, sending an electric shiver down his thigh. Jamie had texted back finally, sending him a comprehensive spreadsheet of all the places he’d been on his Instagram. There was also a message from the caterers at Landry Hall, with an updated estimate for the Halloween ball. The amount kept climbing, which was good news for him. He tucked the phone back into his pocket, concealing a satisfied smile.

“Do you think he’ll win?” Casey was planning to be out of town before November, so it didn’t matter. If he got the chance, he’d gladly leave the whole state of South Carolina—Hell, the whole country—and its rotten politics in the dust. Hopefully the increase in the catering bill would help with that.

“They always seem to, in that family.”

His stomach went a little sour. “What did Howie Bonard do to Melody?” Casey asked.

Miss Mina eyed him from across the counter. “You’re a smart kid, Casey. You know what men do to pretty girls.”

The glass felt too slippery in Casey’s hand all of a sudden, and he set it down. He shouldn’t be surprised. “So how is Laurel—”

“It’s none of my business.” Miss Mina turned away. “I need to get back to work. You’re sure you don’t want a lemon bar?”

“No, no,” Casey said, too many thoughts darting through his head. These poisonous little towns were all the same. He’d been in enough of them to know that everything had an ugly underside and everyone was all tangled up in each other’s drama, and the last thing he wanted was to get involved, or to start caring about any of it. The sooner he could get his money and get out of here, the better. “Thank you. But I should probably get back to work, too.” He had to re-memorize his backstory. Figure out how to get Laurel off his back. And look at mockups of a seafood tower that would never exist.

5.

The little town of Bonard was languishing in the heat, even though the sun had only been up for a few hours, sunlight smearing over the cobbles, steam rising from lawns and flower pots, wrought-iron lamp posts and fences and cemetery gates already hot to the touch. It was the kind of day that most men of means would spend golfing, or out on the water, but Laurel hated golf and didn’t own a boat, so here he was, lurking in the long slice of shade that the clocktower cast over the east side of Main Street, licking sweat off his upper lip and regretting the hot latte in his hand.

At this time of day, the town was barely awake, most shops still shuttered, a few cars meandering down the street in a daze. The only sounds were the drone of insects and the hiss of sprinklers, his only company the occasional seagull or squirrel. Normally, Laurel liked being up before everyone else. His frequent travels often left him between time zones, waking up at odd hours. The early morning always seemed like a little capsule of hope and possibility, before all the noise of reality came rushing in. A time to breathe, to feel refreshed.

He felt anything but refreshed this morning. He’d tossed and turned all night, sweaty despite the AC, achingly aware of the sheets caressing his bare skin. He’d had such a hard time figuring out where to put his hands. Thoughts of Casey had swirled around in his mind: Casey’s adorable little frown of annoyance at the polo match, Casey looking pressed and professional on his LinkedIn, Casey trailing his tongue down Laurel’s spine. Really, it was Casey’s fault he was downtown so early. He’d hoped to go to Landry Hall, to talk to the event coordinator there and learn more about the party. Over the phone, they had said they hadn’t received a deposit yet. Maybe Casey would be there too. Maybe—

Laurel let out a disgusted sigh, giving up on the latte and dumping it into a nearby trash can. He didn’t like feeling this way. He wasn’t obsessed; hewasn’t.He was doing this for Melody, right? It was the party that mattered, not the planner.

Laurel kept telling himself that as he started off down the street toward Landry Hall, past the milk-white colonnades of mansions that had been turned into art galleries and bed and breakfasts and trendy brunch spots, the old red-brick market building that still had faded feed and seed advertisements painted on the side, the little boutiques with quirky names, the multitude of churches and bars and the one New-Age store that had somehow been clinging on since the 90s, exhaling a cloud of patchouli into the air even now. Not much had changed since he’d been here last, but that was by design. The town got by on being a snapshot of better times—though who they’d been better for was debatable.

As Main crossed Third, the street curved out around the crescent-shaped park where the Bonard arch stood, made of vine-draped brick and looming over everything. It really wasn’t a terribly offensive structure, but Laurel was offended that someone had stuck a bunch of bright red signs for Wayon Bonard’s congressional campaign in the surrounding lawn. He was half-tempted to throw them away, or at least step on a couple of them, but he refrained. He was here for a purpose, after all. And he managed to stay single-minded until he saw a horse.

It was a horse that he recognized, and it was tethered to a carriage, pulling up mouthfuls of grass from the parking strip outside a coffee shop.

“Clementine!” Laurel exclaimed.

There was something joyful about seeing the old Clydesdale again, the sheer size of her, the weighty cinder block of her head and the way she stood there chewing nonchalantly, an immovable object taking up the entire sidewalk. Her chestnut coat was glossy despite her age, and the fur on her massive hooves made it look like she was wearing bell bottoms. As Laurel approached, she shot him a calm side-eye from beneath heavy lashes, then went back to demolishing the lawn. Her teeth and jaws were probably strong enough to grind up concrete.

“Hey, girl. Do you remember me?” Laurel petted her neck, smelling the sweet barnyard smell of her. She acknowledged him with a brief snuffle at his foot and shin, her rubbery lips grazing his skin and making him laugh. Her muscles were like steel cable under his hand, flexing as she moved. Her mane was long and white and rough as straw, and Laurel’s head just crested her shoulder.

Clementine was a fixture of downtown, and of weddings and parades and any other occasion that called for a carriage. Later today, she would probably be hauling tourists around on a historical tour, her slow, plodding steps echoing down the street. Right now, it seemed like she was off the clock.

“Mr. Petrowski left you out here on your own, huh?” Laurel scratched the warm, velvety expanse of her flank. “He must be getting coffee.”

Sure enough, the door to the coffee shop opened with a jingle of bells, and Stephen Petrowski stepped out, holding the door for someone behind him.

“Laurel!” Mr. Petrowski cried, in his rich, plummy voice. He was a part-time drama teacher at the high school, as well as running his own tour company and owning a horse stable out by the beach. And, according to Melody, he also moonlighted at several drag clubs in Charleston as a queen named Toptimus Prime. Laurel wondered how awkward it would be to turn up at one of his shows. “Well, well, what a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Looking over his shoulder, Laurel saw whowewas. Casey had followed Mr. Petrowski out of the door, looking as cool and pristine as the unadulterated iced coffee in his hand. Laurel suddenly regretted not washing his hair that morning. He was achingly aware of the oiliness of his scalp, the sweaty collar of his shirt.

“It’s good to see you again,” Mr. Petrowski said, clapping him on the shoulder. Turning to Casey, he added, “Laurel was my favorite student.Sucha voice. The pipes on this kid, I swear.”

“Oh yeah?” Casey looked unimpressed. “The lead in every school play, huh?”

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