by Laura Dave
“I picked up the camp’s call before I heard your message. Do you know what that was like for me? I thought that maybe you guys had an accident. I thought you flaked. I didn’t know what had happened.”
“So you had a really rough five seconds?”
“Do you think this is funny?”
“No, I’m sorry, Rain. I thought it would be fun to do a field trip today as opposed to just sitting around the house.”
“Why on earth do you think you get to decide where to take my kid?”
“You let her skip camp.”
“I let her! Not you,” she said. “You don’t get to make those decisions.”
“Rain, she didn’t want to go. And, I’m telling you, she had a great day. She read and got some air, ate some nachos. There’s nothing to be upset about. She had a blast.”
She turned and stormed into the house, slamming the door behind her. “So now you’re the expert on my kid?”
I swung the door open, followed her inside. “I’m helping you with her. How about saying thank you?”
“Please, I could have gotten a college kid to drive Sammy to camp the day after Thomas’s accident,” she said. “Everyone knows who’s helping who here.”
She looked away, which was when I realized why she was so angry. She didn’t want Sammy having a great day. Not with me. It didn’t matter—the day we spent together, the pregnancy. Rain didn’t want Sammy having anything to do with me.
“This was just a mistake, okay?” she said. “I want you to pack your bags and leave.”
“No.”
She shook her head. “No?”
That was right. I wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe it was the pregnancy, maybe it was the trauma. Maybe it was what Ethan had said about me and the peaches and getting honest. But I wanted to stay where I was. At least until I knew where I needed to go.
Rain laughed, bitterly. “What are you even doing here? I mean, really. It’s certainly not to reconnect with us.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Bullshit.”
I looked up toward Sammy’s loft. “Would you keep your voice down?”
Rain ignored me, kept talking loudly. “So what is the play? Getting Chef Z’s approval and using it to reinvent yourself in one way or another, right?”
“And what if it is? You think I should just take this all lying down? Amber stole everything I worked hard for. And, I know, you don’t think it was legitimate work, but I worked hard for it,” I said. “Not that that’s something you’d understand.”
“I don’t work hard?”
I kept my voice low, even if she refused to. “I just think running a hotel isn’t exactly a dream come true for you.”
She looked at me, surprised. Maybe even hurt for a second. Then she laughed, deflecting. “Well, since we’re talking about dreams, which dream did you make come true again?” she said.
“I’m not talking about me, Rain.”
“Are you kidding me? It’s all about you.” She shook her head. “Just because you think the picture would be prettier if I had an impressive career doesn’t mean I’m not happy. Did it ever occur to you that if you weren’t living in fear of other people’s opinions of you, no one would have the power to take anything away?”
“Is that right?”
“It is, as a matter of fact.”
I looked up toward the loft, moved toward my sister. “So why are you so scared to hear other people’s opinion about your kid?” I whispered.
She reached for my arm, pulling me back out to the porch. “Excuse me?”
“That’s why you took her out of camp, right?” I said. “Because the counselor had the gall to tell you that Sammy is special? That she needs special things?”
“So in all of your experience with Sammy, you’ve already reached the conclusion a woman you don’t know is correct, and her mother is wrong? That I haven’t considered what my kid needs?”
“Rain, don’t hold her back.”
“Right. ’Cause staying here is holding her back. Staying with her mother is holding her back.”
“So go with her. There are hotels you could run in New York.”
“It’s not that simple. I like it here. I’ve built a home here. I have a relationship here. It may not be sexy, or get us a television show, but some of us value building a home somewhere.”
“You don’t think it’s weird that yours is five feet away from where you grew up?”
That stopped her. She got quiet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I paused, knowing I shouldn’t say it, that there were some lines you shouldn’t cross. But she was so mean, and I was so tired. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“I don’t know. I recall certain rules about never being away from this property for more than a few hours at a time. Never, ever sleeping off the property for any reason.”
“That is so out of line.”
“Taking the steps down to the ocean every other day. Getting the mail at five P.M. at the edge of the driveway. Eating dinner on Sundays facing the ocean. Feel free to interrupt me if I’m forgetting any. Maybe you have some rules now about never venturing far from the life Dad set up? Or maybe you’re a little more like him than you want to admit?”
She looked right at me—so angry, so hurt—like she couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe that I still had the power to affect her.
“Ten minutes to get your things and get out of my house,” she said.
Then she turned and walked away.
36
I sped down the driveway, my belongings hastily thrown into the passenger seat, and drove to 28, fighting back tears. Sometimes you’re glad you got something off your chest. This wasn’t one of those times. I was sorry I’d said any of it. I hadn’t meant it, really. Rain was just coming at me so hard, and even when I thought I was doing something right—giving Sammy a fun day, not taking the easy way out—she still would hit me for it.
How do you win with someone like that? Especially when I was so confused as to how I’d ended up here—again. Stuck in Montauk. Stuck in a house with the one person who was a mirror of all of the things I was trying to escape. It wasn’t that I’d been trying to hurt her. It wasn’t that I wanted to make her feel as lost and isolated as I did.
It was really that I didn’t know how to ask her to stop, for just a second, doing everything in her power to remind me that she thought I deserved to feel terrible. That I deserved to have my career taken overnight, and to lose my husband, who had apparently already moved on.
I pulled into the restaurant parking lot, took a peek at myself in the rearview mirror, and wiped at my tears.
And now there was Sammy, her weird and wonderful kid. Thing was (chalk it up to the pregnancy hormones), I was getting used to her. I hated the idea that I didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye to her, that she wouldn’t even get to hear that I hadn’t wanted to leave. At least, I hadn’t wanted to leave her.
I walked into the kitchen and headed right to my station. Douglas was standing there with a young guy, showing him the ropes.
“What are you doing here?” Douglas said.
“Douglas,” I said. “You have two seconds to get away from my station . . .”
“My station now,” the young guy said.
I drilled him with a dirty look. “Who are you?”
“I’m in charge of trash,” he said.
“I have five hundred dollars in my pocket. It’s yours if you just go to the bathroom for the next five minutes.”
“Deal!” he said.
“No deal,” Douglas said.
“What’s going on?”
We turned to see Chef Z standing behind us. He had his chef jacket on, his arms folded over his chest.
“Douglas, move away,” he said. “And take Lance with you.”
“I’m not Lance,” the young guy said.
Chef Z raised his hands. “Nobody cares,” he said.
As Douglas disappeared and the young guy
headed toward the bathroom (did he really think I would pay him now?), Chef Z leaned in.
He whispered in my ear. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
I cleared my throat. “I apologize, Chef. I just thought if you knew the details of why I did what I did, you’d let me stay with you at work.”
“Details of why you threw a plate of food onto one of my guests?”
I had a whole plan of what to say to him—an entire story. I was going to tell him that Amber had ordered the last lamb entrée of the evening and left the entire plate. And it had just seemed wrong that she would take advantage of everyone’s hard work. Of Chef Z’s hard work. Especially when she was served the last lamb dish of the night. Other people would have loved and respected the food. But thanks to Amber, they hadn’t.
How could that not work? I’d be speaking to every single narcissistic impulse the man had. To deny it would be to deny himself.
Except I was too tired to lie to him. And, I suspected, too out of practice to sell the story. That was the thing about lying. You got used to it, and it was what you did. The truth became a low groan that you could hear, but didn’t really need to address. When you were out of practice lying, though, the effort it took to lie well—the energy to turn a story—became obvious. It was almost as hard as telling the truth.
So instead, that’s what I did. I told him the truth. “She’s not good enough to eat your food, Chef.”
He paused, considering. “No one is.”
Then he stepped away, motioning for me to take my usual spot.
“Consider yourself on probation,” he said.
I nodded, swallowed my tears.
He shook his head, disgusted. “There are no tears in my kitchen,” he said.
“You don’t have to tell me that, Chef,” I said.
“Apparently, I do,” he said.
37
I showed up at Ethan’s at midnight, completely spent.
He had told me he lived near the docks, and a quick search of his website told me exactly where.
He answered the door in his boxer shorts, nothing else. “Haven’t you had enough of me for one day?” he said.
“I need a place to stay,” I said.
He rubbed his eyes. “Come on in.”
From the outside, his place looked pretty run-down. It was a yellow Craftsman in desperate need of a paint job and some different shutters on the windows. Inside, his place was pretty rugged too, though it had a certain charm. Almost in spite of itself, the house had a way about it. There were these thick wooden floors (definitely the originals, which he must have sanded down) and fresh green walls, great photographs of gas stations scattered throughout. The furnishings consisted of decent rugs and a great leather chair. And there was a gorgeous bay window that looked out on the docks and let in the moonlight, putting a soft sheen over everything.
Ethan led me into the bedroom, where he pointed at a mattress on the floor, Frette sheets on top of it. Like the Frette sheets I had at home. And in a million years, I wouldn’t have imagined this man would have purchased Frette sheets, and I realized he hadn’t. They had been a gift from someone who hadn’t wanted to sleep on whatever sheets he had purchased. The celebrity.
He shrugged, not exactly apologizing. “It’s what I’ve got to offer,” he said.
I was too tired to care. We both lay down, back to back, heels touching.
“Don’t try anything funny,” he said.
And, like that, we fell asleep.
38
When I woke up, it was still dark out.
I looked at the clock. 5 A.M. Thankfully, Ethan was gone. It took a minute to acclimate to where I was. Strange bed, familiar sheets. For a second I let them take me to the last time I had been in these sheets, “Moonlight Mile” on the radio, Danny still sleeping in bed, the sheets up to his shoulders, the sheets up to my chin. Where was I now?
I assumed Ethan had gone to the docks and went into his kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. There was no going back to sleep. I sat on a wooden chair, waiting for the coffee to brew, and pulled up Danny’s number on my phone. I needed to tell him about the baby, whatever his situation was. I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. Maggie. And Danny.
How was it possible? That wasn’t how Danny worked. He wouldn’t want to be unfair to Maggie. She was a good friend. He wouldn’t want to start something with her until he was ready. Was there a world in which he was ready so soon? Maybe I was a complete fool, but I didn’t buy it. I still thought there had to be another explanation.
I poured myself a large cup of coffee and was about to call Danny, when Ethan walked back in the door, a bag from John’s Pancake House in one hand, a tray of coffee cups in the other.
He motioned toward the mug I was holding. “I definitely wouldn’t drink that,” he said.
I put my phone away. “If you’re judging me for drinking coffee while I’m pregnant . . .”
“I’m judging you for drinking that coffee,” he said. “I haven’t used that coffeemaker since the early eighties.”
He handed over his tray of drinks.
“Sugared. Decaf. Caf,” he said. “Wasn’t sure which way you’d want to go.”
“Thanks. What’s in the bag?”
“Egg sandwich. That’s for me, though. I need the sustenance.”
“And why’s that?”
“I’m driving to New York today to meet with some investors.”
He pulled the sandwich out of his bag, unwrapped it, the steam pouring out.
“We’re thinking of expanding to a few restaurants in Southern California. Los Angeles, primarily. That was the dinner I took at 28,” he said.
I looked longingly as he held up the greasy sandwich, piled high with cheese and tomatoes.
“What? I’m not running a bed-and-breakfast here.”
I must have looked terribly disappointed, because he rolled his eyes and handed over half.
“Apparently, I am.”
I took a large bite, stuffing most of my half into my mouth. He waited for me to swallow and then smiled.
“Sexy,” he said.
In response, I shoved the rest of my half right in behind it.
“So I didn’t want to tell you last night,” he said.
“Though five A.M. feels like a good time?”
He took a bite of his eggs. “Amber is having a fancy cookbook release party over on Tyson Lane tonight. That’s why she’s in town.”
I immediately regretted the sandwich. “How do you know that, exactly?”
“Her publicity person was trying to get a discount. And she used Amber’s name, talked about the party and all the people who would be eating our fish.” He kept talking, mouth full. “I guess she’s having stations set up. Each station is going to serve one of the recipes in the book. The station she wants us to supply fish for is a ceviche station.”
“What is she supplying? The toast?”
“I asked the publicist the same thing.”
I laughed. “Did you really?’
“Yep. Apparently she doesn’t share our sense of humor.”
I thought about what that party would entail. Everyone would be there. Louis, food journalists, folks from the Food Network. Everyone who had turned their backs on me, and who were now thrilled to be honoring her.
Ethan took another large bite, apparently scared I would try to steal it.
“Anyway, I’ll give her a dirty look.”
“Can you get me in?” I said.
He looked surprised. “Of course. Why?”
I shrugged, not having a good answer. I knew that I shouldn’t care—that Amber and her party were beside the point. In that moment, though, it somehow felt like the entire point, all over again.
“Will you do it, even if I don’t have a good answer for you?”
“Consider it done,” he said.
He handed over his last bite.
“I’ll even bring extra fish,” he said. “In case you want to drop s
omething else on her.”
39
People love to talk about the most prestigious roads in the Hamptons. Dune Road. Flying Point. Ocean. Meadow. Tyson Lane was often too small to make the list. And yet, there it was, right off Further Lane—steps to the ocean—and home to several of the most stunning addresses in East Hampton, including a gorgeous abode owned by Helmut Lang.
Amber’s party was at the house next door—also oceanfront, also exquisite—owned by a venture capitalist and his cooking-enthused wife.
Lanterns lined the driveway and led up to a stunning cottage (not that cottage was really the appropriate name), its wraparound porch crowded with people. And candles. And flowers—solely white, solely orchids. Enormous trays of caviar and shrimp sushi were being passed. A jazz band was playing standards on the party’s edge. It could have been the nicest wedding I’d ever been to.
I took a breath as I stepped out of my car and headed toward the porch, wearing the only dress I had grabbed from my sister’s house after our fight: a purple halter-top that swung wide and, thankfully, covered my slowly growing belly.
“I don’t believe it,” she said.
I turned to see Violet, wearing a set of headphones and a black pencil skirt, looking beautiful and put-together.
“What are you doing here?” she said, a large smile on her face.
I wasn’t sure how to read her. “Just coming by to say hello to everyone,” I said.
“Not the party,” she said. “Here! The Hamptons. I thought you were hiding out where you were from. Nashville, or wherever.”
“I’m from here, actually,” I said.
She looked confused. “I didn’t know anyone was from here,” she said.
I smiled. “How are you, Violet?”
“I think that’s like the first question you’ve ever asked me. I mean, about me.”
I motioned toward her headset. “Where are you working now?”
“Well, I was helping out on Meredith and Ryan’s new show. But I quit. It’s going nowhere fast. I promise, it’s going to get cancelled before it even hits the air.” She shook her head. “Meredith is terrible. Just awful in front of the camera. And she’s actually like a pretty terrible person, too, if it makes you feel any better.”