The Perfect Manhattan

by Leanne Shear

  “Of course, darling,” Martin said. “We can get the pâté. And Cassie also needs to sample that Beluga caviar and the Stilton—it goes so nicely with the Petrus. I wonder if they have those glorious yellow tomatoes.”

  We arrived at the Barefoot Contessa, and I stared in awe at picture-perfect cupcakes draped in chocolate ganache, apple galettes framed in puffed pastry, and flaky chocolate croissants. Lily selected cheeses I had never heard of, along with caviars imported from Scandinavia, pâtés shipped daily from France, and tiny pear-shaped tomatoes. Martin stood up front by the cash register, flipping through Dan’s Papers and the Southampton Independent, two of the Hamptons’ weeklies.

  After our items had been bagged, the cashier read the total: $334.09. I looked at the twelve items on the belt—all of which couldn’t really qualify as anything more than snacks (or maybe hors d’oeuvres if you wanted to get fancy about it)—positive that the amount had resulted from a major error in the store’s computer system. Martin reached for his wallet without so much as a blink. He produced a black American Express card and paid for the items. I’d never seen a black AmEx before, and I wondered where it fit in the hierarchy of plastic. Lily leaned in to nuzzle his ear while he signed the receipt.

  Unless they expected me to starve, Martin was apparently paying for me too. I’d thought about taking out my wallet, but I knew my last $10 wouldn’t make a dent in the grocery tab. I just hoped Martin wasn’t expecting the same payback from me that he was getting from Lily.

  On the way to the car, he put his hand around her tapered waist and then casually let it drop to fondle her rear end. “Darling! You need to behave!” she chastised him coyly, freeing herself from his grasp.

  I felt so uncomfortable, like I’d just walked in on my parents having sex. I quickly walked toward the car and pretended to admire the landscaping of Main Street. It was like I was babysitting two horny fifteen-year-olds, a situation made all the worse by the fact that at least one of them was my grandfather’s age.

  We got back in the car and traveled south on Mecox Lane away from town and toward the ocean. The houses grew more and more impressive—expansive rolling lawns spotted with rose gardens and tennis courts gave way to enormous residences with commanding white columns and elegant verandas. Most of them appeared vacant. It was still a week before Memorial Day, and the summer season hadn’t officially begun. Dozens of landscapers busied themselves in the yards, pruning lilac bushes, trimming hedges, and cleaning pools in preparation for the owner’s arrival.

  “There’s a large Hispanic population here during the off months,” Martin said when he noticed me looking at the workers.

  “Where do they put them all during the summer season?” Lily asked.

  “Damned if I know.” Martin harrumphed. “As long as they’re not on my beach, I don’t care where they go.”

  I looked out my window and lost myself in Walter Mitty–like daydreams, simultaneously trying to peer between colossal hedges to get a look at the homes that lay hidden behind them and to set aside my embarrassment at having been privy to such an appalling comment on Martin’s part. I was liking these people less and less with every passing minute and beginning to dread what the rest of the trip would bring. What on earth had I gotten myself into? Still, I was determined to see it through and at least try to secure a bartending job since I’d come all this way. It was only twenty-four hours, and if the Saracen opportunity worked out, I’d just get my own place out here for the summer and avoid these two cretins.

  A few minutes later we turned onto a road marked PRIVATE. We drove down a long winding, wooded path, slowing down just as I noticed a sign that read PRITCHARD SERVICE.

  “What’s ‘Pritchard Service’?” I asked.

  Lily laughed.

  “It’s the service entrance,” Martin said. “The driveway used by my cook, maids, and groundskeepers. And that cottage you see is where my three main workers live year-round, so they can take care of the property and also prepare the house at a moment’s notice if I decide to come out for a weekend.”

  We drove a few yards farther and pulled up to immense wrought-iron gates. Martin punched a code into some sort of security device, and we were granted access to his long driveway. My breath caught as we approached the house; I felt like we’d driven into the first panel of Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights.” Vibrantly colored flowers complemented the green rambling hills, and ponds, fountains, and gardens adorned the property. In addition to the sprawling Manor House on the south side of the estate and the small service cottage on the north side, a deluxe pool house and horse stables loomed in the distance. Martin pulled the Bentley into an eight-car garage, sandwiching it between a fire-engine-red Porsche 911 Carrera and a midnight blue Tahoe. Despite the bitter taste in my mouth from Martin and Lily’s earlier behavior, I had to admit that all of it took my breath away. After all, I’d grown up in a tiny three-bedroom ranch with fifty square feet of dry yellowed grass for a backyard.

  Martin spanked Lily playfully on her butt as she got out of the car.

  “Martin, not in front of Cassie!” she squealed.

  I forced a smile and stepped out into the driveway. The salty sea air alerted me that the ocean was nearby. And whereas the sky had been gray and overcast for much of the drive, the sun was now shining brightly.

  “It’s splendid outside!” Martin exclaimed. “The sun finally looks like it’s here to stay. Let’s drop off our bags and head to the club, shall we?”

  “Sound good,” I said, although the last thing I felt like doing was getting back inside the cigarette smoke–filled car. I watched as several of Martin’s servants scurried out of the mammoth pillared house to collect our bags and deposit them inside.

  Martin had been a member of the Southampton Country Club for over thirty years. The club was incredibly exclusive—fewer than fifty members, he informed me—and I suddenly wished I’d chosen something different to wear. Lily looked pristine in her tennis whites; meanwhile, I’d discovered a stain on my faded pale blue top.

  By the time we arrived, my appetite had returned full force, especially after our tempting sojourn through the Barefoot Contessa. As we passed the club’s English gardens overrun by a rainbow of climbing roses and poppies, all I could think about was eating. We entered the dining room to find every imaginable variety of food laid out in a gourmet buffet: omelets made to order, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, salads, pasta, vegetables, filet mignon, beef brisket, and desserts. Giant ice sculptures of swans and mermaids graced the tables, and the cheese platter lined with grapes and figs looked like a still life by Velasquez. There was an entire ten-foot table devoted solely to bread—baguettes, croissants, brioches, chocolate bread, rhubarb bread, seven-grain bread—it was an Atkins follower’s worst nightmare. There was a raw bar piled high with lobster, clams, oysters, shrimp, and caviar, and another station housed two chefs who would create virtually any salad you could envision, out of the thousands of fresh ingredients spread out in front of them. I spent a full twenty minutes deliberating, picking and choosing, and circling around until I finally struggled back to our table, my arms balancing heaping plates of salmon, New York strip steak, and potatoes au gratin—as well as glasses of orange juice, water, and red wine.

  My few weeks at Finton’s had already taught me how to carry loads of plates and glasses at a time, so when a waitress asked, “Do you need some help with that, miss?” in a lilting Irish accent, I smiled at her in a manner I hoped communicated that I too was a veteran of the service industry and said, “No, thanks, I think I’ve got it.”

  As I tried to set everything down on the table, my Nutella tartine, a handful of champagne grapes, and a tiny ramekin of cocktail sauce slopped off the plate and onto the floor, almost landing in Lily’s lap.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, bending down immediately to pick up the fallen items and mop up the mess with my napkin.

  “Cassie, don’t trouble yourself.” Martin laughed, expelling cigarette smok
e. His laughter sounded more like a smoker’s cough. “They have staff here for that sort of thing. Besides, you can go up again and get more food, you know.”

  “Though it looks like you cleared everything out the first time,” Lily sniffed, eyeing my heaping plate of selections. I looked at hers: it held exactly five lettuce leaves and two pieces of grilled shrimp.

  “I skipped breakfast this morning,” I said apologetically. But a small part of me was actually beginning to feel sorry for Lily. It was clear that she not only denied herself an attractive, age-appropriate boyfriend, but the pleasures of food as well.

  “Martin, I see you’re not drinking your usual,” I commented, eager to take the attention off of me.

  “Ketel and tonic is my summer drink—I just switched from salty dogs, because the grapefruit was too acidic. Now that the weather’s warming up, I’m ready to abandon manhattans for the next few months,” he explained, snapping his fingers for the waiter’s attention, so that he could order another one before his current drink ran out. Martin was the type of person who hated to have an empty glass in front of him.

  We were sitting at an ocean-side table on the deck of the Victorian mansion that housed the club. Silverware tinkled, ice rattled in glasses, and quiet conversation ebbed and flowed with the tide. All of the other members were older WASPy types like Martin, dressed in white golf shirts or dress shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone, sans ties. A handful of them were sporting navy-blue blazers with their family crests engraved on the shiny brass buttons. I noted that there was a disproportionately high number of much older men with young, attractive women on their arms.

  As I observed the boats tossing in the waves and the sloping sand dunes, I relaxed a little and began to enjoy the delectable spread in front of me. My worries receded amid the sunshine and ocean air, as I came to my pièce de résistance—chocolate soufflé.

  The warm chocolate tasted like sweet dark satin melting on my tongue. “You guys have to try this chocolate soufflé, it’s the best dessert I’ve ever tasted,” I said, eagerly dipping in for a second bite. I’d read somewhere that chocolate makes your brain release the same endorphins your body produces during an orgasm—not too far off from what I was experiencing at that very moment.

  “I feel like I’ll get fat if I even let myself smell that,” Lily huffed. She then fixed me with an irritated look. “Cassie, you have chocolate on your teeth.”

  Just then Martin bellowed, “Well, hello, James!”

  I turned around expecting to see another gray-haired, gray-skinned, middle-aged playboy out to lunch with his twenty-year-old girlfriend. Instead, my jaw almost hit the deck when I saw the stunningly gorgeous young man standing in front of me. He had wind-tossed, light brown hair that fell charmingly over his forehead, and his cheeks and nose were slightly rosy in a way that suggested he’d spent the morning outdoors. I guessed that he stood at least six two—perfect for my five feet eight—and my heart jumped as I took in the copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise and the New York Times tucked under his tanned, toned arm. I hurriedly wiped my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth before attempting a smile.

  “Martin! How are you?” James asked.

  “How could I be anything but wonderful on such a glorious day?” Martin said as his eyes swept our panoramic ocean view.

  “I know. Dad and I were fishing all morning,” James said.

  “How is your father?” Martin asked.

  “He’s doing great,” James said. “Looking forward to beating you at golf on Sunday, from what I hear.”

  Martin laughed raucously while grasping his protruding midsection. “Ladies, this young man’s father, James Edmonton the Second, is one of my best clients and also one of the most skilled golfers I know. The Edmontons are tremendously fond of ridiculing my very high handicap.”

  “Hi, I’m James,” he said, suddenly turning to me with a radiant smile. I snapped to attention and did my best to offer him an equally fetching gaze, while desperately wishing I had reapplied lip gloss.

  “Where are my manners?” Martin tsked. “Cassie, allow me to present James Richard Edmonton the Third, graduate of Yale University, vice president at Goldman Sachs, and master boatman and golfer. James, this is Cassie. She’s a bartender at Dan Finton’s place downtown. And you already know Lily.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, discreetly wiping my clammy hand on my pants before shaking his. Why the hell did Martin have to introduce me as a bartender? “What year did you graduate from Yale?”

  “Nineteen ninety-eight,” he replied.

  “Do you know Matt Riordan?” I asked. “He’s from my hometown and graduated that year.” I was barely even aware of the words as they came out, just watching his mouth as he responded.

  “Sure, I know Riordan. A good friend of mine actually dated his younger sister. She went to Columbia, I think.”

  “Yeah, Amanda!” I said. “I know her pretty well. She graduated this year with me.”

  “So you went to Columbia, huh?” he asked. “We killed you guys at the Yale Bowl.”

  “Well, we have a young football team—all eleven starters are coming back next year, and if I remember correctly, none of Yale’s are. So I think you’re going to have some competition over the next couple of seasons.” I smiled, amazed that the one article I’d ever read about the Columbia football team had remained tucked away somewhere in my brain.

  “Pretty impressive,” he said, nodding. “So what days do you work at Finton’s? That’s a great bar.”

  “Well, hopefully I’m going to be working out here this summer on the weekends, and I’ll keep some shifts at Finton’s during the week. I’ll probably be working Tuesday during the day and Wednesday and Thursday nights,” I replied, conscious of Lily’s disdainful eyes on me and hoping I didn’t sound as eager as I felt.

  “Cool. Well, maybe I’ll see you there sometime.” He turned back to Martin. “I’ll let you guys get back to lunch. It was nice to see you again, Lily. And Cassie, it was great meeting you.”

  I watched him vanish into the country club where he was immediately camouflaged by a sea of white Polo shirts and khakis, and I was overcome with the delicious sense of giddiness that comes from meeting someone you’re instantly attracted to. I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca when she sees Humphrey Bogart and the world momentarily stops turning. My mind momentarily flashed to my screenplay. Perhaps I had a new model for my Prince Charming.

  “Is James dating anyone?” Lily asked, reading my mind. “He’s so handsome.” Handsome doesn’t begin to describe it, I thought.

  “I don’t really know,” Martin mused. “I heard he ran around with Amanda Hearst quite a bit last summer.”

  I knew from Gotham Magazine that Amanda Hearst was a socialite, and my heart sunk at the thought of all the wafer-thin, platinum blond, unbelievably rich, “aspiring actresses, models, and recording artists” that James must know and who I could never in a million years compete with. A guy like that—who was I kidding? He obviously had women—heiresses, even—lined up around the block. My brief visions of striking up a summer romance floated away on the same salty breeze that kept the yachts tossing on their moorings only a few hundred yards away.

  I quickly changed the subject and turned toward Lily, just as a waiter was bringing her another glass of wine. She had easily consumed twice the amount of alcohol that I had since we’d arrived at the club, and she was half my size. Her eyelids were noticeably heavier and her regal posture had softened. I felt like I might finally be able to have a genuine conversation with her—if there was one thing bartending had taught me, it was that alcohol was a truth serum. “So, Lily, what do you do?”

  “Lily is a personal trainer,” Martin answered for her. “She just opened her own boutique fitness studio on the Upper East Side.”

  “It’s really picking up,” she boasted. “I have twice as many clients now than I did last month. Most of them are women who are tr
ying to shape up their rear end—it’s the first thing to go on women over twenty-five. It starts to sag.”

  “I don’t notice that problem on you, darling,” Martin said as he took a big gulp of his Ketel and tonic. “You just turned twenty-seven and your ass looks better than ever.”

  “Well, that’s because I work on it practically every day,” Lily said, smiling at him and tossing her glossy hair.

  “I like to go to work on your ass every day too,” Martin growled, leaning in toward her. I cringed. This time even Lily blushed.

  “Cassie, darling, I apologize,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “Martin is exceptionally frisky today.”

  “Oh, now, that’s not true, darling. I’m always like this when I’m around you. I’m sure Cassie doesn’t mind, do you, Cassie?”

  “Uh . . . no,” I stammered.

  “Of course you don’t,” Martin said. “You’re a bartender. I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”

  This was a new one. It hadn’t occurred to me that my profession might give people license to do or say things they wouldn’t do or say in other company. It was possible, I realized, that Martin and Lily didn’t carry on like this around everyone and that their behavior was a function of how they perceived me. I was a bartender—I came from a world of decadence and debauchery. I was also working class and thus not in a position to have my judgments of them matter.

  Martin turned toward the ocean, gazing over my head at the clusters of people on the beach. Flocks of mothers in Juicy sweat suits sheltered by the official blue-and-white beach umbrellas of the country club were keeping vigilant watch over children in Vilebrequin swimwear. “Speaking of asses,” he went on, “that girl’s got an ass on her that’s going to break hearts.”

  I followed his gaze down to where a four-year-old girl was playing in the sand with brightly colored shovels and buckets. Her blond curls were captured in two pigtails with matching pink bows, and she wore a tiny bikini covered in little yellow ducks. She was bent over filling pails with water for her sandcastle.