Everything but the Truth Page 3

“Oh.” I glance over my mom. Her hair is sticking up at odd angles, her makeup is looking a little melty, and she’s pretty much perspiring through her shirt. “Uh, something wrong?”

  She sighs, blowing her bangs off her forehead. “It’s only his second day here, but I can tell he’s not impressed. I should have known about the flowers.”

  “I’m sure it’s not a big deal,” I say. “They’re pretty. It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “I’m not so sure thoughts matter very much to Charles Buchannan.”

  My jaw drops, and Alex whistles.

  “The Charles Buchannan?” she asks.

  My mom nods, her smile grim. “He just moved into the vacant penthouse suite.”

  I raise a brow. My mom’s been talking nonstop about finding someone to rent the Watergate Suite since we moved in here. One month’s rent could probably buy me a very nice car, which is why my mom has been sure that filling the unit would impress Mrs. Weaver, and, in turn, impress the bigwigs who swing by periodically for inspections. I’m not totally clear on how it works, but I think they’re the ones who matter—they own what my mom calls a portfolio of retirement homes, and if she can get on their good side, she’s golden.

  “Why would a guy like him move here? If he needs assistance, he could hire two dozen personal assistants and chefs and nurses and stuff and just stay at home.”

  “His daughter set it up,” she says, straightening the files. “She’s worried about him becoming too withdrawn. She said he was halfway to becoming the next Howard Hughes, and she hopes an environment like Sunrise House will force him to socialize. Maybe take part in some of our scheduled excursions—you know, get out and about. I kind of promised if she could get him here that I’d take care of the rest. All I could get out of her was a ninety-day lease, so I’ve gotta figure out something soon.”

  “Oh,” I say, racking my brains for everything I know about Charles Buchannan, but all I come up with is: dark-skinned; gray-haired; a mole on his right cheek; and obscenely, filthy rich. His place is across the bridge from here, to the east—toward Bellevue. He owns the largest estate on Lake Washington, after Bill Gates. I read an article once that said he bought three of his neighbors’ houses and bulldozed them so he’d have more room for his gardens.

  His company is growing so fast, some people think it could overtake Amazon as the biggest online retailer. Except there’s one key difference: Buchannan sells only American-made products. Even the paper they use for shipping slips is from timber harvested by American timber companies. The man has made a bajillion dollars and he smells like roses, because he’s single-handedly revived a bunch of different companies and even whole towns, like Aberdeen, a town on the Pacific Ocean a couple of hours away. It was slowly turning into a ghost town, once their lumber mill went out of business. Charles Buchannan selected Aberdeen to supply the pulp for his shipping boxes, and now their economy is booming again.

  “Apparently, ever since he retired as CEO of Buchannan Industries two years ago, he’s been a real hermit. She said he hasn’t left his house in six months. I made all those promises thinking she’d never get him here. It sounded like a pipe dream.”

  “But he actually agreed to her plan?” I ask. “To move in, I mean.”

  She shrugs. “He’s here, isn’t he? But likely not for long if I don’t go over all these files again. I should have known about his allergies. Two minutes on Google and I found it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to Google your residents,” I say. There are other people who handle the residents’ day-to-day needs. “Your job is just to get them here, right? You were welcoming him, being friendly. It was a nice gesture.”

  “He’s not just any resident. He expects the best. And I convinced his daughter this place was the answer to her worries. If he leaves because of me . . .”

  Her voice trails off and she sighs deeply, rubbing her eyes. “Plus, he knows I convinced her to send him here. He pretty much hates me.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve seen her this worried. Watching her stand in the middle of the room but be mentally somewhere else slams me back into all the places we’ve been, all the jobs she’s had, all the sacrifices she made to get here.

  My mom has less than three months left of her six-month probationary period for this job, and then she can finally relax. I’ll be able to go to Washington State University, like I always wanted to, and she’ll be able to help me with my tuition.

  If she loses this job, it’ll kill her, and I can kiss WSU good-bye. It’ll be community college and student loans.

  We both need her to keep this job.

  “They’re really pretty, though,” I say, reaching out and running my thumb over a silky petal. “If he weren’t allergic, he would have loved them, I bet.” I pick up the vase again and sniff. It’s a gorgeous bouquet of white and blue hydrangeas, the perfect choice for a guy’s room.

  “Can I have them for my desk?” I ask.

  “Sure, take them. I’m going to freshen up and then study this paperwork,” she says, and disappears into her room. I hear her start up the shower in her master bathroom.

  I turn to head to my room, and I’m halfway there when I glance over at Alex, who is busy typing something into Google. Just as I’m about to pass the screen, a matrix of images comes up.

  I’m so startled that I nearly drop the flowers and have to dive to catch them before they hit the hardwood. Water from the vase splashes over my arms, but I hardly take my eyes off the monitor as Alex clicks one of the images and it expands, filling the screen.

  It’s Malik, in a suit and tie. It’s some kind of red carpet event or something, because there’s a black-and-white background with the words American Music Awards splashed across it. Malik’s standing there, his broad shoulders perfectly squared, with that same smirk I saw earlier—the one that says he owns the world and he knows it.

  “What—how did you do that?” I ask, climbing back to my feet and setting the vase on the desk next to the computer.

  “When your mom said Buchannan, something clicked.” Alex turns to me, her hair half up and half down, a smug grin on her face. “Malik Buchannan. Grandson of the third richest man in America.”

  I turn back to the screen. I blink again and again, waiting for the image to change, but it doesn’t.

  It’s him.

  “You’re right about one thing,” she says, her finger tracing along the lapel of his crisp black suit jacket.

  “What?” I ask, ripping my gaze from the screen to look at her again.

  “He probably shops in Paris.”

  An hour later I’m sitting on my bed, listening to the click-click-click of the keys on my laptop as Alex pulls up another article on the New Yorker’s Web site. The sound echoes through my room. I know my space isn’t as big as most of the rental units upstairs, but it’s the first time in a few years that I haven’t needed to share a room with my mom.

  My room is clean, large, and bright. It came with the queen-size bed I am currently sprawled across, including the antique-white, four-poster frame. There’s a matching dresser and a desk I used to study for finals. Above us, the ceilings are twelve feet tall, with recessed lights that highlight the deep-pile, crème-colored carpet on the floor. A month after we moved in, my mom even replaced my ratty, twin-size comforter with a thick, poufy purple one.

  Seriously, it’s perfect.

  “I don’t know if I believe this one about Selena Gomez. They were probably just at the same event or something. Wasn’t she with Justin Bieber back then?”

  “Does it matter? Selena, Vanessa, Emma Watson . . . He dates the Who’s Who of Hollywood. I mean, god, he did say he knows impressive people. I just didn’t realize he meant that impressive.”

  “So?”

  “So . . .” I say, drawing out the words. How can she not see the problem here? “I don’t stand a chance. I sew my own clothes and I geek out over furniture.”

  She twists around in her chair. “But he sounds lik
e he was into you. I mean, I thought you said he was flirting.”

  “I don’t know. It was kind of hard to tell if he was flirting or making fun of me. You know, like ‘hahaha, let’s play with the peasant girl.’ I mean, I didn’t tell him I was poor, but it’s not like he couldn’t see my clothes and figure it out. And god, you should’ve seen me. I looked like a newborn robot. Herky-jerky and awkward.”

  She rubs her lips together for a moment, as if considering the idea. “Before you knew he was disgustingly rich, did it seem like flirting?”

  I try to remember everything he said to me, every smile and glance. “Yeah. But maybe kind of like he would flirt with anyone. Like it’s a sport.”

  “Okay. So then we need to get you in front of him again. Preferably with me there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s hot and wealthy and you totally need to marry him someday, but you are, like, really bad at this,” she says, laughter in her voice. “So I’m going to help you.”

  Without looking, I grab the pillow off my bed and hurl it at her.

  “Hey! I was kidding. Sort of. Okay, maybe not really. I mean, you suck at flirting with boys. Even I know that.”

  “I do not.”

  “You have dated precisely one boy, Hunter, and he was really adorable but dumb as rocks. This guy is hot and rich and basically everything you could want in your life. Yeah, you’ll need backup.”

  “You’re being shallow.”

  “And you’re being dishonest with yourself. You know you want him. I mean, look at this guy. He’s the whole package. Besides, if you’re not going to make it happen . . .”

  “Oh, whatever.”

  “Just think of the secluded, private mansion he probably lives in. You could check out his . . .” Her voice trails off and she wiggles her eyebrows. “. . . Antiques.”

  I laugh. “I am neither marrying him nor admiring his antiques.”

  “Fine,” she says, closing out the Web browser. “Then what do you want to do with our day?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Four.”

  “Already? I was going to work for a couple more hours.”

  “Ugh, really?” she asks, her lip curling up.

  “I know it’s not technically a paid gig, but they always tip me for the personalized service. That stuff adds up. I made forty bucks just yesterday. I mean, how else am I going to pay for college?”

  Alex plays with the tendril of hair I left out of her fancy updo. “Why do you do that?”

  I sit up. “Do what?”

  She laughs. “Spend all your free time with some old people you’re not even related to. There are better ways to earn a buck.”

  “First of all, they like me. Henrietta even bought me a birthday present. I mean, it wasn’t actually my birthday; it was Lucy’s,” I say, making air quotes. “But still. It was sweet.”

  “She thinks you’re someone you’re not.”

  “You know I can’t change that.” I roll off my bed, climbing to my feet. “And I’m not hanging out with them anyway. All I do is bring them a few meals or grab their mail or walk their dogs, and they tip me like crazy. And they know there are actual employees for this stuff, but the staff doesn’t mind. The residents like that I take my time to get to know them and make a little bit of small talk. I know it’s ridiculous. But I don’t even care because I like getting to know them too. Besides, I have, like, seven hundred dollars saved already, and I only started doing this last month.”

  “Oh, well,” she says. “If you weren’t busy, I was going to invite you to EMP with me and Rena. They have a new exhibit on Britney Spears.”

  Something painful hits me square in the chest. The Experience Music Project. A crazy, wonky-shaped building next to the Space Needle. We’ve talked about going to EMP off and on forever. I mean, Rena is our friend too—well, mostly Alex’s from school—but we were supposed to plan our visit together. Instead of pointing that out, though, I simply say, “Okay, have fun. Text me some pictures or something. Supposedly they have the hair she shaved off when she went crazy.”

  She fist-bumps me on her way out the door, and then I’m alone again. I drag myself off my bed and go to the kitchen and grab a handful of Skittles from the funky crystal bowl on the counter. Another perk of the apartment. I’m afraid to ask where it came from, how much it cost. It’ll probably turn out to be some ridiculous designer bowl worth two hundred dollars or something, and here I poured Skittles into it.

  I chew them slowly, staring out across our apartment. I still remember the moment we walked in, after my mom found out she had the job and she got the keys, and I took in the floral couch; the built-in maple bookcases; the brand-new, sparkling-clean carpets; the granite-topped kitchen table with four shiny new chairs, all with matching floral seat cushions.

  It’s the most full apartment I’ve ever lived in, without a scrap of shabby, broken-down furniture. We’re not going to lose it. Not if I can help it.

  I grab another handful of Skittles, then drag my butt out of our apartment.

  I head to the front desk first, where a twentysomething blonde sits, leaned over a notebook, the phone pressed to her ear. She glances up and smiles at me, mouthing, One minute.

  I lean on the counter, waiting as she finishes scribbling something down.

  “Hey, Julia,” I say when she hangs up the phone. “Any requests today?”

  “Um, yeah,” she says, flipping back a couple of pages in the notebook. She knows I’m not an actual employee, but she still takes notes for me. Probably because anything I do is one less thing for the paid staff. I mean, I’m sure she knows I accept tips, but since I’m not an employee, there’s no rule against it. The employees can’t take the cash. It’s part of the handbook or something.

  “Four-oh-five called almost an hour ago. She was hoping you’d take her dog out.”

  Henrietta. She’s got a little bichon frise with fluffy white fur. I kind of adore the silly thing.

  “Cool,” I say. “Thanks.” I leave the front lobby behind and head to the elevator, punching the number four, the level for the penthouse suites.

  When the elevator arrives, I step off into the hall, rounding the bend.

  I find Henrietta kneeling half out of her open door in front of an overturned pot, a handful of soil in her hands.

  “What happened?” I ask, rushing over and dropping to my knees beside her. She barely gets around with her walker—she should not be kneeling in the hall.

  “I was going to go down and watch a movie in the theater, and I tripped,” she says. “On my welcome mat.”

  “Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”

  “I’m fine, I think,” she says.

  “Let’s get you up. You can sit on the bench and I’ll fix the plant.” I gently pull her to her feet. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I lean down, dusting a few pieces of soil off her beautiful rose-colored slacks. Luckily, they look like they survived the encounter okay. They probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

  “I think so. Just a short tumble,” she says, laughing at her own joke.

  I grin. Henrietta is less than five feet tall, and she’s got a great sense of humor about it. It’s kind of taught me to embrace my own five-foot-one status with a little more grace. “Well, it looks like your clothes are okay too. Let me just—”

  “Lucy,” a voice calls out.

  I spin around to see Malik striding down the hall, and I instantly wonder how I ever thought he was a mere mortal like me. He’s wearing a tailored blazer that hugs his frame and a button-down shirt left open at the collar, over the most glorious blue jeans I’ve ever seen. He belongs on a billboard for Swiss watches or men’s cologne or something.

  “Malik,” I say, and instantly, my cheeks burn fire-hot. Ugh, this guy is so heart-stoppingly gorgeous I can’t even say one word without blushing.

  “I wondered if I’d see you again,” he says, the words slipping out easily, like I could be one of a h
undred girls he probably hopes to see on a daily basis.

  He stops in front of me and flashes that red-carpet smile I’d seen on my computer. The one he used when he looked at Selena Gomez or Emma Watson.

  “Yeah, I mean, I’m here all the time.” I dart a look at Henrietta, who is watching the exchange with bright eyes.

  “My Lucy visits me every day,” she says.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say, turning away from Malik and swallowing the words I need to say.

  I need to tell him who I am—not Lucy, but Holly, just some nobody who lives in a retirement home. But I can’t do it in front of Henrietta, unless I want her to burst into tears.

  I drop back to my knees and try to adjust the poor little fern that got dumped onto the floor. It’s totally askew and has lost half of its dirt. I pick up the first handful of soil, and then Malik is beside me, grabbing fistfuls of dirt and dropping them into the pot, and I feel the sudden urge to fill the silence.

  “It’s a good thing I got here,” I whisper, just low enough so that Henrietta won’t hear.

  “Why?”

  “Because pot kills,” I joke.

  Malik snorts, and it turns into an awkward, adorable chuckle.

  When I drop another handful into the pot, our hands brush, and it’s like a bolt of electricity.

  And I know he feels it because he looks up to meet my eyes just as I search for his, and for almost a breath we remain absolutely still. I swear if Henrietta weren’t staring at us, he’d kiss me. Instead, I’m the first to turn away.

  “I think that’s the most we can get with our hands.” I climb to my feet. “I’ll go find a vacuum.”

  “Don’t they have staff for that?” he asks, standing beside me.

  “Uh, what?” I ask.

  “Staff. Maids or whatever. Just call them,” he says, waving his hand in the air, like it’s the easiest, most obvious choice, something he’s used to doing. Just . . . calling people to take care of things.

  I’m suddenly, acutely aware of our differences in class and in upbringing. He assumes my family has the tens of thousands of dollars per month needed to stay at a place like this. Just like his grandfather.