Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “I am,” Mara said quietly. The Perry twins said Garrett’s name in the same way that someone else would say “Prince William” or “Leonardo di Caprio,” like he was some kind of god.

  Poppy’s eyes were like saucers. “No way.”

  “Funny, he didn’t mention anything about it last night,” Sugar said, looking at Mara as if Mara had done something wrong.

  “What’s it like, dating one of the richest guys in the Hamptons?” Randy Braverman asked, the boom suddenly over Mara’s head and the cameras directed on her.

  “We’re not dating. I mean, it’s our first—I mean, I don’t know. He’s really nice,” Mara stammered. “Sorry. I really need to go,” she said, scissoring through the crowd to the front door.

  Garrett emerged from the backseat of the car, carrying one long-stemmed white rose for Mara. He had slicked his dark hair back from his forehead, and he looked handsome in a buttercream-colored linen suit.

  “Your chariot, milady,” Garrett said. “What’s going on over here?” he asked, waving to the crowd, who were huddled in the foyer, watching them. The camera was still focused on the two of them, and Sugar was looking dangerously impatient.

  Mara accepted the rose and slid inside. “Sugar’s taping something for E! You know, the socialite show.”

  “Ah yes.” Garrett grinned. “Rich and Stupid in the Hamptons.”

  Mara blinked. She’d thought Sugar and Poppy were Garrett’s friends—that was the impression she’d gotten from the twins just now—but here he was making fun of them. Maybe he was smarter than he let on.

  “Champagne?” he asked, taking a bottle from a cleverly concealed refrigeration unit in the armrest. The Maybach was a cocoon of luxury, with two plasma television screens, wireless headsets, and bucket seats outfitted with full-body massagers. “They recline all the way down,” Garrett smiled naughtily. “But maybe we’ll save that for later.”

  Mara pretended not to hear. She was beginning to worry she’d made a mistake in saying yes to the date, when all she’d wanted to do was find a way to make Ryan see that they were meant to be together. She didn’t want to lead Garrett on, especially since he was going to all this trouble.

  “You are absolutely gorgeous,” Garrett said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. He looked at her admiringly, complimenting her on her dress, her hair, her smile, her perfume, her legs, her shoes. It was nice to feel appreciated, especially since in Sturbridge, she always felt average, and yesterday, in front of Allison and Ryan, she’d felt practically invisible.

  The restaurant was a hushed, formal establishment with tuxedoed waiters and silver candelabras. Mara felt clumsy and out of place, even though she didn’t look it. As the haughty maitre d’ led them to their table, Garrett whispered, “I bet he’s wearing women’s underwear.” Mara stifled a guffaw and stopped feeling intimidated, even if they were by far the youngest people there.

  At dinner, Garrett ordered for her, which would have annoyed her if the dishes he’d chosen hadn’t been perfectly delicious. Mara never had “torchons of foie gras” or “gently poached langoustines smothered in caviar” before. The most exotic restaurant in Sturbridge was the Baja Fresh. This was by far the best and most interesting meal she’d ever had. Between the fish course and the meat course, the waiter brought out a martini glass filled with cold cucumber sorbet. “A palate cleanser,” Garrett explained. Mara gulped it down, relishing the juicy tartness.

  She had to admit she was having fun. For sure, Garrett was a tiny bit self-centered—Mara got a little tired of hearing about his opinion on everything from the electoral process, to stem-cell research, to the new Wes Anderson film, to his idea for a great movie (a remake of Casablanca in space!)—but since he was so passionate about it, she didn’t hold it against him. Aside from his suggestive asides, he was a riot. He had a childish enthusiasm and irreverence that was catching, and against her better instincts, Mara found herself warming to him.

  “I’m never eating again,” she declared, after putting away a luscious dessert and patting her full stomach. “That was amazing.”

  Garrett poured the last of the Sauternes into her dessert wine glass. “Cheers,” he said. They polished off the bottle of wine—he’d palmed a hundred-dollar bill so the sommelier wouldn’t check IDs, and Mara was definitely feeling tipsy. She staggered out of her chair, and Garrett offered her his arm. He steered her gently back to the sedan.

  “Where to?” the chauffeur asked, tipping his cap.

  Mara shrugged, smiling impishly at Garrett. He really was hot. She could understand why Poppy and Sugar were jealous. Sugar’s boyfriend Charlie was attractive, but Eliza said it was thanks to major plastic surgery, and Poppy had recently been dumped by her on-again, off-again boyfriend Leo, who was slightly cross-eyed.

  “Seventh Circle?” Garrett suggested.

  Mara nodded. Dinner had been so pleasant. It seemed rude to cut the evening short, especially since Garrett was being conscientious.

  “My friend works there,” she said, smiling as the Maybach accelerated into the night.

  celebrities are like two-year-olds: demanding and prone to tantrums

  ELIZA HAD FOLLOWED KARTIK AND ALAN’S INSTRUCTIONS to the letter and was dressed in a silver-sequined Sass & Bide minidress that brushed the tops of her thighs—Jessica Simpson owned the only other one that had ever been made—and a pair of four-inch metallic Pierre Hardy heels.

  The club glittered under the strobe lights, and the double-height glass liquor cabinet that ran the length of the club along the back wall was an architectural marvel. The bartenders were hooked to mountain-climbing lines, and when a customer ordered a certain drink, they scaled the shelves like trapeze artists and deftly retrieved the requested bottle. It was an entertaining diversion and a cool gimmick. Already, customers were angling for the most-out-of-reach liquor choices, just to look up the sexy bartenders’ skirts. Eliza still couldn’t believe the transformation from construction site to hot club that had happened practically overnight. She had to hand it to those guys—they knew what they were doing.

  But she hadn’t figured that working at a nightclub would be quite so demanding. She’d barely had time to hang out with Mara or even ask her what she was doing with Garrett Reynolds, since it had been total chaos at the velvet rope when they’d arrived. Eliza had put them at the best table in the house; Mara was her best friend, and Garrett was a big deal because of his name alone, so it made sense. She only wished that, like them, she could sit down. Between making sure the celebrities were entertained and indulged, keeping the no-names at bay, feeding the press juicy tidbits, and ducking the airborne bartenders scaling the liquor cabinet, Eliza was exhausted. Her nerves were frazzled, and if one more bodyguard demanded that another photographer be tossed out of the club, she would scream.

  Already, she was agitated because Ondine Sylvester, a sitcom star who had once dated pop singer Chauncey Raven’s husband, was reportedly on her way. This was bad news, because Chauncey and her hubby, Daryl Wolf, a failed backup singer, were front and center in the VIP room. Chauncey’s handler demanded that they not let Ondine inside, lest her client become upset. Ondine had two children by Daryl and had been pregnant with a third when Chauncey had come on the scene. Eliza patiently explained to Chauncey’s pompous publicist that they couldn’t deny Ondine entrance but that she could promise to seat Ondine on the opposite side of the room. It was important to keep Chauncey happy, since she was the bigger celebrity at the club, but Eliza also understood that they couldn’t afford to alienate Ondine either, since they needed as many famous people in the house as possible.

  “Eliza—someone at the front for you—says he knows you,” Eliza’s headset crackled.

  “Got it. On my way,” she replied, straightening her headset. God, it was probably some old friend from high school trying to get inside, Eliza thought. She’d already let Taylor and Lindsay in, just to show that there were no hard feelings from last summer. Plus, how much fun was it to be the one wh
o held their evening in her hands?

  She walked to the front door and saw Jeremy—all six-four of him, looking a bit rumpled in a gray pinstriped suit and a loosened necktie. She’d forgotten how gorgeous he was. His chestnut hair was combed back high from his forehead and curled underneath his ears. He’d told her he would stop by the club that night, but a part of her hadn’t believed that he would actually show up. He looked so handsome and businesslike in his suit, and the sight of his red tie askew made her love him even more.

  “I told them you asked me to meet you here, but they wouldn’t let me in.” He grinned.

  “It’s good, Rudolph,” Eliza said to the burly bouncer, smiling at Jeremy.

  “Lotsa people say they know Eliza tonight,” Rudolph said menacingly to Jeremy, even as he unhooked the velvet rope.

  “Rudolph—I’m taking a five-minute break. If Ondine arrives, beep me on the headset.”

  Eliza led Jeremy by the hand to the back garden, where patrons who’d had enough of the pounding techno beat and relentless posing went for a smoke.

  “What’s with the suit?” she asked playfully. She didn’t want to appear overly excited to see him, even though she was bursting with happiness.

  “I’m interning at Morgan Stanley. I-banking,” he said.

  “Wow. That’s awesome!” she said, impressed. Only last summer, Eliza had hated twentysomething investment banker types who rented share-houses in the Hamptons and thought they were entitled to everything. But looking at Jeremy in his suit, I-banking suddenly seemed a lot sexier.

  “Yeah, it is. They work me like a dog, though. I’m there until three, four A.M. every night. I didn’t think I could get away this weekend, but thankfully we closed on the RFP,” he said, talking in financial jargon.

  Eliza smiled admiringly at him. This was so not the Jeremy from last summer, who had worked as a gardener on the Perry estate. Last year all Jeremy had cared about were dwarf Japanese elm trees and American Beauty roses.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “My parents’ place, but I’m in the city all week, staying at an apartment the firm rents for us.”

  “So,” Eliza said, taking Jeremy’s hand.

  “So,” replied Jeremy, rubbing his thumb over her Sheer-Bliss-manicured nails.

  They stared at each other, feeling suddenly shy to be so near one other again. Eliza hadn’t realized she was inching toward him, until she was standing so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek and they were hugging. She had never experienced anything like this before. She and Jeremy belonged together. Even though the year apart had been hard—she’d tried not to ask if he was dating anyone in the many e-mails she sent him, and he’d never mentioned any other girls in the e-mails he sent her—it was just like the first time they’d met, when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Before Eliza knew it, he was kissing her, and it was just as sweet as she remembered. “It’s been too long,” he murmured into her hair. “I thought about you all the time.”

  “Me too,” she said, liking how her head fit snugly under his chin. “My parents are in Westhampton this summer. We got a house,” she said, a little proudly. “Do you maybe want to have dinner with us next week?” Eliza wouldn’t have invited Jeremy to meet her parents in the past, fearing they would suss out his working-class background immediately and their disapproval would come between her and Jeremy. But looking at him in his suit and hearing him talk about his internship, she couldn’t imagine how her parents wouldn’t approve of him.

  “If I can get out of work. We have a big presentation next week. But I’ll try.”

  Her headset buzzed. “Eliza! Ondine just walked into the VIP room! There are no tables! And she’s about to spot Chauncey and Daryl!”

  “I’ve got to go,” she said reluctantly pulling away from his embrace.

  “Right. I’m beat anyway. It’s been a long week.”

  “I’ll call you,” she said, fading back inside the club.

  “Not if I call you first.” He smiled.

  Eliza ordered a table brought out from the back kitchen and set up in the far corner of the VIP room for Ondine, so that the happy newlyweds could drink their free cocktails in peace.

  jacqui catches a wave, but the boy slips through her fingers

  “LEAVE HER,” PHILIPPE ADVISED, AS JACQUI TRIED UNSUCCESSFULLY to rouse Mara from the bed. They had to be in Montauk for the kids’ first surfing lesson by nine, and they wouldn’t be able to make it if they waited for Little Miss Hangover to wake up.

  Jacqui gave Mara one last shake and was rewarded with a bleary groan. “Mffpphhh,” Mara said, turning to her side and burying her head under the pillows.

  Mara had stumbled in near dawn, laughing hysterically when she’d climbed into the nearest bed and landed on Philippe. Jacqui and Philippe had helped her into the bottom bunk, Jacqui taking care to cover her friend with a blanket before unzipping her out of her dress. They had tucked her in like one of the kids, and the next morning they looked down at her like bemused parents.

  “She’s a partier, huh?” Philippe asked a few minutes later, as he and Jacqui collected the kids and all their aquatic equipment, piling the latter into the back of the Range Rover.

  “Not usually,” Jacqui said, defending her friend as she strapped Cody into his car seat and grabbed Zoë’s doll out of William’s hands and returned it to the whimpering little girl.

  Jacqui was a little annoyed with Philippe. She was bummed to have missed Eliza’s opening night at the club. She still had no idea where he’d spent the rest of the evening last night. It wasn’t any of her business, but she was a little irritated that he’d paid more attention to Anna than he had to her. Rules were rules, and she didn’t plan on breaking hers, but Jacqui wasn’t accustomed to playing second banana to anyone.

  Philippe backed the SUV out of the driveway, and they were to the private road when Dr. Abraham, in a red bathrobe and flippers, came running out of the house, flagging them down. The kids grumbled as the doctor hauled himself into the car.

  “Thank you,” the doctor nodded, huffing and puffing and buckling his seat belt.

  “Ah, the good doctor,” Philippe said cheerfully. “You need to monitor the children’s physical activities, yes?” he asked, discreetly motioning toward a large tote bag filled with sunscreen and books. “The beach behavior?”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Dr. Abraham replied.

  * * *

  When they arrived in Montauk, the two surfing instructors, Bree, a squat, toothy girl with blond dreadlocks, and Roy, a laid-back Hawaiian guy who kept giving them hang-ten hand signals, showed them where to change. Anna had bought all the kids matching black full-body wet suits and the most high-tech equipment, including battery-powered homing devices on their ankle chains that attached to their fiberglass surfboards. Bree handed Jacqui and Philippe wet suits as well, explaining that the cute little string bikini Jacqui was wearing would get totally torn off her body by the waves, eliciting looks of excitement and then disappointment from all the males present.

  Once everyone had changed, they paddled out on their boards in the ocean. The smaller waves swelled close to shore, so they didn’t have to go too far. Bree and Roy took the two youngest between them, advising William to follow.

  “Ouch!” William said, as a wave crested and he smacked himself on the face with his board.

  “Hold it out like this,” Philippe said, holding his borrowed board at arm’s length and grasping the rails.

  A large wave lifted all of them up a few feet, drawing frightened screams from Cody, who was wearing water wings with his wet suit.

  “Boards at the sides, facing the beach!” Roy directed, cupping his hands over his mouth. “Keep an eye on the waves and choose one that looks like it can hold you, like this,” he said. “Then pull yourself up on the board. Paddle out, let the wave take you.”

  “Easier said than done,” Jacqui noted, pulling herself up on the board only to fa
ll back on the other side. “Merda!”

  “Look at me! Look at me!” Zoë said, slipping out of Bree’s reach and paddling furiously as a wave brought her to shore.

  “Nice one, mahalo!” Roy said, giving another hang-ten signal.

  “Cowabunga!” William yelled, diving straight into the sand as a wave tossed him backward. “I’m okay! I’m okay!” he said, resurfacing and spitting out ocean water.

  Philippe ducked into a wave, paddling furiously, then emerged, standing straight up on his board, cruising to the sand. He ran back to the water, laughing. “I haven’t done that in years.” His whole face was lit up, and his eyes were gleaming.

  “Wow! Surpreendente!” Jacqui said. “I didn’t know you could surf.”

  “Only a little. It’s not that hard,” he said, coaching her. “There, get that one. . . . Pull up, pull up, bien! Ah, fantastic! Go, go, go!” he cheered, as Jacqui coasted gracefully down to the beach.

  * * *

  They watched the kids bob up and down for a while, satisfied that Roy and Bree were taking good care of their charges, then retreated back to shore, where Dr. Abraham was snoozing underneath his umbrella.

  “Looks like they’re paying him to take a vacation,” Jacqui noted dryly.

  Philippe nodded. “Good thing we’re working so hard,” he teased as he spread out their towels. “The only thing I hate is when it sloshes around,” he said, jumping up and down.

  Jacqui nodded and unzipped her suit, peeling it from her body. She could feel Philippe staring at her, even though she wasn’t looking at him.