“Yes, I did see Bucky today,” Luke explained. “He comes up to me and Kona and Kenny and wants a lesson on a Jet Ski. With your kid.”
“I didn’t believe Huck,” Katie said.
“Yeah, on the docks earlier, he came by, I saw it.”
“Not okay,” Katie answered. “I mean, okay with my kid, but not right before a huge event he has planned for since the party last summer.”
“He’s been trying to decimate our camp. And with the town board election so near, we didn’t want to cause more problems. So Kona met his wishes, took him out in a Jet Ski on the bay for like fifteen minutes.” Luke stood suddenly, out of nervousness, and then slid open the back porch screen door. It screeched on castings that hadn’t been oiled since forever. He went into the kitchen, grabbed two bottles of beer and an opener from a creaky drawer. Katie waited on the deck—dumbfounded, anxious, and knowing it was an inopportune time to be turned on by Luke in his jeans and T-shirt.
As he returned to the deck, Luke said, “I really don’t want to be inside this actual house; my parents both told me never to step foot in here. The deck is better.”
“That’s so superstitious.”
“I don’t know, through the years, I’ve checked on the house so many times. It’s all in a trust with a strange title, no recognizable name, and has changed hands, so, I’m not sure what they were talking about.”
Katie grabbed his hands. “This is freaking me out, your father Frank forbidding you to be here.”
“Yeah, literally right this second I’m disobeying the family curse or whatever it is because I have to talk to you alone. And you know what? I don’t drink much, but I need a drink right now.” He opened the beers and handed her one, adding, “Today, Bucky was nuts on a mission, like he had snorted a cereal bowl full of coke. He wanted the derelicts he’s trying to destroy to take him out in the bay. You can’t be with this guy. I won’t allow it. I’ll literally stand between you two.”
“What are you telling me, that there’s other women? Or there’s what . . .” Katie put her head in her hands for a moment.
“I think there’s a lot of other women. And a fair amount of them are really young.”
And then Katie’s phone pinged with a new text, a message from Poppy:
IF YOU SEE MY SON, TELL HIM HE’S DISOWNED.
Chapter Fifty-Two
A Reckoning to Remember
And now, like two castaways on a stolen afternoon, Katie and Luke dozed in the early evening haze. Katie draped her naked thigh around Luke’s thin torso, curling her foot under him. He grabbed her leg and tightened her against him. Locking her arm under both his elbows, he made sure she couldn’t escape.
A light snore rumbled through his nose, his gorgeous profile in relief against the pale yellow walls. A good Romeo-and-Juliet fifteen minutes remained before they’d have to confront the divisive madness in their worlds and separate.
Katie’s heart ached in a way she hadn’t allowed this summer; both of them finally in bed, naked and raw. She watched Luke lying beside her: rough stubble carpeting the beautiful square lines of his jaw, his hair covering half his handsome face, his lips chapped from all the kissing. She pulled her arm free from under his and, with her index finger, made a line down his strong nose, circling his full lips, and then pushing in the little divot of his cleft chin.
Then, with the back of her hand, she rubbed his three-day old beard in an upward motion, and twisted a long strand of his hair around her finger. His somnolent breathing continued, but he summoned the energy to push his lips against the tip of her finger. She smiled.
Earlier, up against the wall in the hallway, Luke lightly kissed Katie’s neck. He buried his face in her hair, then hugged her tight for comfort. It had been a strange, long day already. They were alone, and he wanted her close. He held the back of her head for leverage, and this time kissed her hard and furiously. Their groping caused a nautical map to fall to the floor and shatter, both of them too possessed with each other to bother with it.
Minutes later, she let her body slip down his and faced his middle, resting her bottom on her heels with her knees spread. The glass from the frame crunched under her shoes. He was hard under the laces on his surf trunks, and she had to pull them with force to unleash him. He tried to slide down the wall as well, but she pushed his hips firm back against it.
In the past, when it was the first time with a man, Katie might usually let him start everything. But today, she wanted to show Luke how pent-up she’d been. The hemming and hawing, the excuses, and the waiting were now over. With his shorts open, she held him in her hands. Her own insides pulsated with jumpy anticipation as she caressed and pushed her lips against him, Oh my God, he sighed from above.
He placed both of his palms on the back of her head and pushed her against him, trying, hoping desperately, to penetrate her mouth. She resisted, keeping her lips firmly closed, taking her sweet time, knowing it was driving him mad. She caressed him firmly as a concession for his waiting, wetting her hands with her saliva so they moved smoothly and rhythmically over him.
Finally, Katie opened her throat wide so he felt she was endless, and let him slide inside her mouth. Her fingers cupped around him at the base. Luke pushed up against her lips farther, and she relented more, moving her hands back and forth gracefully.
“You gotta stop or this is going to be over too soon.” He now grabbed her under her arms and lifted her to him, wrapping her legs around him, kissing her as he walked to the bedroom. Her legs fell to the floor just before the bed. She stood up against the mattress, their bodies pressed against each other. Their hearts raced from nerves—this was finally happening. In unison, they tilted over together.
Luke grabbed the comforter at the end of the bed and pulled it to cover their bodies. He kissed Katie deeply in the dark fort he’d fashioned, while shimmying down his trunks. She tried to touch him again, but this time he pushed her hand away.
It was his turn. He caressed her belly softly, his finger lining underneath the top of her jeans for an eternity. When she could wait no more, her pulsating inside becoming explosive, she opened the buttons for him. He pulled her pants down slowly, lightly gliding the back of his fingers along the now bare inner lines of her thighs. He grabbed her hips in his hands and spread her legs, holding them down with his elbows. He lay there for a long while, licking, sucking lightly on her thighs, slowly moving higher between her legs until he tasted every bit of her. He glided his body up against hers to kiss her mouth too, his tongue now salty and metallic.
Finally, he held her bare hips firm beneath him, and pushed himself inside her. Katie moaned in relief, finally giving in to something she’d wanted all summer. As the comforter tangled in their legs, Katie moved furiously, then slowly, both beneath and above him. His body felt exquisitely thick and gentle all at once.
And now, Luke slept as only fully satiated men do. While she waited for him to wake, she curled her fingers, imitating how she’d grabbed his back, pushing him in deeper. She pulled the sheets over her head, the pungent aroma of sex settling around her. A pillow between her legs rubbed softly against her and it soothed her body now. She felt as tranquil as the sea on a flat day, not a breath of wind disrupting its surface.
And, way off in the distance amidst rose-covered trellises, guests lingered around mason jars filled with sand and shells. In her mind’s eye, Katie saw her son running through the party with his newfound friends, savoring an evening to be naughty without her watchful eye. Cookies with the initial “H” in a typewriter font were surely crumpled all over his shirt, and kiddie punch dripped down his elbows. She would bathe him that night, push his nose in with her index finger in that way that made him snort, then laugh, and tell him he’d never go to sleep because of all the sugar he’d had for dinner. He would deny it, look up at her, and smile that crooked grin he cracked when he told a fib.
Poppy was surely on her second Pink Lady cocktail by now. The elder priestess would be ricocheting
like a pinball between groupings of people. She’d welcome them, proud of her club’s charity, all the while banging her enormous hat into the guests as she spoke of the library’s good works with every sector of the Southampton community.
Bucky would have likely arrived by now, smacking the back of an Exeter buddy he’d aced twice on the tennis court the day before. He’d be checking on the three children from the shelter, who’d be showcased around like cute little creatures from a petting zoo. He’d kneel before them, assuring they looked him in the eye and reciprocated his firm handshake. He’d talk to the club children, inspecting their manners just as meticulously, as they stood in bright pants held up by needlepoint belts.
Katie closed her own eyes now, and turned to Luke for a moment. She placed one leg around Luke’s middle again, and her mind drifted back to the sea. The post-sex hormones sloshed all through her body. The trivialities of tablecloths now trailed away.
Luke’s earlier rantings about Bucky, she reasoned, must be due to simple jealousy. Men were territorial like that, always protecting their female “property.” His outrage had to be greatly exaggerated. She would move on from Bucky, but mostly because she’d never fall in love with him.
She’d find a new apartment, gather more clients, and land that job in the school district that was practically hers already. Each day, she watched her son ready for more adventure, wanting to stake his own claim as well.
Desperate to leave the sadness of Hood River, she’d convinced herself that the handsome, responsible Bucky Porter could, in some sense, save her. She now knew, she was never the kind to be saved, nor was Bucky the man to try.
Chapter Fifty-Three
A Mad Mother
Katie assumed she’d be safe with Luke in the cottage. Bucky would have shown at the Patio Party by now. Earlier when he was not answering, his phone was surely out of battery. She allowed herself to flash on him in a crisp button-down, perhaps still wet on the back from his just showered hair. He’d have rushed after his Jet Ski trip in the bay, apologizing to Poppy for being so late. He’d save the Patio Party with an off-the-cuff toast, winning them over with his deft and certain charm.
A mere six minutes later, though, a hard knocking on the front cottage door disturbed Katie and Luke’s hard-won peace. She broke free of his strong hold and practically shoved him off his side of the bed.
Frantically, Katie told Luke, “Bucky is here. He’s knocking. It’s got to be him—he’s the only one who ever comes here. Jesus, the Patio Party isn’t over, I didn’t expect . . . go to the back. Hide in the little playroom off the kitchen. There’s a closet in there, filled with toys and puzzles. Run! Hurry!”
Luke scrambled, naked, grabbing his shorts and T-shirt, then sprinted into a small closet. Once inside, getting dressed first, he quietly moved the little flaps of wood on the door’s shutters open so he could see out to the front hall. Katie smoothed her knotted hair down and mashed an old straw hat down on her head. She threw on a fresh T-shirt and slipped into flip-flops. Clumsily, she hopped to the front door, stubbing her toe on the way.
Bucky might be upset she hadn’t waited at the party; perhaps he was coming to get her. She had a fine alibi. She could say she came home to look for him. That made sense. His phone hadn’t answered for hours. She’d simply driven around to search for him and stopped here to check as well. He couldn’t be that mad. He didn’t own her. She could blame his own mother for bossing her around and telling her to leave and find him.
“Yeah?” Katie said, out of breath, swinging the door open way too quickly, trying to project an aura of innocence. The outlines of her story were true. Never mind the hot man who’d just ravaged her, now hiding in her closet.
Only it wasn’t Bucky at the door.
Poppy Porter stood on the cottage front porch. The radioactive flowers on her pants almost blinded Katie after the hour under dark covers. Poppy smiled tersely, her head bobbing a tad from the late afternoon libations. “Where. Is. Bucky. Dear?”
“Um, I’m not entirely sure, I thought he was welcoming his . . .” Katie wanted to say “his tribe,” but she thought better of it. “This speech is his big shining speech moment, isn’t it? I figured he was there by now . . . maybe you left before he arrived?” Katie looked back to make sure Luke was still hidden in the closet. None of the cottage doors closed firmly in their casings, and she worried that flimsy closet might pop open. She offered, “I came here to look for Bucky, that’s why I’m here.”
“Well, who saw him last?” asked Poppy. “He didn’t come home to change. I was just at my cottage. I didn’t see wet towels on the floor.” She added, “He’s been leaving damp towels on the bathroom tiles since he was four years old.”
Hiding in the back playroom closet, Luke peeked through the wooden slats on the door. He saw Poppy’s arms flying about. For a moment, he wondered if Jake had gotten rid of Bucky Porter, mafia don style. When Jake had said, “It’s my daughter, now walk away,” he couldn’t have meant, “Now is the part where I bury the pervert alive.” Could he have?
Luke thought about Bucky provoking Kona and Kenny on the docks, and how he’d tried to calm his buddies down. Maybe Bucky would be getting him into bigger trouble with the law, framing him somehow. Maybe he’d lose his teaching slot. Bucky on the docks, then Bucky late for the party: these parts of the story had to be connected. Though Luke had never been to the trellised Southampton Seabrook Patio Party, he knew enough to understand it wasn’t something that George Herbert Bradford Porter Jr. would ever miss.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Day of Discovery
While the women’s voices, muffled through the closet doors, volleyed back and forth about Bucky’s whereabouts, Luke studied the interior of the closet. Board games and puzzles from Bucky’s childhood were stacked on the shelves, cardboard frayed and ripped on the corners, surely missing key pieces: The Game of Life, a puzzle of the Montauk Lighthouse, Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, and Battleship.
Farther down, a metal box on a shelf rested just under Luke’s nose. Opening it, he saw that there were photos inside. He shuffled through them. Bucky naked at age two in a plastic kiddie pool, stomach resting on his outstretched thighs. Bucky in high school looking like a kid who might blow up a school. George Sr. and Poppy pushing a carriage under trees on a quiet Southampton lane. Bucky’s father winning a golf tournament at a club with a friend by his side, a silver chalice, weighing down both of their arms as they thrust it in the air between them, and printed on a green stripe in the bottom of the photo: George Herbert Bradford Porter Sr. and Christopher Milford Winthrop McPherson, Men’s Seabrook Member Guest Tournament Champions 1990.
The hair on Luke’s neck stood up like it had in the driveway when he’d dropped Huck off weeks before. There’s goddamned ghosts in this house. His stepfather entered his mind. Frank would never understand his movements, nor the strange coincidence that a woman he’d fallen hard for resided at 37 Willow Lane.
While the women argued in the front hall, Luke found another box lower down—he could pull it without much noise. This one was some kind of navy gift box from Shep Miller, an old Southampton retailer that had probably been replaced by a modern, price-gouging organic juice chain.
Another shot of Bucky dressed in a cap and gown, Princeton Class of 1994 diploma in his hand, smiling next to Poppy. She looked much younger twenty years earlier with dark hair and Joan Crawford eyebrows. Another of father and son, this time the younger George approaching adolescence, a tighter shot of their faces, arms clumsily draped over each other’s shoulders, both in tennis garb. George Sr. with a cleft chin he hadn’t seen on the other shots.
Luke played with his own chin, mashing the skin down as if to rub away an uncanny facial similarity. He then pushed the skin on the sides of his lower jaw together with index finger and thumb to make the cleft more prominent. Again, he pushed the stubborn line down as if to erase it.
For minutes, he massaged his own chin, manipulating it, pushing it toget
her as if to consider its very existence. He rubbed the line harder now, more roughly than was normal, as if to scrub away an almost certain resemblance.
Luke knelt down all the way to the floor where more photos were haphazardly piled into corners. He closed his eyes to will away phantoms that Frank swore still lived in this house. He felt them, and he felt Frank somehow knew what he was doing, and he was furious now. Still, was there a chance Frank was wrong? Superstitions weren’t meant to come true. They were stories from the past to be discarded and ignored, like these photographs stuck together, mildewing in this dank closet.
Like with all of his father’s morality lessons, Luke tried to gain his rightful independence from their grinding grip. But then again, Frank’s lessons were the very basis for how a man behaves. They were to be heeded: stay away from certain people and respect his warnings about 37 Willow Lane. Frank’s voice clouded around him, strangling him like the musty air suffocating him in the closet.
Next, he looked beneath all of the shelves, his butt so far in the air that he almost knocked the door open as he dug like an investigator about to break a case. Luke found more photos. He shuffled through them, curious about the faces of the demons that surely lay here.
Then, stuck in a crack in the back corner, on the floor of the closet, he found a dusty manila envelope, looking like it hadn’t been touched in decades. A string wrapped around the pale yellow disk and dark, yellowing scotch tape held it closed. Quietly, he ripped off the tape, unstrung the disk, and reached inside to find six more photos.
His heart pounded so loudly he could hear it thumping from inside his ears. There was Luke’s own mother, Lynne, in a photo in the garden of 37 Willow Lane. She knelt in the bed of mud and mulch out front that hadn’t much changed today. It was sparsely filled with red geraniums. His mother had been working here, in this very house in which her son stood hiding right now; Frank had told him that much.
It Happens in the Hamptons Page 29