This was not a time to grill Thierry on why he and his boss, Philippe, had been so rough with Marcus, so Caroline took a look around the stables. She reviewed the lesson plans on the whiteboards: they’d use a dozen ponies this morning alone, and there’d be about two dozen horse and pony private lessons in the afternoon.
Checking that the grooms down the hall were occupied and that Thierry, the grooms, and Philippe were nowhere near, Caroline peeked into drawers and cabinets. She flipped through whatever ledgers she could find. There was nothing much out of the ordinary: only schedules, medications lists for the horses, time sheets for the grooms.
One thing caught her eye—the feed delivery schedules. All stables were closed on Mondays, the one day when grooms and trainers took a break. No one in a barn scheduled anything on Mondays. She saw the delivery calendar and noted the handwriting: European numbers, the 9 that looked like a lower case g; the long tail on the 1; the crossed 7; and the commas instead of decimal points. How come the deliveries had been written by a French person when nothing else was—not the lessons, not the schedules?
A groom walked by, that sweet Juan Andrés from Colombia, who always showed Caroline photos of his daughter back home. He’d managed the logistics and schedule at the old barn with Thierry. “Hey, Juanito,” she asked. “I have a question: What happens around here on Mondays?”
“We come in for an hour in the morning and another in the afternoon; the guards are here. Nothing else,” he said, swallowing hard.
“And deliveries? When do they happen? Who covers all that?”
“Well, Philippe, uh, does. He does all that.”
“Alone?” Caroline asked. “Do other barns get deliveries on Mondays?”
“Not one,” he answered forcefully this time. “I don’t know why, but he does it himself.”
Juanito looked uncomfortable, and Caroline didn’t want to put him on the spot. She’d ask Maryanne about the schedule in a few days, once she thought about it a little more, and come up with a good reason she might be asking. She’d call the trainer at the old barn, that sweet Jenna Westlake from Rose Patch. Caroline could say she wanted Gigi to do more work, and she could ask how they ran things there. Did head trainers usually get their hands into the feed and manure deliveries?
Chapter 23
The Pleasure Principle
Tuesday night, end of June
As Caroline drove down Route 27, she inspected her face in the rearview mirror at a stoplight. She was glad she hadn’t put on much makeup—she didn’t want to look as if she were on a first date. She drove through Bridgehampton, past the Candy Kitchen, an old-style coffee shop run by a lovely guy everyone knew named Gus. It was the one Hamptons spot where locals and summer people gathered in equal numbers, grabbing their morning coffee or bringing their kids for Gus’s famous homemade ice cream. Annabelle told her that grown women didn’t eat grilled cheese and fries. Caroline countered that her roundness was genetic; there wasn’t much she could do about it. She hated dieting more than she despised exercise.
Now, meeting Ryan for dinner, her look had to reflect a collected calm. She was going for a balance. She wore light jeans and a V-neck sweater that descended into her sizable cleavage when she leaned over.
“I’m getting things set here, got great burrata cheese from my favorite farm stand,” Ryan said over the speakerphone in the car. “And I do want to meet you at the beach first . . .”
His voice trailed off, and Caroline asked, “You okay?”
“Totally good. I’m getting ready while I’m talking, so I’m a little preoccupied, and I’ve got some fire drills I’m running at the station tomorrow so I was just working on them before I go.”
“You on the volunteer fireman force?” It made sense he would be connected to the community.
“Who isn’t? Yes, I run the drills. And I don’t want to be late for the beach. Six, right? You okay?”
“I’m fine, heading to a great sunset, couldn’t be better,” Caroline answered, anxious at the prospect of being seen with Ryan on a public beach. “You sure the beach is okay?”
“Hell yes, it’s a Tuesday,” he said. “No one’s at Indian Wells Beach. Just go to that log, I’ll meet you there as planned.”
There was a silence for a moment until both of them spoke at once:
She asked, “You meet that horrible client?”
And he asked, “Did you get a lot done on the sunroom today?”
Caroline realized she didn’t quite know what to say to him, so she said, “All good with you?”
“I’m feeling great,” he answered. “Like a great white shark!”
“A shark feels great?” Caroline asked.
“That was a joke,” Ryan said. “I’ll lay it out for you in person.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll see you at the beach.”
Caroline didn’t say what she was thinking: a great white shark? The joke didn’t really make sense. At the oyster bar, she’d noticed that Ryan was like that sometimes, a little goofy. Maybe it had been the vodka. At the barn party he’d been sharper, and exceptionally perceptive about the entitled jerks around them.
She and Annabelle had agreed that the word edgy was used too much these days to describe people and that it annoyed them both. But today, she was thinking, the term is apt. Ryan Miller was not edgy. Men could still be brave and bold without being edgy, but edgy was just a little more intriguing than normal.
And, of course, Eddie Clarkson had the edge of an atomic bomb, 24-7. He wanted to prove everybody wrong all the time, act crazy, clank up the stairs of a crappy beach hotel in a knight’s costume, for God’s sake. Joey had that same Energizer-bunny level of edginess—always wanting to have sex in store changing rooms, always wanting to make groups of people do things they were wary of, like jump in the ocean on a cold winter’s night or water-ski down the sand behind a truck on boogie boards—so if she had a type, maybe that was it. “The Great Instigator” was what she used to call Joey.
Caroline didn’t even like thinking something that entered her mind now, and would never tell anyone, even Annabelle. But it was true. No denying she was much prouder of Joey than Eddie, much more likely to show him off. She was happy to nestle up against Joey on the beach as he regaled the crowd with his stories, or she’d take a girlfriend to see the commissioned murals he had painted at the town basketball courts or at the childcare center, inspired by his favorite Latin American artists. She admired Eddie, for sure, but she also found herself apologizing for him, and she would never show off his stables or even talk much about his projects in the city.
As she sped toward East Hampton, passing the Seafood Shop in Sagaponack (a place that few knew also whipped up the best guacamole in Suffolk County), Caroline felt a kink in her neck. She took one hand off the wheel and tried to rub it out, but it didn’t go away. She pushed her head back, against the headrest, pressing against the leather as hard as she could to bring blood flow to that region. Turning her head did nothing. Maybe it was her body reminding her of the messy side of straying.
The beach would help. She parked her Jeep in one of the slanted slots at the top of the hill near Indian Wells Beach. Ryan was right: the beach was empty. Only one car was there, and an older couple laden with beach chairs and tote bags approached the lot, clearly on their way home.
Caroline took off her sandals by the entrance to the beach and, with a blanket that she always kept in the car over her shoulder, she sank into the luscious Long Island sand. As she did so, it poured around her feet and between her toes. She took big strides that brought more weight to each step, her feet buried, unearthed, and reburied with each one.
At that log, she laid out her blanket, planted her cup of iced tea in the sand, and reclined, her face warming in the waning sun. She balled her sweater up against the log to rest her neck. Ryan wouldn’t arrive for twenty minutes, and she fell in and out of a dream state.
His strong voice woke her. “You look beautiful when you sleep,” he sa
id, sitting down next to her, grabbing his shins with his arms. “I bet I’ll never get to watch you do that.”
She sat up and rubbed her cheeks, hoping to draw color into them. Turning to him, she said, “I mean, I don’t think we’ll be spending a night together, no. But . . . it’s good to see you, and, I’m, uh, excited to try your cooking.” That suggestion felt like a distant second for a couple who’d done what they’d done last week.
Brushing her hair from her face, Ryan didn’t tell her what he wanted to do right now, or that her eyes were spellbinding, bright blue against the azure of the ocean. “You okay?” he asked.
“I mean, I’m okay, in terms of, like, what we are doing,” Caroline said, sitting up now. She constructed small pyramids in the sand with her fingers that fell apart as fast as her conviction that all was okay. She felt her words were sounding forced, not cool. “I put your number in my phone contacts as ‘Robert Smith Upholsterer,’ so when I mean, if you call, or whatever, no one will suspect.” She had trouble looking Ryan in the eyes. She ached for him, she wanted to sleep with him again, but she worried about it. All of it. “I just, you know, never did this, and . . .”
“Remember, Caroline. We set the rules yesterday,” Ryan said, trying to comfort her. He placed his hand on hers. “Tuesday nights. We start early; we’re home by midnight. You get the sitter every Tuesday. Never see each other in between; no calls in between, except Tuesday mornings to plan. We are one hundred percent over by Labor Day. We are both in the same boat. You have nothing to worry about except having a great dinner with an old school friend. All good, Caroline. Don’t worry.” He leaned down and looked at her face. Holding her chin lightly with his fingers, he added, “All fun, all light, or it’s not worth it.”
She wanted to ask where his wife, Suzy, was this evening, but she decided against it. Dissecting Ryan’s marriage was not something that was advantageous to either of them. Still, she couldn’t help trying to put some pieces together. Ryan had told her that Suzy had fallen for one of her colleagues at Stonybrook, where she sometimes taught in the studio art department. It was about ten years ago when their kids were just starting kindergarten. He’d more than hinted that this was his payback as well.
“All will go really fine tonight,” Ryan said, craning his neck so she would have to face him.
“How do you know? I mean . . .” Caroline said before answering her own question. “I know everything’s fine.” She sounded idiotic. This was her choice, her life, her doing. She had to start channeling Annabelle.
“I can sense the worry in your voice, even Egyptian women having affairs don’t make pyramids in the sand—unless they’re trying to get their minds off their problems,” Ryan said. “Remember: I won’t let it not go okay. I promise you. That’s why I offered you a water bottle when you already had fifty in front of you back at that juice tent from the barn party.”
“Okay, thanks for saying that,” she said. She sat up straight, nodding a little. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders as the sun cast a long shadow across the beach.
“Let’s get to 364 Sandpiper Lane,” he said. “The client is in Europe for the month, and I’m the only one with the key. Remember what we agreed: we’re going to treat this like a present to each of us.” They walked to the parking lot, and he added, “No stress, no guilt, no strings. Just one summer affair. Either wants out, the other kisses goodbye with a smile. No tears or sadness. I’m not leaving Suzy; I love Suzy,” he said forcefully. “I hope I don’t hurt you by saying or underlining this or even talking about her. I just feel I need to, once more.”
After Ryan opened the door of the Jeep for her, she sat and turned to him through the open window. “It’s all good. I’m not upset or nervous,” she said. “It makes perfect sense to me too.” She liked Ryan’s values (though she conceded that cheating on one’s wife didn’t show sterling moral character, exactly) and how he said what he meant. Life was complicated, she decided, and good deeds weren’t always good, and bad deeds weren’t always so bad. “You’re a kind man, Ryan. You care for people’s homes, and you care for people too. I imagine your attention to detail in every renovation you do extends to all areas of your life.”
He looked down, a little embarrassed with the compliments. “Not sure everyone would agree.”
“I bet they do appreciate you, as I appreciate the burrata you got from the farm stand, too, and the way you gather provisions like a proper caveman, but I’m just saying some men are not caretakers. They don’t know how to be caretakers. They are fun and exciting, but when it comes down to it, they’re self-centered. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Ah, plenty of people around me think I’m a pain in the ass,” he joked.
Caroline knew she was right. It wasn’t her job to help Ryan understand that he was a good man. This was a contract, not a relationship.
A few hours later, a fire crackled before Caroline and Ryan in a home that was not theirs. Plates where tuna and tomatoes had once resided lay beside them. An empty wine bottle was upside down in a bucket half filled with water. He had said the tuna was Niçoise style, and he had smothered it in vegetables and a sweet olive sauce with ingredients she couldn’t quite decipher. He’d used a ton of ginger as well, along with some honey and orange juice. She wanted to lap up the sauce from her plate but decided it wasn’t so ladylike.
Ryan had brought a crunchy baguette from a bakery in Montauk, and a chunk remained in a basket. She wanted more of that too. He explained that he grilled the tuna with thyme butter and she had used the bread to, literally, clean her plate.
“I thought you said this was Niçoise tuna,” she said. “I’m confused. It’s filled with ginger. Don’t get me wrong—this is literally the best tuna I’ve ever had, but isn’t Niçoise meant to be with olives and tomatoes and olive oil?”
“Yeah. And also ginger, rice wine, honey, and mirin.”
“That’s not Niçoise,” she said, smiling.
“That’s what I call it.” He laughed and rolled on top of her. “I don’t really give a shit what it’s called because it’s good,” he said. “Delicious as fuck, as my teenager says. Like you. Fucking delicious.”
He placed her arms above her head and held them down. She kissed him hard. His breath tasted of roasted tomatoes, corn, ginger, olive oil, and white wine all swirled together. He pulled back, slowing the energy between them. There was time. Suzy thought he was in Bayshore with his friend Marty. Marty was primed not to answer his phone should Suzy call. Marty had been telling him for years to get Suzy back for that Stonybrook professor, so he could hardly contain himself with excitement that Ryan was partaking. No way would he pick up the phone.
Ryan then propped himself up by his elbow and traced her profile with his right index finger. She smiled, thinking of Joey, and how she used to do that to him. She was fine with thinking of Joey now; she didn’t owe Ryan anything more than honesty and kindness.
“Are you still hungry?” he asked. He dunked the last small crust of bread into the remaining marinade on his plate and added a corner of tomato and creamy burrata. He then knelt and placed the savory concoction in her mouth.
She closed her eyes. “Sweet, creamy, and tart—all in one,” she said. “Thanks, it tastes too good.”
“Sweet, creamy, and tart?” he repeated, kissing her, licking her lips lightly while she chewed. He placed his palm between her thighs. “Sounds like you.” He pressed his fingers on her. “Here. Fucking delicious.”
Caroline smiled, but didn’t respond. She worried when Ryan got a little romantic. She turned over onto her stomach, her chin resting in her hands. She considered what the rest of the night held and started thinking about what would go on later—much later—once fall came.
What would happen if she saw him in the Amagansett Farmers Market in November? They both went there for pies every weekend; they’d discussed it at dinner when she first bit into the baguette. He said he took his kids there every Saturday morning for berry muffins and
coffee, but that he went to Bridgehampton for better bread from Pierre’s. She didn’t tell him that her kids inhaled those same muffins when she brought them home on Saturdays and that she grilled them with butter.
“Lie there,” Ryan said, busing the plates to the small kitchenette. “You look beautiful. Don’t move.” Eddie had never once cleared the table on cue, let alone instructed her to sit still while he did so.
He kissed her forehead gently and fluffed the pillow under her elbows, grabbing more plates from the floor. Ryan Miller was a caring man, a comforting one. She’d have to tell Annabelle that it was a little fucked up to have thought about what a good husband he must be, right before she had sex with him.
But, like Annabelle often said, like all fucked-up things, they were just plain true and very human.
Caroline asked, “You sure you don’t need help?”
“I’ll be working here tomorrow. I’m the only one, so I’ll do the dishes then. I’ve got other plans for us.” Ryan said, stacking the dishes around the sink.
He came back, and lay next to her, tracing her hips with the back of his hand as she curled up onto her side. He kissed her stomach. She played a little coy and curled up tighter. He rolled her onto her back and pulled her shirt up so he could kiss her abdomen. This time, he traced the lines of her muscles slowly with his mouth. She adjusted herself several times to lay more comfortably and savor sex with someone new for the second time.
When he slowed down a little, she sat up and took his cheeks in the palms of her hands. He kissed her hard, pulling the back of her head toward him, getting as deep inside her mouth as he could. Caroline wondered if Suzy gave him enough attention, if she kissed him like she needed to now, if she needed him to touch her as badly as Caroline did.
“Let’s not do anything here,” Ryan said. He helped Caroline stand and then led her by the hand to the pristine guest bedroom of a family she’d never meet.
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