Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Mara?” A voice behind her startled her. A very, very familiar voice.

  Mara almost jumped out of her birthday suit—not that that was possible. She turned around. “Oh my God!” Her hands flew to cover herself though she realized there was no need—he’d seen it all before. Because Ryan Perry was standing in front of her, an amused half smile on his face.

  Mara’s dark chestnut hair was plastered to her cheek, half her body covered with sand. She was so shocked to see him that the only words that came out of her mouth were, “Why aren’t you in London?”

  “Well, hello to you too,” Ryan said amiably. His honey blond hair shone under the moonlight, and his two dimples winked in his smooth, tanned cheeks. He looked just as handsome as ever, if not more so. But his face was totally unreadable. He was acting so blasé, as if he ran into naked exgirlfriends all the time. Mara willed herself to act as nonchalantly as he was—even if he had the advantage of being fully clothed.

  “Oh, sorry—it’s just that you caught me by surprise.”

  “I can see that.” He grinned. “You make a habit of walking around naked these days, Waters?”

  Talk about new habits. Calling her by her last name was a new habit he’d developed since they’d broken up. That and calling her “dude.” Dude? Mara was no dude. She was “babe,” “good-looking,” “sweetheart.” Not “dude.”

  “Learned it from you,” she shot back flirtatiously. Ryan was a free-spirit bohemian, and during the summer they’d spent on his family’s yacht, just the two of them, there had been a lot of naked sailing, naked deep-sea fishing, even naked breakfast-eating.

  “Touché, my friend.” Ryan laughed, and Mara decided to ignore the “friend” comment. “You know my habits all too well—I’m always one step away from joining a nudist colony.” He smiled wickedly.

  Mara laughed. “It’s good to see you,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. How did you have a normal conversation with a guy you used to love? Especially when one of you was naked? Not wanting to bend over for her clothes, Mara took some of her long hair and tried to reposition it so that it was covering her chest. There. That was better. She crossed her arms for further coverage.

  “You too.” Ryan nodded and looked down, digging a toe in the sand.

  “But seriously, why are you here?” Mara tried to suppress the waves of excitement flowing through her. Not that it meant anything, especially since she had a new boyfriend now. A very cute boyfriend. Although said cute boyfriend had left her stranded at the airport that morning. Definitely not a cute move.

  “You heard about London, huh?” Ryan said. “Yeah, the family moved overseas, but I’m staying at the house here until they find someone to rent it. But what about you—aren’t you supposed to be bumming around Prague or something? A friend of mine is doing Lonesome Planet, and I saw your name on the list. What are you doing here?”

  “Taking a swim!” Mara yelled, and with that she ran toward the jet-black ocean and dove into the waves. She’d had enough of the conversation—it was just too weird and surreal to stand there in front of Ryan without any clothes on and make small talk. Cordial and civilized had never been their style.

  Mara put her head down in the water, her heart racing. Ryan Perry. And he’d been keeping tabs on her, too. Seeing him was like hearing an old song come on the radio—bringing up so many old feelings and memories that you can’t tune them out. Mara swam to where her friends were still bobbing happily.

  “Hey, is that Ryan?” Eliza asked, squinting and craning her neck to get a better look at the figure on the beach.

  “Ryan! Come join us!” Jacqui yelled mischievously, kicking up one bare foot.

  Ryan just waved at them from the shoreline. Mara was relieved to see him finally turn on his heels and walk back to the house. Because even though the water was totally freezing, she felt warm and tingly all over.

  jeremy shows eliza her future, eliza doesn’t know if she wants to look

  “WHERE ARE WE GOING?” ELIZA stretched her feet out in front of her on the dashboard of Jeremy’s truck, admiring her new pedicure—shell pink, to match the decor of her boutique, of course. The past several days had been a mad rush to get everything ready for the store launch that weekend, and she’d hardly even seen the girls since they’d gone skinny-dipping their first night. She was glad to even have snuck in some time with Jeremy.

  “You’ll see.” He smiled, putting a hand on Eliza’s slim ankle. “It’s a surprise.”

  “You know I hate surprises.” Eliza mock-pouted.

  “You’ll like this one,” he said mysteriously.

  “Fine, be that way,” she retorted, pretending to be miffed. She sighed, inhaling the woody, loamy scent of Jeremy’s truck. Despite running his own successful landscaping business, Jeremy had yet to trade in his decades-old pickup for something more expensive. When he’d pulled into the driveway to pick her up earlier, his car had looked hilariously mismatched sitting next to Eliza’s CLK convertible. But Eliza didn’t mind. Maybe the old Eliza would have badgered her boyfriend to trade up as soon as he made more money, but this Eliza didn’t care about image the way she’d used to. She liked Jeremy’s truck. It was sensible and sturdy—just like him.

  Jeremy drove into one of the quiet, secluded older neighborhoods in Sagaponack, filled with white clapboard houses and picket fences. The streets were lined with enormous maple trees bowed low, their green leaves blowing gently in the breeze. The sun was just beginning to set, giving the whole scene a warm, pinkish tint. “Close your eyes,” he instructed.

  “Do I have to?” she whined, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly.

  “Yes, and not one more peep from you, young lady.” Jeremy put on a mock-serious, teacher-y voice, taking one hand off the wheel to wag a finger at her.

  Eliza closed her eyes obediently. She hadn’t been lying—she hated surprises. Eliza was the type of girl who made lists of presents for other people to get her every time Christmas or her birthday rolled around. If she received a gift that deviated from the list, she promptly returned it for store credit. She could never even read a mystery novel without reading the last page first to see whodunit. She hated suspense. But she wanted to please her boyfriend.

  She wondered what trick Jeremy had up his sleeve. He’d been acting anxious all evening, alternately jittery and excited. They were so comfortable with each other, so familiar with every crevice of each other’s body, every variation on each other’s moods, that she could tell instantly when something was going on. Sometimes she felt like they were turning into an old married couple.

  The car came to an abrupt stop and Eliza heard Jeremy get out of the cab, walk around, and open her door.

  “Can I open them now?” she asked.

  “Not yet!” He took her elbow and helped her to the ground, steadying her as she wobbled a bit on her chunky white Calypso espadrilles. They walked forward a few feet.

  “Okay, now,” Jeremy said.

  Eliza opened her eyes. She was standing in front of an old, regal mansion—one that needed a lot of work. The paint was peeling, the cornice crumbling. Still, it was beautiful. It reminded her a little bit of the dollhouse she’d played with as a kid, which had looked a bit like an old British manor—her own personal version of a Barbie dream house. “What’s this?”

  “Remember I told you about old lady Greyson? One of my oldest clients?”

  “Yeah.” Eliza nodded slowly. She vaguely remembered him talking about one of the old ladies whose gardens he tended, charging much less than he should have. Recently, he’d been acting as her pseudo-caretaker, making sure she’d taken her medicine and that she had enough groceries to see her through the week, feeding her cat, various little things. Jeremy was a sweetheart like that. But was this really her surprise? He’d taken her to meet some cranky, possibly senile old lady? Were they going to have to read her bedtime stories and give her an oatmeal sponge bath?

  “Well, she passed away this week.” Jeremy look
ed down at the ground, kicking at a pebble with his shoe.

  “Oh—I’m so sorry.” She touched his arm. Whoops. She felt like a jerk now. “I . . . didn’t know you guys were so close.”

  “Neither did I,” Jeremy said. He looked back up at her, his eyes shining. “She was a really sweet old lady.” He paused. “Anyway, she didn’t have any family. She used to say I was the only one who cared about her in the end, but I didn’t realize it was true.”

  “That’s so sad.” Eliza wrinkled her brow. “It must be terrible to die alone.”

  Jeremy didn’t seem to hear her. He was gazing at the house, as if in a trance. “She left me everything,” he said softly. “Her entire estate, stocks, bonds, everything. Including the house.” He continued to stare at it, as if he were hearing the news for the first time and not the one delivering it. “I know it looks like it’s falling apart, but it’s got good bones and it’s in a great location. With a little work, a cosmetic touch-up, it could really be something.”

  Eliza looked at him. He was standing so still in the golden light, looking up at the old house as if it held all the answers in the universe. All at once it sank in for her what this meant. This house was his. “Oh my God! Jeremy!” Eliza squealed.

  “I know.” He turned and smiled. “She always said she wanted the house to go to someone who would take care of it. Don’t you think it’s beautiful?”

  “It’s fabulous,” Eliza agreed. “You’ll make a fortune renting it out next summer.” She smiled. If anyone deserved a break like this, it was Jeremy. Maybe nice guys really did finish first.

  “C’mon.” Jeremy took her hand. “Let me give you a tour.”

  He unlocked the front door and they walked inside. The house still had the stuffy smell of age and neglect, but Eliza could see that it was a grand house indeed. “Look at this kitchen,” he said, showing her the front “master” kitchen and then leading her to a second kitchen in the back. “It’s called the scullery.” He ran a finger over a dusty countertop. “In the early twentieth century, when the house was built, kitchens were only for the help, so they were hidden from the rest of the house.” He gestured to the middle of the space. “I’m thinking of opening this up and making a big island so that it feels more modern,” he said. “Though I’ll of course defer to your taste, since the kitchen is the lady’s domain.” He turned to her and wrapped her in his arms, a sly grin spreading across his face.

  “Like you’ll ever get me to cook,” Eliza said dryly, leaning her head on his shoulder. Jeremy well knew that when it came to preparing dinner, she was much more likely to shell out for a private chef than to put on an apron.

  “There’s more I want to show you.” He grabbed her hand and took her upstairs. “See, there’s a study off the master bedroom that can be turned into a nursery.” He gestured to a small room with tall windows that really did look like it would fit a crib nicely.

  “But why go to all that trouble before you know who’s going to live here?” Eliza asked, puzzled. “I mean, what if the people who move in don’t have a baby?” She walked over to the window and looked out at the enormous, beautiful yard below, the white gazebo cloaked in the orange glow of the setting sun.

  “Well, what about when we have babies?” Jeremy asked innocently, coming up behind her and kissing her neck.

  “Babies!” She turned and swatted his arm. “Jer, we’re babies.”

  Jeremy just kept nuzzling her ear as if he hadn’t heard her. “Eleven bedrooms,” he whispered. “We can have a big family. A whole soccer team!”

  “Sure, I’ll just pop them all out while I’m cooking away in the back kitchen.” Eliza laughed. He was joking, right?

  He led her back downstairs and out to the garden. They walked through the overgrown yard, past the willow trees, and to the gazebo she’d seen from upstairs. Looking through it, there was a beautiful view of the ocean in the distance. “And I was thinking . . . this is where we’ll have our wedding,” Jeremy said softly, pointing to the gazebo. Eliza’s heart thumped in her chest. Jeremy wasn’t just fantasizing about the future. No. He was planning it.

  It was so beautiful, and yet . . .

  “E., I want you to have this,” Jeremy said, slipping a ring on her finger. Her left ring finger.

  Eliza looked down in a daze. It was an enormous, glittering rock. A huge, princess-cut diamond. A princess for a princess—just like she’d always said she wanted. Eliza had always been very vocal about her bridal preferences, tossing her opinions out in the air the way she did with everything. She had no idea he’d actually been listening.

  “Jer . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t even really sure what had just happened. Did this mean . . . ?

  “I love you,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her under the setting sun.

  Eliza kissed him back, and when she opened one eye to look at her hand, her new ring winked at her, almost as if to say, Gotcha!

  www.blogspot/hamptonsaupair1

  about me

  Hello. Hello. Is this mike working? Ha. Just kidding. I’m new to this Internet thingy. But allow me to introduce myself. I’m M., a nineteen-year-old au pair in the Hamptons. And no, I don’t have a webcam. Besides, contrary to popular belief, I don’t just hang out in my bikini and neglect the kids all day. It’s a lot of work taking care of five overachieving children under the age of thirteen while their mom yells at you for feeding them non-free-range chicken nuggets. (Not that it’s happened yet—it’s only been a week—but I’m just saying.)

  my charges

  VIOLET is twelve going on thirty-five. She speaks five languages and can probably balance the federal budget. Her advanced-Mandarin tutor arrives every other day. Otherwise, this summer Violet is busy with art, drama, sculpture, Bikram yoga, experimental dance and movement, etiquette, horseback riding, and violin. Her schedule is busier than that of a CEO of a large financial company. I know, because her mom is one, and she actually has time off. Violet’s goal? Early admission to Harvard (Mom was class of ’92), a Rhodes Scholarship, and world domination. Violet displays all twelve signs of extraordinary ability according to Twelve Signs Your Tween is Gifted. She is well balanced, well rounded, and incredibly mature for her age. Sadly, I have not yet seen her laugh.

  LOGAN and JACKSON are seven-year-old twin child geniuses. Logan has composed a piano solo in the style of Chopin and beat the former Soviet chess champ when he was five years old. Jackson wrote a one-act play that was produced by a New York theater company last year. (Title: A Car Seat Named Desire.) They are obsessed with CNN and ending global warming and are full-fledged members of the Libertarian party. Logan asked me with total sincerity what I was doing to lower my carbon monoxide emissions. Told him I myself don’t even own a car anymore—I sold my Camry to pay for my first year at Columbia. These days I drive their mom’s Lexus hybrid. Does that count?

  WYATT is five and has proven the theory of relativity. Joke! Wyatt has eaten a sandwich. As far as I can tell, he is a normal five-year-old with five-year-old likes and dislikes: Tonka trucks, Legos, PlayStation 3, SpongeBob. His mother is convinced there must be something wrong with him.

  CASSIDY is six months old, and he’s already beginning to crawl. (Yes, Cassidy’s a boy—thank God I’m not going to be around during those difficult, name-teasing preteen years.) His toilet trainer comes twice a week. Cassidy is proficient in BSL (baby sign language). I myself cannot speak BSL and therefore did not understand that Cassidy wanted a bottle rather than a cuddle, which resulted in major vomit. Vomit is gross in all languages.

  Seriously, they’re all adorable, and their mom is surprisingly down-to-earth considering she lives in a thirty-thousand-square-foot house. We’ll see how long it lasts.

  personal notes

  Taking care of kids isn’t my entire life. I’m also here at the beach with my two best friends in the whole world, and between the three of us, we have a lot of fun and get into a lot of trouble. (Not necessarily in that order.)


  E. is a designer diva, probably the best-dressed gal on the Atlantic coast. She’s blond, gorgeous, funny, and will lend you the Pucci shift off her back—a girl after my own heart. She’s opening her own store in the Hamptons this summer and has asked me to model at the opening! Me? Model? Bet you really wish I had a webcam now, huh?

  J. is a South American sexpot, as well as one of the sweetest, nicest girls I’ve ever met. She’s been unlucky in love in the past, and I’ve noticed she’s been a bit subdued since we arrived. Every time I turn around, she’s googling “Pete Rockwood, Indianapolis” on the computer. I asked her what the deal was, but she wouldn’t tell me. No worries—J. will spill when she’s ready. She’s not one to keep secrets from friends. Unless, of course, it’s about how one’s boyfriend fooled around with one’s other best friend a couple of years ago. But that’s an old story and all is forgiven between the three of us. Seriously. Said ex-boyfriend is old news. Ancient history. Totally. Anyway, moving on . . .

  My boyfriend D. and I have been together for almost a year. We were supposed to spend the summer in Europe together, but alas, as they say—“the best-laid plans of mice and men . . .” or “Life happens when you’re busy making plans.” Anyway, who knew that passports can expire? Last I saw him he was hightailing it to gate 24 in terminal 3 at JFK. He has sent a number of apologetic e-mails and texts but has yet to call. Should I give him the cold shoulder when he does ring? Or fake happiness? Which is more likely to prompt gifts of handmade Belgian chocolates?

  Till next time,

  HamptonsAuPair1

  jacqui meets the boys from oz

  JACQUI GLIDED DOWN MAIN STREET, enjoying the warm sunshine and colorful shop windows and almost forgetting the troop of children trailing her. A sweeping boulevard lined with weeping willow trees, rustic shingled cottages, and hand-painted signs as far as the eye could see, Main Street could have been in any quaint New England town. Filled as it was with dog-walking, child-toting parents, it was impossible to believe that this was one of the most fashionable places on earth. But on closer inspection, those tiny cottages actually housed storefronts for flashy designer labels and expensive apothecary stores, the dogs were hypoallergenic purebreds, and the children’s play clothes were made from imported French cotton.