Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Who knew how Sydney would react once he saw how Vidalia was wearing the dress? He might hate it. He might throw Eliza out of the studio for what she’d done. Eliza had seen it happen—she’d been backstage at a fashion show last summer when the designer had thrown a glass of champagne at a makeup artist who’d had the audacity to lend a model his wraparound sunglasses for the show. The sunglasses hadn’t been on the style sheet for that particular outfit. The designer had ripped the sunglasses off the model’s head so violently, he’d pulled off her hair weave. The model had had to walk the runway bald as a newborn.

  Eliza panicked. “You know, Vidalia, maybe we should have you take off these chains,” she suggested. “Sydney might not like it.”

  But Vidalia only swatted Eliza’s hand away. “It’s great. Don’t worry.”

  In any case, it was too late, since all the models were being called for a final run-through. Eliza took a deep breath and walked to the middle of room, hoping her first day at Sydney’s studio wouldn’t be her last.

  jacqui babysits a thirty-three-year-old

  BEHIND THE CLOSED DOOR, JACQUI could hear anna and Kevin continue to quarrel about his inability to listen to his wife and her inability to let him do his job. She knew Anna and Kevin weren’t mad at her. They were just using her tardiness as an excuse to yell at each other—something they did much too often these days. Jacqui knew that some of it stemmed from Anna’s growing insecurity about growing older—she’d almost shot her hairstylist when he pointed out a few gray strands of hair at her last appointment.

  Jacqui didn’t know how two people could drive each other so crazy. Anna nagged Kevin about everything from his table manners to his golf drive. Kevin squabbled with Anna over the credit card bills and the maid’s housekeeping. Anna had a penchant for hurling the closest object at hand, and so far, several of her prized Lladro animal figurines had shattered in the heat of battle.

  Last week before a dinner party they were hosting in their apartment, Kevin had broken Anna’s treasured Mason Pearson hairbrush in two in a fit of temper. “That’s a six-hundred-dollar hairbrush!” Anna had wailed in agony, and in retaliation had flicked his ear so hard during the ensuing battle that she’d broken cartilage. Enraged, Kevin had called Anna “abusive” and threatened to call 911. Things only calmed down when their guests arrived, wondering why Kevin’s head was in a bandage.

  Jacqui had quickly learned to usher the children away from witnessing the battles of World War III. She was an even-tempered, sunny-side-of-the-street kind of girl. She liked things to be amicable. Even her breakup with Kit Ashleigh couldn’t have been more civil.

  The two of them had dated soon after Jacqui had moved to New York. At first, things were great, but it soon became evident that they didn’t work as a couple—Kit lost his cool every time another guy even looked at Jacqui (which was often) and Jacqui got tired of having to assure him 24/7 of her love. The last straw was when Kit didn’t even want to take her to the newest club he was promoting because if they stayed home, then she was safe from the competition. Part of the reason she was drawn to him was because Kit always had a lot of fun. But somehow the two of them together only stressed him out. She could tell he’d almost been relieved when she broke it off—almost as if he’d been expecting it. Still, she was grateful they had been able to part as friends.

  After Kit, she had dated a few boys—no one special, no one who made her breath catch in her throat and her skin tingle just at the sight of him. But Jacqui was an optimistic person. She would be open to love, and she would listen when it came knocking. After all, she had time to wait.

  Like the way she could wait for NYU. They’d sent her an e-mail explaining that their decision hinged on one tiny, minuscule, nagging little detail. A problem with translating credits from her school back in Brazil. Some bureaucratic mess. Once it was cleared up, she would be sharing notes with some underage supermodel and a lone Olsen twin before she knew it.

  Nothing really bothered Jacqui. After all, when you’re five-ten, built like Gisele Bündchen, with a smile as blinding as the sun, what was there to worry about? Plus, she was looking forward to another summer in the Hamptons—hanging out with Mara and Eliza again—and she wouldn’t have any more pesky SAT classes to keep her from partying up a storm. It was going to rock! She deserved a break after working so hard all year.

  Jacqui went back to her packing, took one last look at the closet—sundresses? Espadrilles? Thongs? Check, check, check—and zipped up both suitcases. She lugged them out to the door, where now only Anna was waiting.

  “Where’s Kevin?” Jacqui asked. Over the year, her relationship with her famously demanding employer had become almost sisterly. Anna wasn’t as terrifying or insane once you got to know her better, and they had become so friendly that Anna had even begun to confide in Jacqui.

  “He’s not coming. He got called for a meeting. So now I don’t have a date for the East Hampton Day-Care benefit tonight. Men!”

  Jacqui followed Anna into the elevator. “It’s probably important.”

  “What’s more important than spending time with his family? I swear, one of these days, I’m going to call Raoul Felder, just watch me!” Anna said, naming a notorious divorce attorney who handled high-profile marital disintegrations. “Maybe that will make him pay attention! He hardly even looks at me anymore.”

  “Shhh—you shouldn’t say that!” Jacqui said, crossing herself. Jacqui was superstitious and didn’t believe in tempting bad karma. As far as she could tell, divorce was the last thing that would solve Anna’s marital mess. That was the problem these days—everything was considered disposable—clothes, cell phones, relationships. Jacqui knew that once she fell in love—really fell in love—it would be forever. There would be no divorce in her future if she could help it. Her grandparents had been together for fifty-three years, until Papi died, and her parents had weathered twenty years so far.

  “Why not? It’s true. He takes me for granted! If I divorce him, he’ll finally realize how much I do around here,” Anna pouted. She’d told Jacqui that when they first met, Kevin couldn’t keep his hands off her, and the two of them would jet to Barbados or Capri at a moment’s notice. But years of marriage and its grueling domestic routine had left little time for such pleasures.

  Sometimes, Jacqui thought eight-year-old Zoë was more mature than Anna. Jacqui hadn’t realized it then, but she knew now that part of her job as an au pair was to take care of Anna as well. As if on cue, Anna rested her head on Jacqui’s shoulder.

  “He couldn’t do a thing without you,” Jacqui said soothingly as they walked out of the building and into the black stretch limousine parked in front of the awning.

  “Tell that to him,” Anna said bitterly. She shook her head. “Anyway, how was graduation? Everything went well?”

  It was nice of Anna to remember. Jacqui climbed into the limo and told Anna a little bit about the ceremony. The class had even been able to snag Tina Fey as a speaker since her housekeeper’s daughter went to the school. She wasn’t their first choice—Hillary Clinton was. But the senator had canceled due to a last-minute scheduling conflict. Such was life in the city.

  The car pulled away and began winding its way down and across town toward the helicopter landing. As they turned left on Park Avenue, Jacqui suddenly realized she’d forgotten to pack the most crucial item for a summer in the Hamptons.

  Her favorite Rosa Chá seashell-trimmed bikini. Three pieces of tiny fabric attached by a string. She’d shown her girlfriends back in Brazil the bathing suits Americans considered sexy. They had all laughed at the size of the bikini bottoms. They looked gigantic compared to the tiny tangas they were used to wearing.

  If only she’d remembered to grab it. Oh, well. It just meant she’d have fun buying a new one, even if she’d have to “Brazilianize” it a bit if she wanted to feel like herself.

  somewhere, chris martin is singing his heart out

  THEY ARRIVED AT THE SAG Harbor yacht club—ti
ny white lights illuminated the crisp sails against a dark sky. The forty-seven-foot-long Perry yacht was docked in a choice location—the first off the pier, nearest to the water. Ryan pulled up alongside the other cars parked across from their owners’ boats.

  “Your castle, milady,” he joked, but it wasn’t that far from the truth. The sleek sailboat was a twin-engine Catalina with a spacious and elegant master stateroom, guest V-berths, three bathrooms, a galley kitchen, a living room, and satellite TV. “It sleeps ten, so it should be big enough for the two of us.”

  Mara gasped. It was even larger and more beautiful than she’d remembered, with its hand-polished teak decks, sleek fiberglass finish, and moniker The Malpractice (so named after the lawsuits that had paid for the yacht) painted in platinum leaf on the transom. Three triangular flags flew at the top of the mast: the Stars and Stripes, the yacht club logo, and the Perrys’ own family coat of arms. She walked to the end of the dock, removed her shoes, and carefully stepped barefoot onto the deck of the boat, where she found a trail of rose petals leading to the downstairs cabins.

  “What’s this?” she asked, looking at him wonderingly.

  Ryan followed her down, half hidden underneath all of her luggage. “You’ll see.”

  She followed the trail of red rose petals and found that it led to the front deck, where a table and two chairs were set for a formal dinner.

  “Oh!” Mara said, clasping her hands.

  The starched white tablecloth held two dinner settings, Royal Copenhagen porcelain plates in a fleur jouy pattern. In the middle of the table stood silver chafing dishes warmed by a small gaslight. The smell of roasted chicken, herbed vegetables, and other succulent treats wafted up from the table. A silver bucket by the side of the rails held a magnum of Veuve Clicquot champagne.

  Ryan dumped the bags on the floor and walked up to Mara, embracing her from behind and whispering in her ear, “Welcome home.”

  Mara felt her eyes well up with tears. It was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen—and not at all cheesy and contrived, like an episode of The Bachelor. This was the real thing. And it was all for her.

  A waiter in a white dinner jacket came out of the shadows and bowed. “Is it all to your satisfaction, Mr. Perry?” he asked with a slight French accent.

  “Yes, thank you, George.” Ryan nodded. “We’ll clean this up ourselves. No need to wait on us. Have yourself a nice evening.”

  “Very good, sir,” the Frenchman said, disappearing into the night.

  “I got Jean-Luc to do the dinner—they don’t usually cater and they don’t deliver. But the owner’s a good friend of my dad’s,” he explained. “C’mon, let’s sit down.” He pulled out Mara’s chair.

  Mara sat down, still overwhelmed by the entire spectacle. The night air was balmy and sweet—a fresh breeze blew through her hair, and she remembered how much she loved the Hamptons.

  They opened the silver dishes eagerly. The four-hour drive had left them famished.

  “Heard from Dartmouth yet?” Ryan asked between bites.

  Dartmouth. Shit. Mara shook her head. For a moment, the magic faltered. Being on the wait list was the only thing that was keeping her life from being perfect, perfect, perfect. “No, unfortunately.”

  “They’ll take you. They have to,” Ryan insisted, cutting into the chicken. He was stubbornly optimistic that everything would work out.

  “I hope so.” She sighed. “Though I really can’t do anything about it at this point.”

  “You know, I could always ask my dad . . .” Ryan said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “He knows the university president really well.”

  Mara shook her head. It was sweet of Ryan to offer, but she really didn’t feel comfortable asking his father to pull strings on her behalf. Part of her felt like it was an unfair practice, and she was already feeling guilty about getting the gig at Hamptons magazine so easily. Besides, she wanted to get into Dartmouth on her own merit.

  They continued eating, and after dessert, Ryan pulled out a box from under the table and pushed it toward Mara. It was robin’s-egg blue and tied with a familiar white ribbon. Mara’s heart skipped, but its dimensions were too large for the contents to be jewelry.

  “What’s this?”

  Ryan shrugged, feigning innocence, but there was a gleam in his eye.

  Mara untied the ribbon and opened the box. Nestled inside the tissue paper were three-by-five note cards. Each had a tiny drawing of the sailboat in the center. Underneath, it read Mara Waters, Sag Harbor.

  Her new address. On Tiffany stationery, no less.

  “Ryan—you didn’t have to . . .” she said, her eyes shining.

  “Oh, it was nothing. I thought you might like it for your new job, you know? I think magazine people get off on things like this.”

  “Magazine people,” Mara murmured, lovingly stroking the stationery. “What’s that mean?” she asked.

  “You know, glossy girls . . .”

  She beamed. She was a “glossy girl.”

  Ryan stood up and took the champagne bottle from the bucket, spilling fat droplets of water on the floor. He took a napkin, placed it around the bottle’s neck, and popped the cork. Faint lines of cold air whispered out of the open bottle. He quickly filled two flutes with the bubbly and handed her one.

  “To our summer,” he proposed.

  “To us,” Mara agreed, clinking her glass against his.

  They sipped from their glasses in silence and walked to the edge of the boat by the railings. Mara found she couldn’t keep the smile from her face.

  When the bubbly had been drained, he took her champagne glass and set it on the table next to his. And in one smooth motion, he scooped her up in his arms.

  She buried her face in his neck. They didn’t need to say anything to each other; everything they meant to say they said with the closeness of their beating hearts. She felt so light, so airy and feminine and loved in his strong arms—as he walked down the length of the boat toward the captain’s quarters.

  “Oops!” he said, sliding on a few rose petals, but he regained his balance and carried her over the threshold.

  Cue the Coldplay, Mara thought. This is the definition of romance.

  Ryan maneuvered the door open and laid Mara gently on the king-size bed. She stared up at him hungrily and reached over to help him take off his T-shirt while he pulled up her blouse.

  They were kissing again, his tongue deep in her mouth, when they suddenly noticed an incessant, shrill beeping.

  “What the hell is that?” Ryan asked, looking wildly around the room.

  “I don’t know,” Mara said, propping herself up on her elbows. She was down to her Cosabella thong and Ryan was in his boxers.

  She spied a white, purple, and orange cardboard box vibrating in the corner. “I think it’s coming from there.”

  Ryan hauled himself off the bed and walked over to the box. He held it up. It was a FedEx package. He looked down at the address label.

  “It’s for you,” he said blankly, handing it to Mara.

  is this what they call ghetto fabulous?

  THE MURMURING IN THE STUDIO was interrupted by a fearful hush and the sound of one man bitching.

  Sydney Minx had arrived for the run-through.

  The designer was a short, squat man with a long white ponytail who never went anywhere without his oversized blind-as-a-bat sunglasses. He looked like a smaller, fatter version of Karl Lagerfeld, and the tribute didn’t end there—Sydney was waving a small Japanese fan around madly.

  All the models were arranged in a row for a final rehearsal before the show at the Hamptons boutique tomorrow.

  “What is this? Qu’est-ce que c’est? This is terrible! Horeeeb!” he exclaimed in an affected French accent, pointing to a model wearing an ostrich-feather-trimmed tunic and matching silk pants. “That outfit is three thousand dollars retail, but somehow it looks like it’s nineteen ninety-nine at the mall!

  “And will you look at this! S
omeone please tell me what she is supposed to be!” he cried, slapping a model on her bottom with his fan. The girl was wearing an abbreviated cotton biker jacket over a leopard-print dress. “This is Donatella Versace committed suicide! This is not Sydney Minx at all! This is not my vision! Paige! Paige!”

  Eliza smiled. This was the only time the rant was worth it. In Sydney’s presence, Paige was reduced to a simpering yes-woman, a sniveling, wimpy Smithers to an apocalyptic Mr. Burns.

  “It’s Aspen East?” Paige said weakly, referring to Sydney’s “vision” of the collection, which blended ski-bunny coquettishness with Hamptons-style aristocratic summer hauteur.

  “This is not Aspen East! It’s more like Ghetto West!”

  The models cowered, the seamstresses frowned, and one of the assistants began taking the dress off the nearest model with an almost violent rage. Back to the drawing board.

  “You!” Sydney suddenly exclaimed, his eyes resting on Vidalia. “Come here!”

  Vidalia tentatively walked out to the center and in front of Sydney. The numerous gold chains clinked softly against her skin.

  “Turn around!” he directed.

  She did, taking a few steps.

  “Paige! Did you do this? This isn’t how the dress is supposed to be presented!” Sydney’s fan was shaking in agitation.

  Paige shook her head adamantly. “I asked one of the interns to dress her, not restyle her!” she barked.

  Eliza paled. This was it. She knew she had totally overstepped her boundaries—her job was to help zip up the dress, certainly not do anything so important as accessorize it.

  Sydney scanned the room intensely. “Who is the intern responsible for this?”

  Eliza gulped and slowly raised her hand.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, taking off his sunglasses and giving her a critical once-over.

  “Eliza Thompson, sir.”

  He puckered his lips. “Billie Thompson’s daughter. N’est-ce pas?”