It's Hot in the Hamptons

by Holly Peterson

  A housekeeper appeared in a tan staff uniform with a tan lace demi-apron. She offered to help Caroline in any way she could, putting her hands out to take something . . . anything. A short, awkward moment ensued when Caroline handed the woman her purse, then drew it back.

  “Sorry . . . I don’t mean I don’t trust you with it. I just want to keep it actually.”

  With nothing else to do, the woman then opened her palm to guide Caroline from the marble foyer into the living area, as if Caroline were being escorted to an audience with Cleopatra.

  The housekeeper’s short white socks were stitched with tan lace that matched her apron. On her head, she had a little lace paper hat, like a nanny in a Disney cartoon. Many rich New York women like Linda insisted that their staff wear proper uniforms for day, night, and for different seasons—gray or tan in summer and darker colors during colder months. The staff was a projection of the employer’s wealth and stature. Caroline smiled to herself upon seeing this woman in costume; when she first moved to the Upper East Side, she noted two types of couples made their staff dress in strict uniforms: American aristocrats whose ancestors actually hobnobbed with the Astors and Rockefellers, or those fakers desperate to project an old-world image.

  Through the baronial front hallway, rich red fabrics and bright jewel-toned heavy rugs and curtains adorned the rooms. Linda’s aesthetic reminded Caroline of the 1980s television series Dallas, the dark wood paneling completely out of place in East Hampton.

  Caroline so wished Ryan were here. They had talked about how important it was to match homes with the Long Island environment of sand, water, salt, and brush. In her own design jobs, she steered clients toward floors the color of driftwood and white-washed furniture, or toward a more Bohemian look, with vintage blankets on the back of rattan loungers. Though it wasn’t her style, she loved Annabelle’s fancier home, done in light paisleys and summer stripes that made sense alongside the white wicker furniture she’d inherited from her preppy family.

  “Tell me how crazy those big design jobs can be,” Ryan had said, pouring her more wine.

  “You’re really interested in this stuff?”

  “Very,” he had answered. “I only see the quaint, restored homes; I rarely go into McMansions out here.” Ryan sometimes reminded her of Joey. Both men got her going on silly topics, which made her excited just to be with them. Ryan added, “I think it’s almost impossible, no matter how much style you have, to make an enormous house really chic. I’d die to go with you to a thirty-million-dollar design disaster.”

  Caroline agreed. The two were speaking an East Hampton local dialect; it was shared by those who didn’t get snookered into projecting a bullshit impression of who they really were. This was the reason she’d fought Eddie so hard to keep their reasonably sized house near Bluff Road where she’d grown up. Ryan was entirely on her wavelength. “There are so many cool possibilities to make a beach house work. But, in the end, the product should fit the client and nature—not what the lady of the house hopes will make her appear richest as fuckest.”

  She wished there was a way to show Ryan this craven Cockburn palace. The rug had hexagon patterns of gold and maroon, while the couches were covered in a brocade in varying shades of royal blue, forest green, and deep red. The coffee tables were made of shiny metal and glass as if in some high-rise condo, and on top were expensive art books that were no doubt purchased by the designer’s intern. The walls, covered in bookcases, held leather-bound volumes, their spines uncracked. All of it was dictated by someone other than the people who lived here.

  As she entered the main room, women stood in clusters. Caroline hadn’t gotten the memo that crisp pants and a silk blouse were a no-go at this lunch. All of the attendees, many of whom clocked in at about twenty pounds under anorexic, wore designer sundresses (most were Dolce & Gabbana) that showed off their rail-thin figures, maintained with a combination of rigorous exercise and CoolSculpting. In her decade in Manhattan, Caroline also became a plastic surgery expert, knowing there were two kinds of above-the-neck interventions. Some faces, the skin so stretched back, looked as if they were in front of a wind tunnel, and this meant full-on facelift. Others, the skin shiny with Botox, the cheeks plump (always unevenly so), more like a chipmunk who had run into a tree, had gone for injections and filler.

  Caroline tried to appear occupied as she looked around, but she couldn’t find Annabelle. Being surrounded by women who would rather choke on their fourth radish of the day than talk to her left Caroline with one destination: the gold powder room. She texted Annabelle from inside:

  Where the hell are you?

  Annabelle told her she was outside on the back deck. Caroline found her surrounded by a small cluster of mothers from the all-girls Spence School, munching on a piece of raw salmon rolled in a thin cucumber ribbon. One of them said, “Can you believe the new chef at school used to work in the White House?”

  In a whisper, Caroline said in Annabelle’s ear, “This was worse than I had imagined: trapped at a trunk show.”

  Annabelle put her arm warmly around Caroline and walked away from the cackling hens around her. “I do owe you, I recognize that.”

  “These women treat me like I’m the gardener or a tutor or something,” Caroline said. “Besides, the lemon yellow and chartreuse dresses drifting around these rooms lined in jewel tones are giving me vertigo. You owe me.”

  “Well, then make yourself useful,” Annabelle said. “Go shop and pretend to be excited to try on oodles of new shoes, none as nice as yours!” She ushered Caroline in the direction of the Marvelous Mykonos stand as if she were pushing a child to say thank you to her grandma.

  In the sales corner of the room, several women were trying on belts, sandals, scarves, and blouses. Caroline didn’t want new clothes. She never much liked beaded anything. The least expensive belt was $850, and the least expensive sandal was $450. Eddie wouldn’t care what she paid, but she didn’t like anything at all. The women around her didn’t say hello; they smiled at her as if they’d just smelled cat poop.

  Recognizing fresh prey, Linda homed in on Caroline. “This stuff is sooo good, isn’t it?”

  Caroline raised an eyebrow and said, “Fabulous.”

  Linda checked out Caroline’s bland pant and blouse outfit and thought, This woman can’t help herself, poor thing. But then, Linda saw her shoes: “Wait a minute . . . are those . . . not the actual zebra.”

  “Yes, Gucci.” Caroline kept it cool and picked up a pair of sandals she’d never wear.

  “And how did you . . .” Linda said, confused. “I mean, what list were you on?”

  “I don’t know,” Caroline said. “Just, I guess Barney’s and the Gucci flagship store kept me in mind for their 2019 resort collection.”

  Linda cleared her throat and put her hands on her hips. “Honey, resort comes after fall, end of the year, not in May when you had to have gotten those.”

  “I just meant . . .”

  “And no one calls the Fifty-Sixth Street Gucci masterpiece ‘the flagship store.’ That’s for H&M, or maybe Uniqlo.” Linda Cockburn snorted. “Clearly, Annabelle got them for you.” She grabbed navy beaded sandals and spoke to Caroline like she was explaining 2 + 2 = 4 to a nursery school student. “Honey, these sandals will look incredible with those, uh, white, uh, slacks.”

  “I’m good, Linda. I’m going to figure it all out on my own,” Caroline said and smiled. “It’s more fun for me that way.”

  “Apparently!” Linda huffed. Then she turned to educate another pupil. Of course, she returned three minutes later to see if she could nudge Caroline along, and perhaps loosen up her wallet a bit too. “So . . . your decisions are?”

  Caroline stared back at Linda and cocked her head to the side. Linda continued, “No pressure at all, but, hey, you didn’t grow up in Manhattan, we all know that! And, well, being raised in, well, out here, I imagine you grew up with a different aesthetic, right? How about one belt and one pair of sandals in every color?
” Linda snorted loudly, pleased with her clever observations. “Then it’ll be like those Garanimals outfits some kids used to wear: you won’t even have to think about getting dressed and looking good!”

  Chapter 39

  Barn Blockbuster

  Same Thursday afternoon

  Gigi called just as Caroline was driving her car through the front gate of Sea Crest Stables. “Don’t come yet, Mom.”

  “Honey, I’m here already. We said four-thirty.”

  “I want ten more minutes to hose off the horses. Please?” Gigi pleaded. “Rosie is helping, and I want to too. Her uncle said I could.”

  “If you have more work to do, that’s fine,” Caroline said. “You don’t have to make excuses to take care of the horses. You need like twenty minutes? Or more?”

  “Can I have more?”

  “Well, how about I come find you in thirty minutes, and we’ll see where you are? I’ll read in the sun a little.”

  As Caroline walked down a manicured grass lane between show rings, she saw Annabelle’s Maserati parked in a corner far from the main entrance. Caroline walked in that direction and waved.

  Annabelle turned around quickly, then gave up, knowing that Caroline had seen her. She took a breath before marching resolutely toward her friend.

  “Hey,” Annabelle said. “Thanks for coming to the trunk show. You know you’ll wear that belt you got a few times.” They walked over to a wooden rail fence that penned in a horse cantering around by itself, with no other horses nearby.

  “No, I won’t,” Caroline said. “I won’t ever wear it, and you know that. So, why are you . . . here?” Caroline asked. “It’s not like you to leave an event you’re hosting early.”

  “It’s fun to see the animals happy,” Annabelle said. “I worry about them in the stables all the time.”

  “You ever notice that you never see two horses in the same turnout area?” Caroline said, resting her elbows on the top of the three-tier fence and tugging the brim of her hat down to shield her eyes.

  “When the horses run around freely with no saddle or bridles they can hurt each other if they’re in the same ring,” Annabelle said. “They know this is their time for free play. It’s like recess. So they get a little extra fresh and excited, and they have to be protected from each other.”

  “Well that makes sense,” Caroline said. “Of course, what do I know? I’m half-scared of horses anyway.”

  “I’m going to go check on mine in a minute,” Annabelle said, fluffing her hair and shaking it out as if she were readying herself for a photo shoot. “I haven’t seen my baby, Seaside, in days.”

  “You’re not prettying yourself up for a horse, Annabelle.”

  Annabelle reached into her bag, put on some gloss, and smacked her lips a little. Then, she checked that her shell earrings were on snugly.

  “Yes, make sure those aren’t going anywhere,” Caroline said. “I mean, I know you said you were done with Philippe. But you never know when you might change your mind, do you? And you could lose an earring with all that wrestling in the sheets. And those look expensive.”

  “Philippe and I remain civil and friendly. He’s training my daughters, for God’s sakes. But, if you must know, I’m meeting someone else: a father who has a daughter who rides here. Thaddeus Bradley: he’s blond, a charmer, and I used to roll around with him on the grass courts of the Millshore Club growing up.”

  “You trust a guy names Thaddeus, who comes from parents who would choose that name?” Caroline asked, waving at Gigi and Rosie, who were leading Scooby-Doo and Sauerkraut into separate paddocks fifty yards away. Though Gigi was wearing rubber boots, she was caked in mud up to her thighs.

  “Thaddeus gets around, but he’s one of those gentlemanly preppies who knows to keep his mouth shut. I’m sure plenty of the women at my club have slept with him, and he’s never told a soul.” Annabelle put on her sun hat and fished around in her bag for her sunglasses. The horse in the ring sauntered over, expecting a treat from her bag. She patted his nose and said, “Sorry, baby. No carrots.”

  “And where will you go with this Thaddeus?” Caroline asked.

  “A little inn.”

  “Walking through the lobby of a cute little inn in the Hamptons isn’t smart. There will be people there—people who know you.”

  “He suggested the Southampton Bay View Motel,” Annabelle said.

  “The what?”

  Annabelle nodded. “Way down on that highway back behind the Southampton movie theater, near the Hampton Maid breakfast spot. It’s practically another country.”

  “You’ll survive in a motel?”

  Annabelle snorted. “His house has a lot of Brazilian help, and we both agree they probably know my help,” she said. “Stop worrying, I got this.”

  “Okay,” Caroline said. “But before you take the mulligan with a preppy guy . . .”

  “Not some random preppy. He’s a lawyer, a good one.” Annabelle said with authority. “He’s a spectacular piece of ass, always has been. I can just tell he’s great in bed. His girlfriend caught us on the court in high school, so it didn’t go further way back when, but it was hot back then, and will be more today because we’ve been flirting now for twenty years since. But if we’re objectifying men, well, we might as well use them fully, until their benefits have ceased to be benefits.”

  “I get that. They might as well be good in bed,” Caroline said. Why not let her friend off the hook? They were in this together.

  Caroline wrapped a sweatshirt over her shoulders and asked Annabelle, “Should we get going? I have to get my kid, and you’ve got your new clubby guy. He’s probably all excited he’s landed a fellow WASP aristocrat. Maybe you’re not the only one doing the objectifying.”

  “Thaddeus’s not one to kiss and tell,” said Annabelle. “And it wasn’t only on the grass courts. I blew him once at the Andover–Exeter game. We laugh about it now.”

  “And you don’t think half his Andover class knows that?” Caroline said. “You think he doesn’t talk about you now? You think men ever stop being boys?”

  “I’m doing it once more now, because I’m just in the mood,” Annabelle said, flinging her bag over her shoulder. “And it could well be the last time I stray.”

  “Don’t talk like your life is over because today might be the last time you sleep with some preppy guy,” Caroline said, jabbing her with her elbow softly as they walked toward the barn. “You could do that every week for the rest of your life given your power and popularity at that club. We vowed to protect each other.”

  “Whoa,” Annabelle stopped and faced Caroline. “Don’t pretend that what you’re doing isn’t a whole other level of unsafe.”

  “Agreed,” Caroline whispered, making sure no one was within earshot. “My choosing a married man was reckless in its way too, I know.”

  “So what are you going to do, Little Miss Schoolmarm who’s trying to protect me? What if Ryan’s wife finds out or, worse, if Ryan falls in love with you?” Annabelle was trying to reason with Caroline, but it sounded like she was reprimanding her. “Then you’ve got big, serious stuff to deal with. I’ve just fooled around with an experienced playboy.” She put two fingers in the air and leaned in. “Deux, if I’m lucky! You’re the one playing with fire.”

  Caroline shook her head. “You’re wrong. Ryan’s got an amazing character.”

  “Oh, really?” Annabelle said.

  “Really. Ryan and I have a lovely deal going. It’s hot, for sure, but it’s also very neat. And there’s a clear ending.”

  Sex with Ryan was becoming more than a transaction, but Caroline wasn’t going to admit that to Annabelle. The prospect of ending her arrangement with Ryan by the end of summer was tugging at Caroline’s heart. It was August. The corn across the island was taller now, husks popping out in all directions—autumn was coming.

  “You got a Labor Day deadline with him?” Annabelle asked. “Did you agree on an expiration date?”

  Car
oline nodded and scrunched up her lips, smiling.

  “You’re full of it, I can tell,” Annabelle said. “It’s not all neat.”

  “I mean, it’s not an actual expiration date. Maybe we let it slide into September? Early September is still summer.”

  Annabelle put her arm around her friend and said, “Ryan would look good in a turtleneck, but you just can’t.”

  The women walked in silence around the back of the barns. As they did, a delivery truck, leaving the compound, stopped at the back gate and idled. The driver turned and saw Caroline. Then he put a Yankees cap on, slouched a bit, and put the truck in reverse.

  His eyes hadn’t betrayed him out on the bay on the Boston Whaler that day. She was even more beautiful now. She was paying no attention to him. How could he not take another look at her now?

  “Annabelle, have fun,” Caroline said. “I’ve got to find the girls, and you’ve got to, you know, have that last naughty lay of your adult life.”

  Caroline went stall to stall looking for her daughter. Instead, she found Thierry, polishing up Gigi’s trunk. “Thank you so much, Thierry,” she said. “But honestly I’d prefer if you let her do that.”

  Thierry stood suddenly. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “I’m not the boss, Thierry. You don’t need to be so worried.” Caroline placed her hand on his shoulder. She wondered what Eddie had done to him to make him so skittish. “I don’t care at all how you run the barn. It’s just, as Gigi’s mom, I want her taking care of her own stuff. I’m sure you want the same for Rosie.”

  “I do, of course. I’m so sorry.” Thierry kicked the side of the trunk a few times with his foot.

  “Is there a problem with the trunk?” Caroline asked.

  “Nope, just an edge here.”

  “Should I . . .”