When they arrived at the auditorium, the line to the entrance stretched around the block, all the way to the village green. The sidewalk was littered with tents, pillows, plastic chairs, sleeping bags, illegal charcoal grills, and assorted garbage, since some people had camped out the previous evening. Apart from stopping by the UN, this was the only public stop the Dalai Lama was making in the country, and people had traveled from all over the eastern seaboard to see him.
"What's that smell?" Jackson asked, crinkling his nose as they hurried past the Porta Potties the town had hastily set up to accommodate all the pilgrims.
"Don't ask," Mara said grimly as she hustled them to the front of the line.
Only a handful of tickets had been made available to the
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public, and all had sold out in a matter of minutes, but the mood was oddly cheerful and politely cooperative for the Hamptons, where scowls were regularly exchanged at Citarella over the last slice of Scottish lox. Since the holy man was a guest of the Southampton Cultural Board, where Suzy was a trustee, the kids had received VIP tickets. Mara scissored her way expertly through the crowd, waving their laminated passes over their heads, the kids clutching their prayer beads.
Many of the town's wealthy denizens were dressed in orange prayer robes accessorized with Blahnik slides and Verdura earrings, mingling with the friendly Tibetan monks. The festive air was similar to that of a fashion show, with a lot of air-kissing and josding over seats. Mara noticed that a good number of sleek scenesters were carrying elaborate floral bouquets, overstuffed picnic baskets from the Barefoot Contessa filled with imported truffles and handmade brownies, or beautifully wrapped boxes from Tiffany and Christofle.
"What's up with all the gift baskets?" Mara asked Lucky Yap, whom she spotted snapping photos of socialites demurely bending over their prayer wheels.
"Ritual offerings," Lucky explained over the click of his camera. "The uninitiated can make sacrifices to move up in rank. Food, flowers, or water--symbolized by bowls. Hence the run on crystal bowls at Tiffany. They're all gone."
"Gotcha." Mara smiled, bemused. The Dalai Lama probably didn't care if the offerings were from the supermarket or the gourmet store, but the Hamptons crowd certainly wouldn't
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dream of making a donation that was less than what could be found in their own, utterly gourmet kitchens.
After a quick goodbye, Mara found their seats up front, and the kids quietly settled in. She marveled again at how well behaved the children were being. Violet was already chanting her fifth mantra, while Jackson and Logan were intently studying the geometric mandalas they'd found on their seats. Cassidy was lulled to sleep by the low hum of the crowd. Only Wyatt was wriggling in his seat, already bored to death.
The lights dimmed, and the head of the organizing committee welcomed the Dalai Lama to the Hamptons amid an explosion of applause. Mara clapped heartily along with everyone else. The holy man walked slowly to the middle of the stage and climbed on a generously proportioned armchair that had been provided for him, which allowed him to sit with his legs crossed underneath his body.
During the hour-long lecture, the crowd was rapturously silent. Not even an errant cell phone ring or BlackBerry buzz or the sound of gratuitous sniffling broke the spell of the Dalai Lama as he spoke of compassion, kindness, and gentleness.
Mara listened intently, surprisingly moved by his wisdom. The kids were even quieter than usual when the speech was over until Wyatt tugged on her sleeve.
"What's individual reponsi . . . responti--" Wyatt scrunched up his face in frustration at being unable to pronounce the word.
"Individual responsibility?" Logan interrupted. "It means we
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can choose to be happy by helping others and the world. You know how you always hog the remote? You shouldn't do that anymore."
"Er ... right." Mara nodded, although she didn't know if that truly counted as "helping others." Still, if Logan could get Wyatt to stop hogging the remote, it would mean a lot less individual responsibility for her. But maybe that wasn't a very charitable thought.
The kids wanted to get their prayer books signed, so they joined the group congregating around the Dalai Lama for an autograph.
"That was just so . . . inspiring!" the blonde ahead of them was gushing. "I'm so glad I gave everyone donations to Tibet instead of Christmas gifts this year!"
Mara craned her neck to see who had been the Christmas Goody-Goody Grinch. That was the title her family had quickly given her older sister Megan one year, when she decided to "give" everyone notes saying that she had "donated to their favorite charity"--in the amount of five measly bucks each--instead of adding to the gaily wrapped presents under the tree. She wasn't surprised to discover she knew this particular Goody-Goody Grinch: it was Tinker, in all her blond and perky glory. She was chatting with a bunch of bald monks, her prayer beads jauntily wrapped around one arm, her orange robes styled into a sexy one-shoulder dress.
"Oh, hiii," she said, her voice practically tinkling as she spotted Mara. "Wasn't that amazing? I can't believe we were actually in the presence of the Dalai Lama!" She beamed at Mara with
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positive, radiant energy, her bright blue eyes looking like they might just jump out of her face.
"It was really great," Mara agreed reluctantly. She wasn't a fan of trendy religions, but given that Buddhism had been around for thousands of years, she supposed it wasn't exactly trendy.
"It just makes me want to go out there and change the world . . . starting with myself," Tinker said quietly. "You know what I mean?"
"I guess." Mara nodded, not quite sure if she felt that heroic but unwillingly charmed by Tinker's exuberance. It seemed Tinker had joined their group as they moved up the line, and as they made their way toward the exit, the silence between them became slightly awkward. "So, um . . . what would you change?" Mara asked, not sure if the question was too personal but curious to find out what the beyond-perfect Tinker might say.
"Well. . . ," Tinker began, "I know this is so ridiculously shallow, but I've gained, like, five pounds because Ryan insists on grilling everything with butter, and I totally don't fit in any of my clothes anymore." Tinker blushed furiously as she fiddled with her prayer beads, clearly feeling as self-conscious as Mara had the other day in her tiny tanga. "And it's not just about appearance, it's that I've always been such an athletic person, and I sort of hate not recognizing myself, if that makes sense."
Huh. Mara cast a sideways glance at Tinker's moving form. She certainly looked as slim as always. But then again, Mara didn't notice those things too much. Maybe Tinker wasn't completely perfect after all.
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"Oh! Is that one of your kids? He's climbed up on the stage," Tinker cried worriedly, interrupting Mara's thoughts.
Mara whipped her head around and spotted Wyatt climbing up onto the stage, attempting to get to the chair the Dalai Lama had sat in. "Wyatt! Get down from there!" Mara ordered, nervous about accident-prone Wyatt falling off the stage and getting seriously hurt. She'd been so distracted by Tinker she hadn't been giving the kids her full attention.
"Don't worry, I've got him," Tinker said, making her way to the stage in a few sprightly steps. She wrapped Wyatt in a big hug as she plucked him off the stage, and he seemed to be quite pleased with his rescuer. "They're a lot of work, aren't they?" She sighed sympathetically, ushering the five-year-old toward his nanny. "I used to babysit my cousins, but there were only two of them--I don't know how you do it!"
Mara thanked her for her help and did a quick head count to make sure all the Finnemores were indeed alive and with all their limbs intact. Wyatt was squirming in her arms, Violet was asking a monk if women could join the monastery, the twins were debating Tibetan versus Japanese Buddhism behind her, and the baby was gurgling happily in his stroller.
"So when did you become Buddhist?" Tinker asked, once they finally reached the front of the auditorium.
"I'm not," Mara explained. "But the kids are."
"Well, it's nice that you're so open to it."
"Yeah, I guess." Mara shrugged.
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Tinker played with her beads as they shuffled forward. "Actually, Mara, I'm glad I bumped into you." Her smile faltered a bit and she looked slightly nervous. "I've been wanting to tell you something, but it's sort of a weird thing to say and I wasn't sure how to bring it up. ..."
"Oh?" Mara pretended to fiddle with the baby's stroller, hoping her burning curiosity wasn't completely obvious.
"I just want you to know that nothing ever happened between Ryan and me when you guys were together," Tinker said earnestly, still playing anxiously with her prayer beads. "It's an awkward thing to talk about, but I just . . . wanted you to know that. We were always just friends. We didn't even get together till the spring semester."
"You don't have to tell me anything--it's none of my business," Mara said bluntly.
"Oh, I know, but I know what I would think if I was in your place, and I just wanted to make sure there wasn't that kind of tension between us," Tinker explained, looking worried. She placed a light hand on Mara's arm.
"Okay. Thanks." Mara nodded. That really was nice of Tinker.
"We should all hang out sometime," Tinker suggested. "I'll call you."
"Sure." Mara had never really liked Tinker, but all her stubborn animosity was starting to fade. It was just too hard to hate someone who was so darn nice. Especially after the Dalai Lama's speech. Could it be that the road to inner peace began with making peace with your ex's new girlfriend?
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A PICTURE'S WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS
ELIZA RUSHED ACROSS THE PATIO OUTSIDE JLX BISTRO, tottering on her heels as she balanced two large garment bags and a rolling suitcase. "There's my girl," Jeremy said to the maitre d' as he spotted her. He smiled tightly. "Better late than never."
"I'm sooo sorry." Eliza was slightly out of breath as she made her way into the restaurant. "The shoot ran longer than we thought. Did they give away our table?" she asked worriedly, craning her neck and peering into the restaurant's depths as if she might be able to spot the evil table stealers themselves. She handed over her baggage to the hostess.
"No, madame, right this way," the Frenchman said curtly, collecting two leather-bound menus and leading the couple briskly through the restaurant.
"Did you get my text?" Eliza whispered, grabbing Jeremy's hand and giving it an apologetic squeeze as they tried to keep up with the fast-walking server. She'd let him know she'd be five
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minutes late, but in reality it'd been more like a half hour, once again counting on "Hamptons" time.
The server stopped so quickly that Eliza almost plowed into him. They had been led to a private table with a view of the ocean. Eliza paused for a moment, waiting for Jeremy to pull out her chair for her the way he usually did, and then seated herself.
"Yeah, I got it," Jeremy said tersely as he plopped down into his chair.
"I'm so sorry," Eliza repeated, knowing that Jeremy had all the reason in the world to be upset, since this wasn't an unusual occurrence--her lateness had become a bad, and predictable, habit of late. She couldn't help it; the store and the various shoots took up so much of her time. The other night she'd almost stood him up at the movies, arriving just in time before the previews ended, and last week she had completely forgotten they had made plans for brunch and had left him stranded at Babette's alone.
"Don't worry about it," Jeremy said softly, finally relenting and giving her a small smile. He reached for her hand across the table and stroked it, then stopped. "Hey, where's your ring?"
Eliza looked at her ringless finger and panicked for a second, then remembered she'd taken it off herself. "I took it off because I didn't want it to fall off while we did that shoot on the boat," she explained. Jacqui had taken the kids water-skiing while she and the Easton brothers had rented a boat and followed her out on the water.
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"Oh, right." Jeremy nodded, but it was obvious its absence bothered him. Neither of them wanted to say what they were thinking--that the shoot had been three days ago.
The server returned and took their orders. Eliza was momentarily relieved by the interruption, but as soon as they were alone again, she knew it was her turn to speak.
"Jer . . . about the ring," she began. She had been meaning to have this conversation since he'd given it to her, but it never seemed to be the right time. They'd hardly seen each other in the past month, what with her busy schedule and his workaholic tendencies. Eliza slept over at his apartment a few nights a week, but he was busy renovating the Greyson house and often worked well into the evening, and she was out the door early to open the store while he was still sleeping. When they did see each other, it was in bed, and they were both too tired to do anything but cuddle.
"Is it too big? Is that why you were worried it might fall off? Because we can get it fitted," he said helpfully, reaching for a roll from the bread basket and slathering it with butter.
"No ... it's .. ." She looked out over the ocean, where the sun was setting. The colors bled orange, red, and crimson all over the dark water. She would never get tired of looking at the sunset. It was postcard-ready romance, but Eliza had never been one for cheesy Hallmark moments. She just loved anything that was beautiful.
"Then what is it? Did I get something wrong? I thought it was what you wanted. Princess cut. Neil Lane. Colorless." He looked up from his roll, his face awash with concern.
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Eliza's heart melted. God, he really was such a sweetheart. "No, it's perfect." She sighed. Maybe she could just postpone the conversation for another time. Besides, she still didn't know exactly what she wanted to say. What was the difference between a promise and an engagement ring, anyway? He was perfect, they were perfect together, and the ring was ... well, it was the ring she'd always wanted. She took a sip of her wine and relaxed into her chair.
Jeremy grinned and gave the saltshaker a little push across the table. Whenever they were at a restaurant, they liked to play air hockey with the salt- and pepper shakers, pushing them across the table and seeing who could get theirs to slide closest to the edge. It was a silly gesture, but it meant Jeremy was in a better mood.
She smiled back at him and playfully pushed the salt back in his direction. She opened her mouth to speak, but they were momentarily blinded by the flash of a camera. She blinked to find a young reporter with a tape recorder standing in front of them.
"Hi, I'm from the Hampton Daily; sorry to interrupt. Can we get one with the two of you leaning closer together?"
Eliza looked apologetically at Jeremy, who nodded, clearing his throat to hide his annoyance with the interruption. "Sure," she told the reporter, and arranged her face into a serene smile. She was glad she'd had her hair blown out that day so it hung perfectly straight down her back, setting off her new black silk ruffled Phillip Lim shirt and Prada cigarette pants (she couldn't
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wear her brand all the time) and that Jeremy looked handsome in the pale blue Thomas Pink oxford she'd bought him.
Jeremy excused himself to the restroom, though Eliza was sure he just wanted to avoid having his picture taken anymore. She knew Jeremy didn't like how the press was so obsessed with their engagement--mashing their names together to create some kind of Frankenstein romance monster, with numerous breathless articles about the upcoming nuptials--which they had yet to really talk about.
But it was a slow news summer in the Hamptons. Chauncey Raven had finally put on underwear and had settled down to raise her two children rather than raise hell at a nightclub. Everyone was already used to the gaudy monstrosity of the Reynolds Castle, and Garrett Reynolds himself had been keeping something of a low profile while his new house was being built. There was no one to write about except for the Greyson heir and his pretty designer fiancee, whose clothes had become the de facto Hamptons uniform.
&nbs
p; "So, can you tell us about the proposal?" the reporter asked Eliza once they were alone, his thumb resting gamely on the red record button as if it were a trigger.
The proposal? Was there even one? Too deep into her little charade with the press to go back, Eliza thought quickly. "It was magical," she said breathlessly. "We were standing in a gazebo at sunset, with a view of the ocean, when Jeremy went down on his
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knees and read a poem he'd written for me." Okay, so neither detail was technically true, but the reporters demanded a story and Eliza knew the more Harlequin it sounded, the better it was for publicity. "I was wearing my spaghetti-strap column dress, which you can find at the boutique!" she added. Why not milk it? In Eliza's mind, she was wearing a Holly-rock--a Hollywood-style ring whose only purpose was to show the world one was loved enough to be gifted with major bling.
Their food arrived just as Jeremy returned to the table. Eliza beamed at him, trying not to feel too guilty about embellishing a few details. She had a flair for the dramatic, and she knew the public would be so disappointed when they heard he'd just put the ring on her finger without even saying or asking anything. What kind of proposal was that, anyway? Eliza vacillated between being thankful it was a non-proposal proposal--the kind she secretly thought was the most understatedly romantic--and worrying that it wasn't shout-at-the-top-of-your-lungs romantic enough to share with the world. Or, more specifically, to share with the press and her adoring public.
"Can you tell us about the poem you wrote?" the reporter asked, turning to Jeremy and shoving the tape recorder toward his face.
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