Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  On a harsher note, it’s easier to spot Christie Brinkley at the yacht club than J. at work these days. Her modeling shoot has taken over most of her time, and I know she’s in the busy process of becoming an international sensation—this week she did a five-minute spot for a Japanese car commercial and had to learn how to say, “Take the wheel,” in Japanese—but really, couldn’t she pay a little attention to the home front? While I don’t mind (much), I just wish she’d tell me when to expect her (or not expect her) so I’m not waiting around for her to burp the baby or take the kids to squash lessons all the time. I don’t want to get in the way of her transformation into “The Body” (as everyone is calling her since that saucy photo of her ran in Hamptons mag). I just wish she’d bring her body over to help with doing the baby laundry sometime.

  But the good news is that D. is back!!! I have a boyfriend again!!! He’s staying at his parents’ rarely used summer home in North Fork (they’re not exactly beach types, or vacation types for that matter, if you know what I mean) and has claimed that his only job for the rest of the summer is to make his prior absence up to me. So far, he’s been true to his word. He’s been really great with the kids—we took them sailing in his boat the other day, and tomorrow we’re all going to the Nautical Museum out in Riverhead. It’s been wonderful to have him here. I take back all my bitching and whining. Yesterday he took me to the annual Writers & Artists softball game (his mom sponsors the Writers team) and we met all these famous authors. It was v. cool. They all seemed to know him—he’s like everyone’s favorite godson or something. He was nice enough to mention that I was a writer too, although I don’t think a few clips in Hamptons and Metropolitan Circus really counts. Still, it was nice to pretend.

  Till next time,

  HamptonsAuPair1

  is midas the guy not taken?

  AFTER A LONG DAY AT the store, Eliza sent the salesgirl home, preferring to close up shop herself. This was her favorite part of the day—tallying the day’s receipts, putting back all the clothing on the racks, tidying up and making sure everything was in order. It was her own tiny little retail kingdom, and she loved the peace and quiet.

  She was folding the last of the linen sweaters when there was a knock on the door. Eliza glanced up to see Midas in the store window, waving to her. She buzzed him inside.

  “Are you busy?” he asked, glancing at the pile of sweaters in her hand. “I’ve got something to tell you, and it deserves a bit of champagne.”

  “What is it?” she asked warily, setting the sweaters gently on a lower shelf. “I have to warn you, I hate surprises. . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the last time a guy had a surprise for her—it had ended with a very heavy rock on her finger.

  He shook his head with a grin. “Mum’s the word until we’ve got drinks in our hands.” He ushered her out of the store. Main Street was emptying as the shops closed, but the streets glowed with late-summer light. “Let’s just pop in here.” Midas motioned to a tiny hotel bar along the avenue.

  They walked into the dark recess, feeling the cold blast of the air-conditioning hit their skin. The bar was cozy, with plush red velvet cushions on cane-backed chairs, and bamboo lining the walls.

  “I like this place,” Midas proclaimed as his sharp blue eyes took in the decor. “It’s like a pub in Rangoon, you know—men in white linen suits and fedoras, the sun setting on the British Empire, all that jazz.”

  “Mmm. The British raj. Khakis against pink saris.” Eliza nodded. She too viewed every unique setting as a possible stage for a fashion shoot. It was also the way she dressed—every outfit told a story. Today she had put on a pretty, floral-print forties-style Rodarte dress with a nipped-in waist and bell sleeves, matched with her black-and-white Brian Atwood spectator pumps, because she was feeling very Scarlett Johansson in The Black Dahlia. Not that she’d even liked that movie, but the clothes were to die for. Pun intended.

  The waitress approached, and they ordered—a martini for her, a Manhattan with bitters for him.

  “So, khaki with pink . . . I can see your mind working.” Midas leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing her from across the table.

  “I need ideas for my resort collection,” she admitted, running a finger over the bamboo coaster. She shivered slightly in her thin silk dress and wondered if she could ask the bartender to turn down the air-conditioning.

  When the waitress returned with their order, Midas hoisted his lowball glass. “Now, then. Let me be the first to congratulate you”—he paused dramatically—“on being the youngest designer ever to grace a twenty-page spread in Vogue. I think Zac did it before he was twenty-five, but I don’t know anyone who’s done it before they were legal to drink,” he added with a smirk, clinking his glass against hers.

  “Oh my God! You’re joking!” Eliza cried. Did he just say twenty pages in Vogue? She knew the Eastons were in the Hamptons on Vogue’s dime, but that they were working on spec for the shoot—which meant that the magazine hadn’t approved it yet, and there were no guarantees. Eliza had hoped for two or three pages at the most . . . but twenty? That was every designer’s dream.

  “I’m serious as a priest.” He put a hand over his heart, his eyes twinkling mischievously, looking quite a bit like his twin brother. Midas looked very much the cool auteur that day, with his five o’clock shadow, chain belt, and distressed Paper Denim jeans. “It was originally scheduled for August, but when Anna saw some of the shots, she flipped. They’re running the whole thing in the September issue.”

  “Midas!” She leapt from her chair and threw her arms around his neck. Twenty pages in September Vogue, the biggest issue of the year!

  He kissed the top of her head, and she felt a frisson of electricity spark between them.

  “I’m sorry.” She blushed, extricating herself from his lap.

  “Oh, go right ahead.” He laughed, pulling out her chair for her so she could sit back down. “Though in case you feel like jumping again, let me tell you the rest of the news—they want to throw you a big party at the end of the summer at Calvin Klein’s beach house.”

  Eliza grabbed Midas’s hand across the table and squeezed it tightly. “You have no idea what this means for me.”

  He squeezed her hand back. “You deserve it, kiddo.”

  “Please. You’re not that much older than I am.”

  “I graduated from university two years ago,” Midas protested. “I’m practically a dirty old man,” he said cheekily. Noticing Eliza’s empty glass, he waved the waitress over for another round, handing her his platinum card.

  “You went to college?” Eliza asked, remembering that in England they called college “university,” so in Australia it was probably the same. “I figured you went to art school.”

  “Nah, I’m an Oxford man.” Midas took his glass from the waitress as their drinks arrived.

  “Oxford, really? Not design school?” Eliza asked, totally floored. She spiked an errant onion in her martini with the little plastic sword that came with it.

  “Design’s school’s all well and good, but if you want to work in fashion or media, everyone went to Cambridge or Oxford. And while I’m loath to admit it, who you know is always part of making it in this business.”

  Huh. Eliza brought the martini glass to her lips and took a slow sip. She had heard from friends who worked in the industry that the staff at all the top magazines were Ivy bred. But she couldn’t imagine going to school just to make connections. “So that’s why you chose Oxford?” She had to decide pretty soon if she was going to Princeton or back to Parsons in the fall. Princeton had only allowed her to defer a year, so if she didn’t enroll this fall, she’d have to reapply for admission, and who knew if she’d even get in the second time? After such a successful year at Parsons, she hadn’t really been considering it. “I can’t imagine committing to a school for four years just to rub shoulders with the ‘right sort of people,’ ” she said, making little air quotes. “I think . . . ,” Eliza started, re
alizing she really meant it as the words tumbled out of her mouth, “I’d go to college to explore what’s out there, to get a well-rounded education.”

  “Of course.” Midas nodded. “It was a twenty-four-hour schmooze fest, yes, but I loved learning the Great Books. I majored in philosophy, if you can believe that.” He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “But my dear, you just have to do whatever’s best for you.”

  Eliza set her glass down on the table. As she mused on Parsons, which would teach her everything she needed to know about design, her first and current love, versus Princeton, which meant exploring everything she might ever want to learn, Eliza couldn’t stop herself from looking down at the ring on her finger. If she married Jeremy, she’d be committing to her other first love—the only person she’d ever really been with. What if she was closing the door on other experiences too? She played with the diamond ring, turning it around and around so that it caught the light, reflecting a thousand rainbow colors on the dark bamboo walls. Between Parsons and Jeremy, it was starting to feel like her whole life had been decided for her.

  it’s miniature golf, not the pga grand slam. . . .

  “GREAT SHOT!” MARA CHEERED AS David shot the ball through the windmill, past the wooden cow, and into the tiny cup at the end of the felt fairway.

  David took a little bow and walked over to the hole. “Your turn, man,” he called to Ryan as he bent to pick up the robin’s-egg blue ball, a smug grin on his face. He came to stand beside Mara and gave her a little peck on the cheek. “We’ve got ’em where we want ’em,” he whispered in her ear. She giggled.

  “Show him, baby!” Tinker cried from her post behind Ryan, swinging her golf club in the air. “Give ’em hell!”

  David had only been back for a week when Mara had run into Tinker and Ryan and they’d invited her to a late-night bonfire. When Mara demurred, saying her boyfriend was in town, Tinker suggested they all double-date sometime. Mara had accepted the invitation, not sure if it would actually happen, but here the four of them were. She was pretty sure she owed the evening to Tinker’s enthusiasm rather than Ryan’s—he’d seemed a little stunned to find out she even had a boyfriend, which she had to say was strangely gratifying—but since they’d been having a good time tonight, she was genuinely glad it had all worked out. They had met at Lunch for dinner, ordering mouthwatering lobster rolls and platters of assorted fried fish, the guys swigging back longnecks and talking sports while the girls gossiped about people they knew.

  They were going to call it a night when David suggested a round of mini-golf in Riverhead, on the North Fork. It was a nice respite from the high-flying Hamptons scene, as mini-golf was way too corny and suburban for the Hamptons elite. True to form, the course was populated by suburban types in wash-and-dry cotton rather than dry-clean-only denim.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Mara giggled, a little tipsy as they moved on to the next hole. She and David were beating Ryan and Tinker—a miracle, considering the other two were athletes. She’d been teasing them about it mercilessly.

  Ryan bent down and set his ball, which was fiery red, on the slotted black rubber pad that served as a tee. As he set up his shot, practice-swinging his club back and forth in the air, he accidentally nudged the ball with his club and it rolled off the tee and onto the forest green fake grass.

  “That counts as one stroke,” David called.

  “Oh, man.” Ryan laughed at his own clumsiness. “I think I had one too many back there.” They had left more than a half-dozen empty beer bottles on the rickety wooden tables back at the restaurant and had decided to cab it to Riverhead. “Can I get a do-over?” he asked.

  “No way, dude, those are the rules.” David was the one keeping score, and he’d already reached into his pocket for the stubby golf course pencil to add a stroke to Ryan’s score.

  “Rules are made to be fixed,” Ryan grumbled good-naturedly as he set the ball back down on the tee for take number two.

  “What’s that?” Tinker asked, looking up from her beer. She was wearing a pristine white knee-length Lacoste dress, a wide grosgrain headband in her thick blond hair, and a string of real pearls around her tanned neck, the epitome of polished patrician chic. Mara had been briefly intimidated when they first met up. Tinker looked like one of those country club queen bees for a moment—but as soon as she’d greeted Mara, rather sweetly asking about the kids and their “enlightenment,” the feeling had quickly passed. Besides, Mara felt confident about her own, Eliza Thompson–approved outfit: a cotton voile bib-front Chloé top and tailored pinstripe Bermudas that Eliza had pronounced the “look” of the season.

  “Oh, nothing,” Ryan mumbled as he set up his shot again.

  “You know, rules are made to be fixed. The early bird releases the worm. Idle hands are the devil’s workplace.” Mara grinned at Ryan from across the course. Back when they were dating, the two of them would try to come up with as many subverted clichés as possible.

  Ryan looked up from his club and grinned back. “The heart despises what it despises.”

  “Ah, but I don’t think ‘despises’ is the opposite of ‘wants,’ really,” Mara pointed out, leaning jauntily on her club. “Good try, though. Half a point for effort!”

  “I don’t get it.” Tinker frowned, taking a long slug from her plastic cup of Bud Light, the only drink the golf course offered. The red Solo cup looked hilariously mismatched with her chic outfit.

  David looked back and forth between Ryan and Mara, shaking his head with a sigh. He yawned.

  “We keeping you up, man?” Ryan teased. He tapped the golf ball lightly but didn’t hit it.

  “No, but if you don’t take the shot anytime soon, I may just fall asleep standing up,” David ribbed him back, holding his club over his head as he stretched his arms.

  Mara looked back and forth between them. Boys could be so competitive. Though she couldn’t help but feel that David’s jabs were less good-natured than Ryan’s had been. “David, I forgot to tell you—Ryan hates to lose,” Mara sang out teasingly, trying to infuse some estrogen into their testosterone standoff. “And he hates even more to be distracted,” she added, jutting her hip out the slightest bit as she leaned against her club, a gesture she knew he used to always find seductive. She couldn’t help herself.

  Ryan, as if on cue, flubbed the shot and then cursed impressively. He jogged after the ball and hit it vigorously once it had come to a stop, finally whacking it through the big bad wolf’s head. “Three strokes,” he said definitively to David.

  Tinker came to stand beside David, looking over his shoulder at the scorecard. “Don’t worry, babe,” she called to Ryan. “We’re only losing by, um—eleven. I suck! I’m so sorry.”

  “You guys do suck,” Mara taunted, sticking out her tongue at Ryan. It was so refreshing to be actually good at a sport—all those years spent at Chuck E. Cheese were finally paying off. Ryan and Tinker, who’d grown up with parents who didn’t believe in cheap amusement parks, were completely hopeless at mini-golf.

  They moved onto the next hole, which featured a series of blue ramps painted to look like rivers. David set up his shot and then hit the ball briskly. It hit the side of the ramp with a clang and then went spiraling off the course, where it bounced out onto the concrete and started rolling away.

  “Out of bounds, automatic forfeit of the course,” Ryan cried gleefully, waving his cup of beer in the air.

  “What? No way,” David argued, pushing his glasses up on his nose and grabbing his ball from outside the course.

  “Those are the rules, dude.” Ryan shrugged, looking smug.

  David just set his ball on the tee again and took another shot. The ball careened up the ramp, rolling swiftly down the other side and making a beeline for the hole, where it settled with a satisfying plop. “Hole in one!” he cheered, pumping his fist triumphantly into the air.

  “It doesn’t count. You forfeited, remember?” Ryan reminded him. His face was a bit red, probably from all the beer.<
br />
  Mara was laughing at something Tinker was saying when she noticed the boys were facing each other, neither of them smiling. Seriously, why couldn’t they just relax?

  “Dudes, it’s just a game,” Tinker said cheerfully. “Mara, it’s your turn.”

  Mara looked from her current boyfriend to her ex, confused at how the pleasant evening had suddenly turned frosty. She could swear it looked like they wanted to punch each other but were being too polite to let it show.

  “C’mon, guys,” she said, trying to defuse the situation. “It doesn’t really matter who wins, does it?”

  “Winner takes nothing,” Ryan replied smoothly, easing back into his and Mara’s own private in-joke. Tinker looked uncomfortable and giggled nervously.

  “Whatever.” David shrugged. “I’m going to go get another beer.”

  “All’s fair in hate and war,” Mara couldn’t resist replying to Ryan, setting up her shot and slicing expertly, sending the ball flying through the air and landing perfectly in the clown’s mouth.

  jacqui models fall’s latest accessory: baby puke

  “LOGAN—I MEAN JACKSON—I mean Wyatt—don’t touch that!” Jacqui begged as Wyatt reached curiously for a steaming brown lump on the ground that could only be horse poo. She had taken the kids to a nearby farm with a petting zoo, which featured pony rides, tractor pulls, and a varied menagerie. She grabbed the little boy’s hand and brought him over to the shady spot where she’d been tending to baby Cassidy, who seemed none too happy to be experiencing the great outdoors.

  Jacqui had offered to take the kids for the day so Mara could get in some alone time with David. She’d felt guilty about fobbing the kids off on Mara all summer so she could play supermodel, and she wanted to make it up to her. Although at this particular moment, she wished she hadn’t been so generous.