Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  The door was hanging open, so she let herself inside. Seventh Circle was supposed to be the place to be this summer, but here it was, a week after Memorial Day, and it hadn’t even opened yet. There was a thick layer of fresh sawdust on the floor, and a full construction crew was barking orders at one another. The barn had been retrofitted to accommodate a U-shaped zinc bar, and against the back wall stood a built-in glass liquor cabinet almost twenty-five feet high. The guys looked up when they spied Eliza. Several whistled at the sight of her tanned legs underneath her pink smocked Juicy tube dress. It was the kind of dress that made everyone else who wore it look fat or pregnant, but on Eliza it looked cute and sexy.

  “Hi, I’m here to see the owners—Alan or Kartik?” Eliza said, pulling her long blond hair into a high ponytail.

  One of the hard hats grunted and pointed a finger toward the back of the club. Eliza stepped over a paint tray delicately, picking her way past the sawhorses and a couple of dusty potato sacks, toward two guys yammering into their cell phone headsets.

  They were the self-styled kings of Manhattan nightlife, and while their press clippings might reach to the ceiling, neither was taller than five-five, and Eliza towered over both of them in her four-inch Louboutin platforms. Alan Whitman was balding and dough-faced, but he’d been legendary since ninth grade at Riverdale, when he’d begun his career selling pot at the Limelight. He’d oozed his way up a string of downtown hot spots until he’d raised enough money to open his trio of celebrity playgrounds—Vice, Circus, and Lowdown. He liked to say that before he’d gotten his hands on Paris Hilton, she was just a cute little Dwight sophomore in a rolled-up uniform skirt. He’d been the one who’d waived Paris past the ID check and had personally alerted gossip columnists when she was dancing on the tables—or falling off them—on any given night. His partner, Kartik (one name only), a Miami transplant, had been friends with Madonna back when he was still a teenager and she was still a dog-collar-wearing pop icon, not a dowdy children’s book author who answered to the name Esther.

  “What do you mean the liquor license is delayed? Are you serious?” Alan whined into his receiver.

  “Babycakes, of course we’ve got the permits in hand,” Kartik smoothly promised on his cell. “We’re ready to roll. We’re all set for the after-party, no problem!”

  Eliza stood aside patiently, watching the guys tell two different stories on their phones. It was inspirational, really: If Alan Whitman could transform himself from some geeky kid who sold oregano dime bags out of his Eastman backpack into New York’s most sought-after nightclub promoter, then surely she, Eliza Thompson, could find a way to reinvent herself from fallen Manhattan It Girl into Hamptons royalty. After all, Eliza had always wanted to be a princess.

  mara goes from zero to somebody in sixty seconds

  THE STRETCH LIMOUSINE IN HER DRIVEWAY WAS THE FIRST sign that for Mara Waters, life was going to start getting interesting again. During prom season in Sturbridge, it wasn’t unusual to find rented limos parked in front of the tidy ranch-style houses, but this one didn’t sport a CALL 1-800 DISCO LIMO! sticker on its bumper. Instead, it had a uniformed chauffeur who held a golf umbrella above Mara’s head and took her bags from her stupefied father.

  Anna Perry had told Mara she would send a car, but Mara hadn’t been expecting one quite so large and luxurious. Then again, everything that Anna Perry, the very young, very demanding second wife of Kevin Perry, one of New York’s most successful and feared litigators in New York City, did was patently over-the-top. Anna had wanted Mara in East Hampton immediately, and whatever Anna wanted, Anna usually got. She’d convinced their new neighbors, the Reynolds family, who were leaving Cape Cod for the Hamptons in their private plane, to give Mara a ride.

  Heading back to the Hamptons on a private jet was the complete opposite of last August, when Mara had returned to Sturbridge on a battered Greyhound. It had been the summer of her life, and she’d made the best friends in the world—Eliza, an uptight Upper East Side golden girl, and Jacqui, a Brazilian bombshell so beautiful men routinely threw themselves at her feet. They’d all signed on for a summer of babysitting the Perry kids—to the tune of ten thousand dollars for the summer—but the friendship they formed was even more valuable. The three of them were as different as could be, but somewhere between the social climbing, the party crashing, and keeping all the kids in line, the three of them had formed a tight-knit bond.

  There was another reason that last summer had been amazing: Ryan Perry. She’d fallen completely in love with Ryan, the older brother of the kids she was babysitting, and they’d finally gotten together the last week of the summer. When they said good-bye, Mara had told him that she would love to bring him home so he could meet her family and see where she lived. But when she got off the Greyhound at the grimy Sturbridge bus stop several hours later, it no longer seemed like a good idea.

  Her stomach had sunk when Megan picked her up in their dented ’88 Ford Taurus. Mara was still wearing her Hamptons uniform: a lace-trimmed silk camisole, pre-faded cargo pants and high-heeled jewel-encrusted mules from Miss Trish of Capri. Her hair still smelled of Eliza’s French lavender shampoo, but the sight of the car and her sister brought reality home to her. Mara had never been ashamed or embarrassed of where she came from, but after a summer in the Hamptons, she suddenly thought, This isn’t good enough. He came from a family that hired a personal chef, and she came from a family with a fifteen-year-old microwave.

  She’d made a bunch of excuses to put off Ryan’s visit to Sturbridge, telling him she had to study for a test or had to write a paper. Finally, in November, she’d taken the train to Groton to visit him at his fancy private school. But she’d been awkward and out of place among his friends, and she’d broken up with him the next week, telling him what she’d been telling herself ever since she got back to Sturbridge: Last summer was fun and all, but it wasn’t real life. They weren’t meant to be.

  But breaking up with Ryan Perry and forgetting about Ryan Perry were two different things altogether. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, and a secret part of her wished that he’d tried harder to change her mind. He’d been totally understanding about their breakup, but that was the problem: Ryan was almost too nice. If only he’d yelled, or cried, or fought for their relationship more. Maybe that was all she’d wanted—to hear that he really missed her, really needed her. But he hadn’t said anything, only, “If this is what you really want,” and she’d told him it was. So it was over, and she hadn’t heard from Ryan since.

  She’d excused herself from babysitting for the Perrys in Palm Beach over winter break, fearing it would be too weird to see Ryan. But as winter turned to spring, Mara still couldn’t get Ryan out of her head, and she realized what a mistake breaking up with him had been. She was still in love with him, and when Anna Perry had called to offer Mara her old job (along with a raise—twelve thousand dollars for the summer!), Mara had started planning the outfit she’d wear when she first saw Ryan and how they’d fall into each other’s arms and pretend the year apart had never happened. She’d played the scene in her head so many times, she’d really started to believe it would happen.

  It rained all the way on the drive to Barnstable, a private airfield in Hyannis, and the car drove right up to the tarmac, where a white tent and a red carpet led to a sleek silver plane emblazoned with a gleaming R logo on the wing. A flight attendant in a crisp navy blue uniform took Mara’s bags—last year’s treasured LL Bean totes—and Mara was momentarily flustered to realize that the rest of the luggage cart held sleek nylon-and-canvas rollaway suitcases. Would she ever get it right?

  A tall lady in an embroidered caftan and raffia slippers wearing the biggest diamond Mara had ever seen cheerfully waved her up the ramp. “Pity about the rain, isn’t it? They said it would shower—but this is almost a hurricane! I’m Chelsea Reynolds, welcome, welcome. There you go, watch the puddle on the last step. Anna told me we were picking up a friend, but she didn’t say it was you!
”

  Her? Mara didn’t know what she meant by that, and was about to ask, but the minute she set foot inside the plane, she was enveloped in a bear hug.

  “If it isn’t Miss Waters! The diva! Girlfriend, where’ve you been all year?” Lucky Yap demanded, readjusting his own leopard-print dashiki. Lucky was one of the most important paparazzi working the society circuit. He was the unofficial arbiter of Hamptons fabulosity—if you were in, Lucky took your photo; if you were out, you might as well move to the Jersey shore.

  “Lucky, hi!” Mara smiled, surrendering to his flurry of air-kisses.

  Lucky handed her a glass of champagne and quickly introduced her to the rest of the passengers—a typical hoity-toity Hamptons crowd wearing similar variations on ethnic African tribal wear. Apparently, the Serengeti had relocated to the East End this year. There was a smattering of boldfaced names and their assorted hangers-on, from brand-name heiresses to well-preserved society swans to pretty public-relations assistants and the E! style experts they represented.

  “Everyone knows Mara, right? My muse?” Lucky brayed. Last summer, Mara had helped Lucky out on a tricky assignment, and the popular photographer had made her a perennial presence in the society pages to show his appreciation.

  “Of course!” a sweet-faced girl replied. “Didn’t we meet at the Polo last year?”

  “Love that shirt. Is it Proenza?” one of the style experts asked, fingering the material on her pink polka-dot blouse. She’d matched it with a pair of slim white Bermuda shorts and cork-wedge espadrilles. After spending last summer with two fashion mavens—Jacqui and Eliza—Mara had picked up a few tips. She was flattered by the compliment and didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a knockoff she’d bought at Forever 21 for fifteen bucks.

  Lucky took a few shots of her, then leaned over to whisper conspiratorially with his seatmate. Mara couldn’t help but overhear buzzing as her name was linked to Ryan Perry’s.

  The stewardess led her to the nearest available seat and Mara sipped happily from her champagne flute, soaking in the atmosphere, listening in on the gossip from the Cape Cod beach wedding they were all returning from. After a year in Sturbridge, where the most glamorous thing in town was the hokey piano bar attached to the Hyatt, she’d forgotten how well the other half lived.

  “Oh! There’s Garrett!” a girl next to Mara whispered excitedly.

  “Mr. Reynolds!” Lucky greeted. “Can we get a shot?”

  Mara looked up to see a tall, shaggy-haired boy emerge from the cockpit. Immediately, all the girls in the group stood up a little straighter, trying to catch his eye. He was holding a champagne bottle aloft and grinning. He was rakishly, devilishly handsome, with a Jude Law-style flop of dark hair falling over his forehead. His button-down white Thomas Pink shirt lay rumpled and untucked from his black wool pants.

  “You,” he said, walking down the aisle and heading straight for Mara.

  He had deep, dark eyes, as dark as his hair, framed by the thickest set of lashes Mara had ever seen. “Come with me,” he said, taking her by the hand before she could protest. As Garrett led her away, the group parted silently to let them through, and Mara received glances of barely contained jealousy from the girls, as well as an approving nod from Lucky. Mara felt singled out, special, and she couldn’t help but think, Hamptons, here I come.

  Also by Melissa de la Cruz

  Beach Lane: Skinny-dipping

  Beach Lane: Sun-kissed

  Beach Lane: Crazy Hot

  Angels on Sunset Boulevard

  Girl Stays in the Picture

  The Ashleys

  The Ashleys: Jealous?

  The Ashleys: Birthday Vicious

  The Ashleys: Lip Gloss Jungle

  This book is lovingly dedicated to Jennie Kim, because you can’t write about best friends without having one of your own; Sara Shandler, editor extraordinaire, because this book is as much hers as it is mine; and Mike Johnston, just because.

  “It is more shameful to distrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them.”

  —La Rochefoucauld

  “It’s gettin’ hot in herre.”

  —Nelly

  eliza discovers fire & brimstone is a new cosmo flavor

  IT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH, BUT THEN THAT WAS PROBABLY because it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Seventh Circle, the newest, soon-to-be-hottest club in the Hamptons, wouldn’t get going until after midnight. A potato barn in its former life, Seventh Circle was a large, brown-shingled, rambling wood building set back in the Southampton woods. Only a discreet sign off the highway (seven circles posted to a tree, natch) let the initiated know they had arrived at their destination.

  Eliza Thompson steered her black Jetta into the parking lot, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive. She examined her makeup in the rearview mirror, applied a thick layer of lip gloss, stuck two fingers inside her mouth, and pulled them out slowly, just like Allure suggested, in order to avoid a grandmotheresque lipstick-on-teeth situation.

  She checked for detritus of Chanel Glossimer. Nothing. Perfect.

  Eliza grabbed her bag—the season’s covetable metallic leather Balenciaga motorcycle clutch. Eliza had bought it in Palm Beach, during the week she’d spent as a vacation au pair for the Perrys last winter. Inside was a rolled-up resume that listed her sparkling attributes: a Spence education (up until her parents’ bankruptcy last year and their subsequent move to Buffalo, that is), an internship at Jane (which had entailed fetching nonfat soy lattes and alphabetizing glitter nail polish), and a reference from her longtime friend and Manhattan boy-about-town, Kit Ashleigh.

  Life was almost great again for Eliza. Okay, sure, the Thompsons were still living in Buffalo—a far, far cry from the posh life they’d left behind in New York City—but they had moved from a sordid little rental to a proper three-bedroom condominium in the only luxury high-rise in the city. With a little help from some old friends and loyal clients, her dad was slowly getting back on his feet, and there was money for such things as thousand-dollar handbags again. (Well, there was credit at least.) With her grades and SAT scores (top 99th percentile—Eliza was no dummy), there was a good chance she would be able to wing financial aid and get into Princeton after all. This summer her parents were even renting a little Cape Cod in Westhampton. It had the smallest pool Eliza had ever seen—it was practically a bathtub!—but still, it was a house, it was theirs (for the summer), and it was in the Hamptons.

  The only thing keeping Eliza off balance was the Big Palm Beach Secret from last winter. Something had happened while she was there that she’d rather forget, but news traveled fast in the Hamptons and Eliza knew she’d have to come clean soon enough. She brushed aside the thought for now—it was time to focus on the task at hand: getting a job in the hottest new club in the Hamptons and recapturing her title as the coolest girl in town.

  Before Buffalo and bankruptcy, Eliza had been famous for being the prettiest, most popular girl on the New York private school circuit. Sugar Perry, who now ruled in her stead, had been a mere wannabe when Eliza was on the scene. Eliza was the one who set the trends (white-blond highlights), knew about all the best parties (Tuesdays at Butter), and dated the hottest guys (polo-playing Charlie Borshok, who was now Sugar’s boyfriend as well). Being “outed” as a poor au pair last summer had changed all that, but this was a new year, a new summer, and a new Eliza—who just happened to look a lot like the old Eliza, the girl everyone wanted to know and all the other girls wanted to be.

  It was still drizzling, the end of a typical early June East End rainstorm, as Eliza slid quickly out of her Jetta, which she’d begged her parents to lease her for the summer, and checked her cell phone for any missed calls from Jeremy. Last summer, Eliza had fallen in love with Jeremy Stone, the Perrys’ hunky nineteen-year-old gardener, but they’d broken up over the winter since they lived so far away from each other. Now that summer was here, Eliza was dying to see him again. She wasn’t exactly sure where Jeremy would fit in
with her plans for getting back on top of the social scene, since he wasn’t rich or famous (although he was very, very cute), but she did know her plans included him, and she hoped that would be good enough. With no missed calls or new texts, Eliza stuffed her phone back in her clutch and headed toward the club.

  The door was hanging open, so she let herself inside. Seventh Circle was supposed to be the place to be this summer, but here it was, a week after Memorial Day, and it hadn’t even opened yet. There was a thick layer of fresh sawdust on the floor, and a full construction crew was barking orders at one another. The barn had been retrofitted to accommodate a U-shaped zinc bar, and against the back wall stood a built-in glass liquor cabinet almost twenty-five feet high. The guys looked up when they spied Eliza. Several whistled at the sight of her tanned legs underneath her pink smocked Juicy tube dress. It was the kind of dress that made everyone else who wore it look fat or pregnant, but on Eliza it looked cute and sexy.

  “Hi, I’m here to see the owners—Alan or Kartik?” Eliza said, pulling her long blond hair into a high ponytail.

  One of the hard hats grunted and pointed a finger toward the back of the club. Eliza stepped over a paint tray delicately, picking her way past the sawhorses and a couple of dusty potato sacks, toward two guys yammering into their cell phone headsets.