Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

WHEN THEY ARRIVED AT ELIZA’S HOUSE, IT WAS ALMOST ten o’clock in the evening, since Jacqui had insisted on trying to find Philippe to invite him to come along. “It seems rude to just leave him here,” Jacqui told Mara. Even though she’d promised herself no more boys, there was nothing wrong with being friendly, was there? But the French boy never resurfaced, and Mara, who was tired of waiting, persuaded Jacqui to leave him a note with directions to the Thompsons’ house instead. The only car left in the driveway was Ryan’s Aston Martin, and even though the Perrys had always assured them they could use any car in the lot that was available, they decided to hitch a ride to Westhampton with one of the day staff instead. They figured they could call a taxi or something for the ride back.

  The Thompsons’ rental was a weathered New England cottage with an inviting wraparound porch. It was nestled in a pretty cul-de-sac and shaded by a grove of bent oak trees. Several single-passenger kayaks and long wooden paddles were stacked on its front lawn.

  Eliza greeted them at the door with a tray of frosty mojitos in tall glasses.

  “About time,” she chided, handing out drinks. “I thought I’d have to drink these all myself.”

  Eliza gave Jacqui and Mara a quick tour. “I don’t think they’ve renovated since the seventies,” she sighed, shaking her head at the orange shag rug. “And of course, we’re on the wrong side of the highway,” she added, since the house was located north of Route 27.

  Mara looked around admiringly. She really couldn’t understand Eliza sometimes. Sure, it was nothing like the Perrys’ designer show palace on Georgica, but it was airy and comfortable nonetheless. While the house looked small from the outside, Mara counted six bedrooms—two in the attic, three on the ground floor, and one downstairs in the expansive finished basement, complete with a dartboard and a foosball table. Eliza had no idea how good she had it.

  They made their way to the back patio, where Eliza pointed out the “crummy” pool and the “gross” hot tub. The three of them sat at the edge of the pool and let their legs dangle over the side, balancing their drinks carefully.

  “This is delish,” Mara said, taking a big gulp from her glass, careful not to splash on her shirt. The sugarcane and mint mixed with the rum had a pleasant salty but sweet taste.

  “Mmm,” Jacqui agreed. God, it was heaven to be away from those kids. She borrowed a cigarette from Eliza’s pack. Eliza lit one too and offered Mara one. After shaking her head, Mara changed her mind and took one as well. They puffed contentedly, sipping their drinks.

  Eliza asked them about their day and listened keenly as Mara described her disappointment at finding Ryan involved with someone else so soon.

  “I know Allison Evans,” Eliza said carefully, keeping her voice even. “I didn’t know they were together. Are you sure? Because Ryan has lots of girlfriends—I mean, friends who are girls,” she said a little awkwardly, thinking of how she was one of Ryan’s “friends who are girls” as well. “Maybe you should ask him about it?”

  Mara shrugged. “What’s the point? He totally acted like I was nothing to him.” She drained her glass, feeling the effects of the rum. “I should have known.”

  Jacqui put her arm around Mara’s shoulder in sympathy and gave her a squeeze. “It’s okay, chica, everyone makes mistakes,” Jacqui said as she looked at Eliza meaningfully. If Eliza was ever going to own up to Palm Beach, this was the perfect time to do it.

  But Eliza didn’t meet Jacqui’s gaze. “Look at it this way, Mar, at least you know you’re not going to die a virgin,” she said ruefully, stubbing out her cigarette on the tile.

  “You and Jeremy never—?” Mara asked.

  “Dating long-distance didn’t really work for us.” Eliza sighed. “He’s supposed to stop by the club tomorrow. But I don’t know. . . . I’m afraid he might be seeing someone else too,” she lamented. Jeremy had finally returned her call yesterday. He’d said he was really looking forward to seeing her, but he’d been curt and distracted on the phone.

  “With my track record, I’ll probably never get to do it. Something always happens. I’m just trying to give it away, and no one will take me up on it!” Eliza whined, fully aware of how ridiculous she sounded.

  “Here lies Eliza Marie Thompson,” Jacqui said in a grave tone. “The Last American Virgin. She tried to give it away, but no one would take it. May she rest in peace.”

  Jacqui and Mara giggled. Eliza pretended to be insulted and then gave in to the laughter bubbling up inside of her.

  “C’mon,” she said, dragging them up to their feet when their giggles subsided. She was suddenly energized with a new plan. She grabbed the bottle of rum. Screw dangling their feet in this dinky little washbasin—the ocean wasn’t far.

  * * *

  To get there faster, they cut through the neighbors’ yards diagonally, ducking under clotheslines and stepping over kids’ go-carts until they reached the shore. They watched the waves rumble in, cresting on the horizon. The cool night air smelled damp and salty. Eliza stuck a toe in the water. “It’s warm,” she marveled. The Atlantic was never warm. The waters off Long Island usually felt like an ice bath, especially in the evening. In Eliza’s buzzed state, she decided it must be a sign. “Let’s go swimming!” she said, exhilarated.

  “Hello, we’re not wearing bathing suits,” Mara protested, wading into the shallows. The water was comfortably temperate, but still . . .

  “So what?” Eliza shrugged, already tossing off her cardigan. She felt hot from all the rum. A dunk in the ocean sounded like the perfect way to cool off.

  Jacqui held her glass and assessed the situation. The water felt wonderful on her bare feet. She finished her drink and followed Eliza’s lead, stepping out of her cotton sundress. She rarely wore any underwear anyway, and she ran laughing into the waves.

  Eliza shed her T-shirt and capris, then quickly removed her bra and underwear as well. She whooped as she caught up to Jacqui in the water.

  Jacqui and Eliza splashed around happily, calling to Mara. “C’mon, Mar! Or do you only swim naked with boys?” Eliza called teasingly, reminding Mara that she’d been caught skinny-dipping with Ryan in the Perrys’ pool last year—by her boyfriend, no less.

  That did it. Mara unbuttoned her blouse and stepped out of her jeans. She hitched her camisole over her head and folded her underwear neatly on top of her clothes.

  “Banzai!” Mara laughed, as she cartwheeled into the ocean.

  They swam around lazily for a while, feeling delightfully wicked. This was what summer was all about! They floated on their backs and looked up at the stars and then took turns dunking each other. After a little while, the alcohol they’d drunk wore off and they all discovered the same thing, at just about the same time: The water was freezing!

  “I’m c-c-c-cold!” Eliza said, shivering as she ran back to shore. She was in such a hurry to get back into her clothes, she put her shirt on backward. Mara and Jacqui followed, laughing at how stupid they’d been not to bring towels. They watched the waves roll in, and were about to head back, when Eliza was struck by an idea.

  “Does anyone have a pen?” she asked, holding up the empty bottle of rum.

  “I do,” Mara said, fishing in her pocket and handing it to Eliza.

  “What are you doing?” Jacqui asked, watching Eliza carefully peel away the label. Eliza smiled as she scribbled a few lines on the back of the label. She showed them what she had written, then folded it in thirds and stuck it inside the bottle. She screwed the cap back on, nice and tight.

  “Did you ever do this as kids?” Eliza asked.

  Jacqui and Mara shook their heads.

  “It’s fun. You never know who’s going to get it,” Eliza said. “Who’s got the best arm? Mara?”

  Mara shrugged and accepted the bottle. She threw it in a wide arc, and the three of them watched the bottle bob up and down until it disappeared into the waves. They trudged back to Eliza’s house in good spirits.

  “So you guys are coming tomorrow night to t
he club, right? I’ll put you on the list,” Eliza said, as Jacqui flicked her cell open to call a taxi.

  “Okay,” Jacqui said slowly. She was already feeling worried about getting caught sneaking out tonight. “I guess it depends on when we get the kids to bed. . . .”

  “Yeah, I don’t know,” Mara said. “I have this dinner thing earlier.”

  Eliza gripped Mara’s shoulders affectionately, as if to shake away her doubts. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. It’s the first weekend of the summer. Promise.”

  “Is Ryan going to be there?” Mara asked, thinking she really didn’t want a repeat of that morning again.

  “So what if he is?” Eliza asked. “I mean, well, Mara—”

  But suddenly, there was a flash of headlights as an Aston Martin Vanquish convertible turned into the driveway.

  “Bonjour!” Philippe called out. Obviously, he had no qualms about using Ryan’s car.

  “Am I too late?” Philippe asked, a crooked smile on his lips when he saw how disheveled the girls were, their wet clothes plastered to their bodies.

  “No, you’re just in time,” Jacqui replied briskly, “to drive us home.”

  anna perry is a lot younger than her botox implies

  THE NEXT EVENING, AFTER WRESTLING THE KIDS TO bed, Jacqui walked into the playroom—a carpeted, windowless room in between the girls’ and boys’ bedrooms—and began putting away toys, games, skateboards, Legos, plastic pistols, Barbie dolls, and assorted talking stuffed animals in the plastic chest. The kids’ wing was located in a remote, almost inaccessible corner of the house, behind a soundproofed door. Jacqui noticed that the kids couldn’t have been farther from Anna’s bedroom unless they were in the servants’ cottage, but that a dual-level walk-in closet, complete with a built-in wet bar, was located right off the master bedroom.

  Jacqui finished her task alone, since Mara was getting ready for her date with Garrett, and Philippe had wandered off again. But when she walked back to the cottage, she found Philippe sitting—no, lounging on the steps outside.

  The lazy bastard. He was never around when they needed him. Jacqui put her hands on her hips, ready to give him a piece of her mind.

  Seeing the look on her face, Philippe handed her a rolled-up joint. “Not really my scene,” he explained, motioning back toward the house. “Here, take a poof.”

  It really wasn’t a great idea to get stoned right on the property. Especially if she was concerned about getting a stellar reference from the Perrys at the end of the summer. But she was feeling a little tense . . . and, well, she wasn’t one to turn down a hit. She accepted it and inhaled, feeling the acrid smoke hit the back of her throat.

  “You are amazing,” Philippe said. “Ma tante said it wouldn’t be easy, but I did not think it would be this hard. I just wanted to be near the beach.”

  Jacqui laughed. She really couldn’t be that angry at Philippe. He sounded just like she had last summer. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the crickets chirping in the bushes and watching the fireflies dance around the bushes by the pool. Philippe’s cell phone rang a couple of times, but he ignored it.

  “Who’s trying to get hold of you so bad?” Jacqui asked when he ignored it the third time.

  Philippe was nonchalant. “Just a couple of friends,” he replied, and left it at that.

  A few minutes later, Mara walked out of the door, wearing one of Jacqui’s designer dresses. It was a low-cut Zac Posen lavender chiffon number, with beaded rhinestones that formed a pretty pattern on the neck and waist. The back dipped so low Mara was sure it was indecent, but Jacqui had assured her that none of the clothes Mara had brought would be dressy enough for dinner at the American Hotel.

  Philippe whistled.

  “I don’t know if I put this on right,” she said to Jacqui. “Does it look okay?”

  Jacqui handed Philippe the roach, then stood up to judge. She pulled down on the waist, so that the neckline sat a little lower. “There. Perfeito. I have a pair of Jimmy Choo heels in my bag. Those are cute, but they’re not high enough,” Jacqui advised, pointing to Mara’s sandals.

  “What are you smoking?” Mara asked them, sniffing the fragrant air suspiciously.

  “Nothing.”

  “Rien.”

  Mara knew they were lying, but she was too concerned about looking presentable and too grateful to Jacqui for loaning her the dress to criticize them. Besides, she was tired of being the Good Girl all the time. Jacqui and Philippe were old enough to know the risks of getting fired if they were caught smoking pot.

  “Tell Eliza I’m sorry I didn’t make it, okay?” Mara told them, slipping on Jacqui’s sandals. She walked up to the main house to wait for Garrett in the foyer.

  Not long after Mara left, a pair of heels clicked on the concrete walk. Jacqui figured it was just Mara—she’d probably forgotten something—but it was Anna Perry who emerged from the darkness, dressed in a silk robe pulled tightly across her waist, and high-heeled brocade bedroom slippers. “I thought I smelled something,” she said.

  Jacqui choked on an exhale and tried to wave away the smoke.

  “There you are,” Anna said, smiling warmly at Philippe. “I was looking for you everywhere,” she said flirtatiously, as Jacqui quickly hid the incriminating evidence behind her back.

  “What are the two of you up to?” Anna asked, taking a seat next to Philippe by the curb. “Jacqui, is something wrong?”

  Jacqui shook her head and surreptitiously threw down the joint, crushing it beneath her heel. “Nothing—we were just—nothing.” Jacqui attempted a smile, edging away from the two of them. “I’m sorry, I’m really tired. I need to hit the straw. Um, good night!” she said, turning the doorknob to the servants’ cottage.

  She slammed the door behind her, her heart beating quickly in her chest. Her boss had busted them smoking pot! How would Anna ever recommend her for a job in New York now? Jacqui wondered what was going on outside, since Anna was still talking to Philippe. She pressed an ear to the door and found she could overhear parts of their conversation.

  “Do you have anything?” she heard Anna ask.

  Philippe murmured a protest.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not that clueless, you know,” Anna said.

  Jacqui heard rustling and then Anna’s voice again. “God, have I been craving this. Kevin is so boring sometimes. We used to have a lot of fun together, but now it’s all just work, work, work.”

  Philippe snorted.

  Jacqui couldn’t believe it. Anna Perry! Smoking pot with one of the au pairs! Anna began to giggle at something Philippe said, and Jacqui suddenly felt abandoned, even though she was the one who’d left.

  “How old do you think I am?” Anna asked Philippe.

  Oh God, what an old line, Jacqui thought.

  “Twenty-five,” Philippe said graciously.

  “Close, but no,” Anna said. “I’m thirty-two. That’s not too old, is it?”

  Jacqui muffled a laugh. Thirty-two seemed kind of ancient to her.

  “Sometimes I can’t believe I’m thirty-two and the mother of seven children. Seven!” Anna shook her head. “I’m like Maria von Trapp or something.”

  Jacqui coughed. Anna was actually only the mother of one kid, Cody, and was a stepmom to the rest of the brood. Jacqui couldn’t hear Philippe’s reply. Then Anna said something about her life passing her by, and Jacqui realized the poor thing was lonely. It must suck not to have any real friends to talk to and to have to resort to the company of an employee. Still, why did it have to be Philippe?

  After what seemed like an eternity, Jacqui heard Anna stand up, and footsteps clacking away from the cottage. She opened the door tentatively. Now that Anna had gone, maybe she and Philippe could hit Seventh Circle. But when Jacqui stepped outside again, there was no sign of the French boy anywhere. There were only the remnants of a stubbed-out joint and some torn rolling papers on the curb.

  Jacqui felt deflated. She could still go to the club, but somehow, t
he prospect wasn’t as fun or exciting as it had been when she had assumed Philippe would be with her. Besides, now that she thought about it—she was tired. Running after three kids all day could do that to a girl. She trudged up the stairs, thinking that her SAT book could keep her company. Somehow, knowing she was doing the right thing wasn’t as much consolation as she’d thought.

  there’s nothing like a maybach to warm a girl’s heart

  MARA WAS MYSTIFIED TO FIND A FULL CAMERA CREW IN the foyer, setting up overhead lights and screens. One of the guys wearing a headset and carrying a boom almost crashed into Anna’s collection of miniature crystal Lladro animal sculptures displayed on a lower shelf. Sugar Perry, wearing a shrunken pink velour hoodie that exposed her midriff, and matching pink velour hot pants, was talking animatedly into the camera. The director, a young guy in faded cords, was kneeling, checking Sugar’s image on the monitor, when he noticed Mara hovering by the doorway. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, motioning the cameraman to take shots of Mara.

  “Oh, that’s nobody,” Sugar replied in a very bored voice. “She just works here.”

  But the director ignored Sugar and stared at Mara. “Hi, I’m Randy Braverman from E! Entertainment Network,” he said, shaking her hand. “Did Laurie tell you about our show?”

  Then Mara remembered. Sugar was starring in a reality show about rich kids in the Hamptons this summer. The show’s premise was to capture the pampered class’s day-to-day life, which meant following Sugar everywhere. Laurie had warned them that by working for the Perrys, their participation was mandatory. They’d all had to sign release forms earlier in the week.

  “What’s Garrett’s car doing here?” Sugar asked, looking out the bay window, where a sleek Mercedes Maybach had pulled up to the driveway.

  “That’s my ride,” Mara explained, inching toward the door and hoping to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  “You’re going out with Garrett Reynolds?” Sugar asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice.

  “Who’s going out with Garrett Reynolds?” Poppy Perry demanded, walking down the stairs. Poppy was a little miffed she hadn’t been chosen for the show. Earlier that year their publicist had released a memo to the press requesting that the Perry twins not be called “the Perry twins” in public anymore, but instead be known as “Sugar Perry” and “Poppy Perry” from now on—since they insisted they were two different girls with two different careers. But it had bit Poppy in the ass—apparently, she wasn’t as famous as her taller, sexier, more toxic twin.