It's Hot in the Hamptons

by Holly Peterson

“Follow me in your car,” he whispered. “Let’s discover together what the morning holds for us.”

  Annabelle put on her sunglasses and glared at him, “What the morning holds?”

  “I’m not playing games,” Philippe said. “I thought it more gentlemanly to offer you a tour of my work. My assistant can handle the next lessons. Follow me in your car. Trust me.” He nodded to her and added, “Don’t plan it out too much in your head. Just let me take charge of things for a little bit. I’ll give you plenty of say later. Plenty.”

  Annabelle swallowed hard. The girls were taken care of, and she could back out at any minute. This guy knew what he was doing with his body, he was a pro on the athletic field. She had been captain of the Dartmouth ski and tennis team. Athlete on athlete. She didn’t know how that would play out exactly, but it did figure in. “I’ll follow you in my car,” she said, grabbing her Kenyan straw bag with Maasai beading from Barney’s off the back of the chair. “I’ll see what I want to do when I get there.”

  When Philippe pulled his vintage orange Porsche into an empty lot in a back wooded area, he motioned out of his window for her to park her Maserati right there. It was as if he had done this dozens of times before. He walked up to her window and knocked on it.

  “I think it’s best from here if you get in my car, so your car isn’t parked in my driveway. And then I’ll bring you back here,” Philippe said. Annabelle nodded and got into his car.

  Once there, he shut the garage door behind them, and he led her to the back of his three-room home behind the train tracks in Bridgehampton. He opened his fridge and poured her a glass of wine from a bottle that he had opened days before.

  Even though the sand on the floors crunched under Annabelle’s sandals, she was charmed by the place. (At her estate, staff members swept sand up from the floor the moment the kids trekked it in from the beach.) The rumpled little cottage reminded her of her mother’s home—both tributes to curated discomfort and decay. Old-world Europeans with “de” preceding their last names, like Philippe, and hard-core American Protestants, like Annabelle’s mother, shared the same ethos of taste: value the old and shun the shiny and new. Inherited furniture held the most prominence, especially if it were torn or faded.

  She peeked into Philippe’s bedroom and noticed his lumpy mattress, the bed haphazardly made with antique quilts. Since she’d married Arthur, even after she took a nap, her bed was rewrapped like a party gift within the hour.

  She sat for a moment in Philippe’s old armchair, which was covered in pale blue Oxford cloth. Faded striped wallpaper lined the walls, and a worn Aubusson needlepoint rug with fraying threads on the edges was centered on the walnut floor. A slight breeze was blowing in from the window, and Philippe turned on the ceiling fan, which sucked the pale-yellow linen curtains into the room. Europeans and American WASPs also shared a dislike of air-conditioning.

  Annabelle sipped her wine, figuring she hadn’t had any alcohol this early in the morning since college. Though it had turned in the fridge and tasted a bit vinegary, it would loosen her up.

  When Philippe said, “Let’s skip the cheese and crackers for now,” she smiled. An image of herself from a family trip to Patagonia popped into her mind: she was standing at the top of a bridge in Torres del Paine National Park, strapped into a bungee jump harness, toes hanging off the edge, the churning waters five hundred yards below. Her husband, in yellow trousers, brown tasseled loafers, and a pressed shirt of the finest Italian linen, filmed the whole damn thing. Arthur didn’t even like to dive into a pool, he preferred to wade in, down the steps.

  Annabelle whispered, “This is between us, and just once. A soul will never . . .”

  Philippe walked over to her, took her glass from her hand, and placed it on the table. He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her softly. “You taste like honey,” he said, holding her hands to help her to her feet. He walked her gracefully up against the wallpaper, which, Annabelle noticed, was peeling a tad in the far corners of the ceiling. Before she could blink, he had unfastened her jeans, unzipped her, and slid his hand under the waistband to softly explore her. “A butterfly touch for now,” he whispered. Then he outlined her mouth with those same fingers and kissed her again. “Taste yourself,” he said, pressing her gently against the wall.

  When he glided his fingers back into her panties, she grabbed his hand to slow the whole thing down; she’d need a moment to figure out if she were indeed ready to take the infidelity plunge for the first time as a married woman.

  A daring descent down a double black diamond slope lay before her. Likewise, how different could it be from skiing off-piste in Austria over Christmas break: standing at the precipice, preparing mentally, concentrating, and having the confidence to launch herself off that steep edge?

  The more she thought about the opportunity to tell Philippe exactly how she liked what, the more turned on she became. Her stomach was tightening. It was like super service sex, delivered on a familiar Porthault breakfast tray in a room that didn’t feel one bit foreign.

  He grabbed her hard by the wrist, and led her like a prized filly to the bedroom. His slight limp made her wonder if her toned body might be able to pin him a little, holding him where she needed him. She liked the idea of telling him what she wanted, controlling him a bit, winning in her way, on her terms. This would be her version of on-demand, spoiled rich princess sex.

  On his bed now, Philippe guided her arms over her head and against his pillow, amused that this woman thought she’d be the boss. You could read women like this a mile away; all in charge, muscled like a racehorse, getting all hot by the idea of demanding this or that out loud. Ha! This would be fun. Philippe showed women like this what they wanted. They didn’t show him.

  He discarded her pale pink jeans on the floor and began to confidently prep her for what lay ahead. Stop, go, more, less, harder, softer . . . it was all about confusing a woman like Annabelle, the maestro playing her like an instrument. At one point, she begged him to let her finish, his fingers sliding like silk up and down and around as only a woman would do to herself. But then he’d stop and guide her to another crescendo, and another. His talent with both animals and women: reading them, knowing parts of them better than they knew themselves.

  Next, he lay on top of her, entering her slowly just at that peak millisecond when she wanted all of him. Timing was Philippe’s main asset; he knew to give himself to women just at that moment they went into another zone, and he could tell by the way they pulled him into them. Still, inside her, he lightly touched her again with the butterfly fluttering, so she had everything at once, forceful and gentle, hard and soft, too confusing between the pain of desire and pleasure of getting it attended to.

  Annabelle was right where he wanted her; not able to verbalize this or that, even though the silly girl planned to tell him all. He watched her eyes roll into her head, her arched-back neck constricting with veins like a thoroughbred beneath him, accepting of his mastery below to bring her to a state he was sure she’d never been.

  Using his strength, he held her elbows as she wriggled beneath him now. This allowed her, he knew well, to feel safe, but let her fantasize that she’d succumb and that he’d triumph in this clash.

  And, earlier, back against that wallpaper, though she had expected and hoped for the opposite, for some unexplored part of her, this is exactly what she was after.

  Chapter 28

  Family-Style Lunch

  In her driveway, Annabelle’s Maserati now idled at a higher pitch. Heat waves emanating from the hood triggered a fan that cooled the engine. Nestled inside the womb of the car, surrounded by warm, plush, tan leather, the outside world was still too hot and too harsh for Annabelle to open the door.

  She’d driven the twenty minutes home, her cheating virginity lost, and now relieved to be closer to her nice things. Yes, her couches were new, not family heirlooms, but they fluffed around her body, comforting every crevice. All she wanted to do now was sleep; i
t might help her to believe Philippe had been a dream. She wanted to inhale the lavender spray that Gisele spritzed on her pillows, and lie on the luxurious Hästens mattress that cost more than a very nice car.

  The itching on her right ankle was making her crazy. The swarms of mosquitoes in the crappy, woodsy neighborhoods of the Hamptons were thick this time of year. They’d buzzed in her ear the moment she walked through Philippe’s door. People who lived on the ocean knew the breeze blew all the insects and pests inland, toward the homes they’d never buy.

  She studied her face in the rearview mirror to see if Arthur would be able to detect anything. Even with the AC blowing, her cheeks remained red and shiny. There was no getting around it: Annabelle looked like she’d just gotten supremely laid. And yes, he had won the physical battle; she’d succumbed more than she’d planned, which was weirdly a turn-on. How did he know that?

  She stalled a little longer in the car, rubbing her hands together and cupping them to her nose; yes, the scent of sex was all over them. Philippe was a highly tuned lover, more than she ever imagined, but he was messy in bed. He wanted to taste everything, lick her entire body, mix their juices up and rub them all over her breasts and stomach and even her mouth. These fingers that would soon be wielding a soup spoon at lunch with her husband had just caressed another man’s cock, for God’s sakes. Why hadn’t she showered at his house?

  It wasn’t like her to shower before lunch unless she was changing out of tennis whites or had taken a dip in the sea. She was wearing her pink jeans and a caftan with no bra. Her wet panties were in her bag. Philippe told her to rinse off in the outside shower—the only one that worked at his house. “Really, it would be best,” he suggested more than once. This wasn’t his first time. He knew the women he’d bedded would be seeing their families afterward. The least they could do was wash up. But when Annabelle looked in his outdoor shower, the cobwebs and soap with dirt stuck to it on the filthy little ledge made her retreat.

  Annabelle watched the second hand on the clock embedded in the Maserati’s burl wood dashboard. Each tick heightened her nerves a notch. Given his vast experiences, Philippe must be discreet, right? He couldn’t keep traveling in his circle if he bragged about every conquest. Yet one slip in locker-room banter with some banker dad and she’d be discovered.

  Arthur could always spot the slippery men, the ones who looked like they’d be fired any day for cutting corners at work, or for harassment issues. Philippe, always the gentleman, but was he really? He swore he wouldn’t mention her. She prayed he meant it—he emphasized his sincerity by bringing her hands together and bowing to them.

  In the front seat of the Maserati, Annabelle brought her hands together again, placing them between her thighs. She’d been more excited with Philippe than she thought she would be, possibly wetter than she’d ever been with anyone. What exactly had gone on back there?! Thankfully, Arthur didn’t usually want sex in the middle of the day; he was more of a morning or evening man. After a shower, she’d be safe for at least eight hours. Maybe she’d take a bath. She needed something soothing; she was still pulsating a little, like a runner after a marathon.

  Annabelle focused on the house’s navy front door and its color. It was Caroline’s idea, and she was right; they’d ordered the painter to do it on a whim one day in early May without telling Arthur. Caroline saying, “Why not paint the door a brilliant navy, so it brings out the blue of the hydrangeas?” She thought the blue would remind everyone that the ocean was just beyond the back deck. She was right. Now, Annabelle stared at the brass lion’s head door knocker until it became blurry.

  Concentrating on the mundane allowed Annabelle to overlook the monumental. She felt different. It reminded her of the summer she lost her virginity to Morgan McFadden on the back corner of the grass tennis courts at Millshore Club. They’d peed together in the kiddie pool at the club when they were babies. In her teens, after four summers of obsessing over his deep brown eyes, the manly body that belied his seventeen years, and his puffy lips, Annabelle was determined to give him signs that he was to be the one. And one night, after a half hour of groping and grasping and yanking of clothes, she finally allowed Morgan to push himself inside her. It had changed her then just as she felt changed again now.

  When she told Caroline, she would explain to her how everything with Philippe had been so different from what she expected, as it had with Morgan. She recalled Philippe’s body on top of her, and how later, having mastered her completely, when he was lying on his side, sated and resting, he looked like a Rodin statue. Screwing someone other than your husband was a little fuck-you to the whole world, especially when they’d just delivered a championship performance for you.

  But then there was sweet, kind Arthur. He would be reading his market reports on the back deck about now, in his favorite Dedon swing lounger. He’d be stewing, wondering why she was late to lunch. The two younger girls had to be home from their playdate by now; maybe the two of them were in the pool. Maybe Rolf from the German Olympic diving team was there, the man Arthur felt was uniquely qualified to coach his daughters to swim better. Louisa, the reader, should be curled up on the deck by now with one of her father’s silly German fairy-tale books he’d saved from his childhood.

  Annabelle decided it best now to use her outdoor shower, by the pool, to wash off before heading inside. She loved the scratchy body wash from Bliss that she kept in the pool house shower; it removed every drop of sunscreen. A good scrubbing right now would reassure her that she could walk into the house with a straight face. Or maybe she’d walk to the side of the estate and jump in the pool—a baptism was certainly called for. Yes, the pool. The cool water would heal her body and mind. Maybe she could exhale fully, blow out all the oxygen, sink to the bottom, and meditate down there.

  Her plan was suddenly aborted when someone banged on the car window.

  “What on earth?”

  Annabelle was so startled that she hit her wrist on the steering wheel. It hurt. She grabbed it with her other hand and wondered if her husband had seen her hands between her legs, compressing the pulsing that still hadn’t stopped. Would he ask her why? Would he be turned on? He always asked her to touch herself, and she often obliged. Arthur never wanted sex in the middle of the day, but would he now? Jesus, would he taste Philippe on her if he went down on her? Why hadn’t she bought a dozen bottles of Summer’s Eve douche and handled it in the Starbucks bathroom on the way home like that wise Caroline had? What could be worse for a man than tasting another man on his wife? Her jeans were wet; was it from him or her? Or both? Annabelle’s heart was racing.

  Arthur opened the car door and held out his hand for his wife. She didn’t take it. She chose to sit another moment to consider her next move. Minutes earlier she had felt a little thrill of recklessness, but that rush was now sour.

  “Why are you sitting in a car when you know the girls and I are sitting at a table, napkins on our laps, not touching the crab soup that Hans made for us? The chilled soup is now room temperature. You know how I feel about that kind of disrespect of the chef’s work. You know how much he cares, my dear.”

  Annabelle nodded. “I know, honey. I was at SoulCycle,” she said. “I was just kind of hot and needed a moment to cool off and think.”

  “About what?”

  He knew.

  At least, she felt he knew.

  Still, she kept trying. “Then I went to Caroline’s, and she got me working on this wallpaper project with her,” she said. “I’m just so filthy, I have to go wash off before lunch.” Still, she didn’t move, and she didn’t respond when he asked her again to step out. She had to think. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

  “Think in an automobile?” he asked again. “Why on earth are you sitting in the Maserati so long?”

  He held out his hand, this time more gallantly, mimicking a footman helping a duchess out of her gilded coach.

  She delicately placed her foot on the gravel, turned, and gave her h
and to her husband for leverage. As she stood next to him, she was almost as tall as Arthur. He took both her hands and looked into her eyes. Neither husband nor wife spoke. As she tried to pull her hands away, he held her tighter. He pulled her hands to his face and inhaled deeply.

  Arthur nodded and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Be careful, darling,” he said softly. “Be very, very careful.”

  He walked away toward the back deck where his four, well-trained daughters were still waiting with their hands and napkins in their laps, the crab soup thickening before them.

  Before his wife followed, she brought her hands to her own face and inhaled just to see how painfully obvious this was. They smelled like a mixture of the stale, flour-like residue of a man and the metallic, salty taste of a woman: perfectly blended in rapturous union all over her fingers.

  Annabelle was indeed fucked: in more ways than one.

  Chapter 29

  Top 10 Reasons Apple Engineers Want You to Get Caught

  Two days later

  Annabelle drove her mint-green Mini Cooper convertible into Bridgehampton toward the exhale exercise studio. Arthur had surprised her with the car a few months earlier because, he said, it was cute and matched his favorite Valentino sundress of hers. After slamming the door, she realized she’d parked under a tree that might not have been a legal spot. But the shade would keep the car cool. She hated getting into a car that felt like a furnace during summer. A parking ticket, if she even got one, would be about eighty dollars. Her mother, the frugal WASP, was surely wagging her finger at her wherever she was.

  Move the car, dear. Don’t be a spoiled little snot face.

  After some hesitation, she left the Mini Cooper in the shade. As Annabelle walked down the sidewalk to meet Caroline, she thought about all those trips to Costco she used to make with the housekeeper. Arthur would point out to his new bride that whatever she had saved, he’d made that much in interest in the time it had taken him to point out how silly her trips to Costco had been. She should feel free to charge anything she desired at that swanky Upper East Side market.