Beach Lane - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,15

Stepkids. Personal assistants. Affairs. It was too much for Mara. Had she walked into some whacked-out soap opera? She was still wondering how she was going to heat Madison’s food to only “100 degrees Fahrenheit so as not to spoil its natural essence.”

At sunset the three walked toward the pool, where the smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air. Packs of hamburger meat, hot dogs, and sesame buns were stacked next to an open, smoking grill. Finding no one around, the three girls sat around the table, which had been set for dinner with a white linen tablecloth, sterling silver cutlery, and porcelain plates.

“She said seven, right?” Eliza asked.

“Yeah,” Mara said, feeling a little apprehensive. Something was wrong here.

Jacqui got up. “Where do you think the wine is?” she asked, poking in the Igloo cooler she found near the pots of citronella candles.

Suddenly all four kids burst through the screen door, clamoring for food.

“Something smells,” William said, wrinkling his nose at the smoking fire pit.

“Is something burning?” Madison asked.

“I’m hungry,” Zoë said.

“Me too,” Eliza replied. What was going on? Where were the eats?

“Camille always made me a double cheeseburger,” Madison said. “With lots of onions and pickles,” she added hopefully.

“Who’s Camille?” Mara asked.

“She was here three days ago,” Madison said, playing with her napkin. “But she did a bad thing and had to go away.”

Just then Anna wafted by, humming to herself. She was wearing a grass skirt over her bikini and had put an orchid in her hair (which was still showing slight aftereffects of William’s water attack). “The invitation said Hula Couture,” she said with a laugh, walking out to the patio. “Isn’t this fun? I got Michael Kors to sew it up for me.”

Kevin followed, wearing a formal tuxedo jacket over his Hawaiian shirt.

“Is everyone having a lovely time?” Anna asked.

“No!” William roared. “There’s nothing to eat!”

“We’re hungry!” Madison whined.

“What?” Anna said, walking over to investigate. She found the three au pairs sitting at the table in front of empty plates. “Why isn’t anything ready? I distinctly remembered informing you we were having a barbecue tonight.”

“Oh!” Mara said.

They had assumed they were invited to the barbecue. None of them had realized they were supposed to be cooking it.

“You said to be here by seven,” Eliza said weakly.

There was a frosty silence as the misunderstanding sank in.

Anna frowned. “Huh. Well, Kevin and I have to get to the party in a few minutes, so I guess it doesn’t matter. You can take them to Main Beach afterward to see the fireworks.”

“No problem, we’ll get on it right away,” Mara said, standing by the grill and handing Jacqui a flipper.

“And remember the tuna for Madison,” Anna reminded them as she hoofed it out of the patio without saying good-bye to the kids.

“Mama! Mama! Cody wanna Mama!” the baby cried after her.

“Sh . . . shh . . .,” Mara said soothingly. “Mara’s here.”

But Cody continued to howl.

“This is bullsh—,” Eliza said, catching herself, as grease splattered on her skirt and Jacqui burned another patty.

Mara pried the tuna off the grill. She wondered if it was safe to feed it to Madison; didn’t fish need to be cooked? Mara decided to keep it where it was. Hopefully Anna wouldn’t find out she had broken the raw food rule on the first night. She’d have to remember to ask Madison who this Camille was and why she was sent away.

“Don’t they have a chef?” Mara asked. She had observed enough servants around the property.

“Uh-huh. Cordon Bleu. But he doesn’t do kiddie meals apparently. It’s probably below him.” Eliza shrugged. She was used to handling difficult help. Laurent, their former French chef, refused to cook anything other than five-star meals. He would throw a tantrum when her dad demanded a well-done steak. Her mother eventually had to replace him with someone more flexible.

“Hey, did anyone see the rest of the ahi?” Eliza asked.

“There’s just this itty piece,” Mara said.

Jacqui shrugged. She’d found a six-pack of beer underneath the soda cans and had helped herself to one. “Miller Lite?” she offered.

Eliza shook her head. She unwrapped all the waxed paper packages in a panic, but they all contained ground meat. Apparently Anna had decided not to waste the precious tuna on the likes of them.

The reality of her status finally sank in: she had been installed in an attic room instead of the corner bedroom. Fed burgers instead of tuna steak. She wasn’t a guest on the Perry estate. Eliza Thompson, former