June by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore Page A

Cassie’s conviction waver; she knew what Nick would think when he saw her: not a grown-up. But why should she care? Did she care? Why did she care? She wished she had time to go back upstairs, change into something better. No, that was caring, wasn’t it? Not caring was standing here, wearing whatever she wanted. Wasn’t it? Should she disappear back into the house, and let them wait by the front door, let them ring? She wasn’t sure she could handle that horrible sound again.
    Before she had a chance to decide, the people emerged around the edge of the front porch and looked up at her, one, two, three.
    Nick, with a smug smile on his face, as though he’d accomplished something grand.
    A lean, blond girl of about Cassie’s age, who squinted first and then flashed a winning, white smile.
    And Tate Montgomery.
    Good god, yes, Tate Montgomery in the flesh, removing her glasses and cap, climbing the steps, getting closer and closer like she had stepped out of some ridiculous Technicolor movie where she was larger than life and a chorus of strings swelled at the sight of her. But this was not a movie at all. It just kept going.
    Tate Montgomery’s eyes were the color of the Atlantic on a sunny day. She held out her hand. “I’m Tate,” she said. Her voice was liquid. Her grip was strong.

New York had taught Cassie to be cool around famous people. There was Susan Sarandon, that one time in Union Square, and that opening Cassie’d worked at Alexander Pyke when the cast of
Girls
showed up to support someone’s husband, and that afternoon Jeff Bridges popped in to buy his wife a painting. Jim, the Pyke girls, and New Yorkers in general played it cool around famous people. It was an easy pose to adopt: the hooded, brief glance at someone whose work happened to put them on the big screen and pay them obscene amounts of money, followed by a feigned disavowal of caring.
    But as Cassie clasped Tate Montgomery’s baby-soft hand, she heard herself babbling. “Wow. You’re really Tate Montgomery! I’m Cassandra. Cassie. You should call me Cassie. Hi. Nice to meet you. So nice to meet you. Hi.”
    “Can I…?”
    Cassie realized what Tate was asking only after she felt herself pulled into a hug by America’s Sweetheart. Cassie’s lungs were filled with the sweet smell of honeysuckle as her eyelids fluttered shut. Cassie’s heart became a hummingbird. She hadn’t allowed herself to fully luxuriate in what it would mean to be a Montgomery until this moment. Her aunt would be this woman—this perfect, rich, ultrafamous woman. And Cassie would be rich too, rich beyond any measure—away would float all her anxieties about keeping the house, about what to do with the rest of her life. Not to mention she’d be able to buy herself clothing woven from the fairy fabric with which Tate’s white shirt was apparently made, which was softer and lighter than the white fuzz that spun aloft through St. Jude yards on summer afternoons.
    The movie star pulled back. Her small hands fell upon Cassie’s shoulders. Her eyes glistened. Tears? Joy? Up close, her beauty was exquisite, something Cassie had never noticed on the big screen, where a goddess apparently passed for a perfect average. The woman’s skin glowed with either a flawless tan or the illusion of it. Not a golden strand of long hair was out of place. And the parts of her that Cassie had always seen as round on-screen were actually angular. She was muscular, lean, and didn’t stand over five foot five; Cassie felt like a towering beast above her in her size ten jeans and large T-shirt.
    Tate turned to Nick. That smile had graced a million photographs. “You didn’t tell me she was so pretty.”
    Nick flashed Cassie a careful look. “Good afternoon.”
    “I see you’re back,” Cassie uttered, trying to ignore the wincing disappointment that he hadn’t told Tate she was pretty. No, she thought, no, shut up, you don’t care.
    “I hope we didn’t wake you,” he said.