“How about you?” she asks.
I shrug. “Aunt Lorelai wants to do a clam dig. Promised Granddad a game of chess on the porch later. Pretty exciting stuff …”
“Then you shouldn’t keep them waiting.” She opens her book, resting her fingers against the bound center. “Thanks for checking on me.”
I push myself to a standing position. “See you around.”
I don’t say “See you later” because she doesn’t need to be reminded that the next time we see each other, she’ll be serving me dinner. I want her to know she has a friend in me, that I don’t see her as some housemaid.
Growing up, my father has always instilled in me the importance of treating everyone like an equal. He grew up middle class, the son of a third-grade teacher and a city planner. And then he met my mom and was whisked into her world of privilege and opportunity, and he was determined not to let the spoils of the Bertram estate ruin me.
I won’t deny the perks that come with being in this family.
But I also won’t let them determine my fate.
Chapter 8
Lila
“You’ll need to set an extra place at the table today,” my grandma tells me as we prep Monday’s lunch. “We have a visitor.”
I grab a linen placemat from the drawer followed by two forks, a spoon, and a butter knife before locating an extra plate and water goblet. With full arms, I head out through the swinging doors and into the dining room where some of the family members are already filing in.
I’m almost done setting the extra place when I hear a squeal from another room.
“Lovey, would you mind grabbing the lavender napkins from the hall closet? We’ve been using the same old boring white ones since last week and I’m in the mood for a bit of color,” Thayer’s mother says.
“Of course.” I exit the dining room and make my way down to the linen closet in the hall, but on my way, I pass the parlor where Westley, Whitley, Thayer, and an unidentified girl stand in a circle chit-chatting.
The girl, whose back is to me, has long dark hair that stops in the middle of her back. She’s talking a mile a minute, her hands waving wildly as she rocks back and forth on her Chanel flats.
Thayer spots me from where he stands, and I glance away, trying to mind my own business. I locate the lavender napkins in the hall closet a minute later and bring them back to the dining room.
“Perfection, Lovey. Thank you,” Thayer’s mom says as I fold them into little tents and place them in the middle of each white plate.
The cousins and their special guest file into the dining room as soon as I’m finished with the last one, and I duck back into the kitchen.
“Oh, Lila. There you are,” Grandma says as she fills a glass pitcher with iced tea and mint leaves.
“They wanted lavender napkins,” I say to explain why it took me so long to come back.
“Grab something, will you?” she asks as she heads to the swinging doors.
I grab as many salad plates from the marble island as I can carry and follow.
The entire time I serve them, I feel the weight of Thayer’s stare, but I’ve yet to make eye contact with him. That girl, the squealer, is sitting between Thayer and Whitley. I don’t know yet if she’s a friend of Whitley’s or a girlfriend of Thayer’s.
I also don’t know why I’m letting it bother me, because it shouldn’t matter. It’s a moot point. And honestly, it’s none of my business.
The girl with the long dark hair is yapping away to Mr. Bertram and he’s in rare form—smiling—as he eats up her every word and laughs at everything she says.
We’re almost finished with cleanup an hour later when Gram tells me to head to The Caldecott.
“Prepare the guest suite on the third level in the turret,” she says. “The bed will need fresh linens, and make sure there are more than enough towels in the bathroom.”
I sneak out the back door of the kitchen and make my way next door to the twins’ house to prepare the guest room. The whole way there, I try to determine if they’re putting her up in The Caldecott because she’s a friend of Whitley’s or if they’re putting her over there because she’s Thayer’s girlfriend and it wouldn’t be “appropriate” to have them sleeping under the same roof. Knowing Bertram and his rules, the latter wouldn’t surprise me.
The house is quiet when I get inside, all except for the chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall and the roll and crash of ocean waves through dozens of open windows.
I stop at the linen closet on the second level before climbing another flight of stairs to the guest room in the turret.