by Roz Bailey
“A little slow on the uptake,” Darcy muttered.
“I’m okay,” Lindsay said, raking her hair back with one hand. “You can drive him home if you want.”
“He can wait.” Right now Lindsay needed all the nurturing she could muster. “I figure he’ll rant and rave awhile. He can go out to the parking lot and bang on the side of his van, but at least he can’t get behind the wheel. By the time I’m ready to go, he’ll have cooled down. Full of apologies.”
“Sorry enough to stop drinking?” Lindsay asked.
“That’s another conversation for when he’s sober.” Which wasn’t often, these days. Although Darcy didn’t look forward to having it out with Kevin about his drinking, she knew that conversation was coming; it was inevitable, and Kevin was going to have to pull himself together if they were going to make the Kevin and Darcy happily-ever-after scenario happen.
In the meantime, this party was shot to hell because of her pathetic boyfriend and Elle MacWEIRDson and some pretty-boy lifeguard who’d abused her best friend. But Darcy knew she had to stick by Lindsay for a while, put on a cutesy face, and make the most of Anusa’s big bash. It was the least she could do for her friend.
22
Lindsay
Sometimes it takes a crisis to bring your friends back. Although tonight was not among those stellar party nights for me, I would always remember it as the night Darcy and I reconnected. As we headed down the steps to the beach, I had to admit that Darcy’s staunch support surprised me, especially considering the way she’d begun the summer, ditching me and pursuing Kevin with the single-minded conviction of a stalker. But Darcy was Darcy: headstrong, self-absorbed, obsessed with beauty. Maybe some of those qualities would soften over time, but for now I was relieved to get past the veneer to the sympathetic friend inside.
We were headed down to the beach in search of Tara—Skeeter Fogarty had seen her head down the stairs—but I was relieved to leave the noise of the main party. It wasn’t every day I burst into tears at a fashionable fashionista’s party in the Hamptons, and quite frankly, making a public spectacle of myself sucked up a lot of energy.
Darcy wobbled, trying to balance in her Gucci sandals on the hard-packed sand, while I just snatched my Rockport sandals off and carried them in one hand. The dark beach was punctuated by the dancing flames of a bonfire, where dark figures were gathered, some on their feet and others sprawled in a meandering circle of light.
“I don’t see Tara and Charlie,” I said, “but a fire is a good idea down here.” The damp breeze off the water lifted the white man-tailored shirt I’d worn over my black shorts and tank top, and the sand was cold as mud underfoot. “Let’s check it out and warm up.”
“Oh, goody,” Darcy said. “We can sing Girl Scout songs and eat s’mores.”
“You, Ms. Love, are no Girl Scout.” I smiled, glad to have traces of the old Darcy back. Sure, I knew that Darcy would revert to criticizing my clothes, diets, and manicures and chasing after Kevin again, but for now I was happy to seize the moment.
Halfway down the beach I recognized my brother walking in the opposite direction, returning to the party. “Steve, have you seen Tara and Charlie?”
He lifted his chin, as if just recognizing us. “No. And what the hell are you doing here? What the hell’s going on with you?”
“Missed me that much, did you?” I laughed, though my senses were on alert. It wasn’t like Steve to snap at me like that.
“Sounds like the theme song to Family Feud.” Darcy staggered, trying to move through the sand without taking off her Guccis. “I’ll meet you over at the bonfire,” she told me and headed off to the growing group of revelers.
“So what’s your problem?” I launched into my brother. This was the first time I’d seen him since he returned from Hatteras and he seemed edgy and distant. “Christ, you look awful.”
Suddenly angry, he dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans, the wind rippling his white T-shirt over his chest. “Don’t start with me, Linds. Just tell me if it’s true what they’re saying about Ritter. Did you really let him?”
Suddenly sick, I pressed a hand to my mouth. “What did you hear?”
“My own sister. I can’t believe it, Linds.”
“Believe what?” This was agony, but I needed to know what was going around.
“Tell me it isn’t true and I’ll go rip Ritter a new one.”
“Steve . . .” I pressed my eyes closed, frustrated, wounded. Everyone knew. Of course they did. I was reduced to being a score, one for Austin. He was no gentleman; I’d learned that the hard way. “Really, it’s none of your business.”
“So it’s true?” He pressed his palms against his cheeks. “Nice move, Linds. Do you know what people are going to say about you? What they’ll think?”
I know, I know. I could read the disappointment in his eyes. “It was a mistake, okay?”
“A mistake is taking a monster wave and tombstoning. Messing around with Ritter? That gets you your own entry in the Book of Stupid. Maybe your own chapter.”
“Okay, it was dumb, but I didn’t know he’d be such a bastard about it.”
“And what’s with Tara and that soldier?”
“Charlie? He’s got a name, Steve.”
“The way she clings to him . . .” He shook his head as if it all left a bad taste in his mouth.
I wondered if he was jealous. Not that he’d ever really expressed an interest, but years ago, when we were in junior high and Steve had spent part of his summer teaching Tara to surf, they’d developed a certain chemistry. Back then when I had teased him about it he’d just scowled, but that had been his typical response to any needling from his little sister.
“What kind of a rap did he pull on her?” he went on. “Better hook up before I have to head back to war?”
“Steve! They’re really into each other. It’s called a relationship, and it’s bad enough you feel the need to meddle in my business. Leave Tara out of this.”
“You know how it is with her. She’s . . . like a sister to me.”
I suspected that was just the tip of the iceberg, but I couldn’t think about Steve’s feelings for Tara right now. An image of Austin’s face throbbed in my mind—that sick, smug grin he’d had as he looked out over the breaking waves, ignoring me. Bad enough that he tried to use me; now he was going around spreading dirt about me. The guy was toxic, and I couldn’t let him get away with it.
“Hey . . .” Darcy called. “Are we going, or what?”
“I gotta go,” I said, nodding toward Darcy. “We’re headed up to the bonfire. You want to come with us?”
Steve seemed disappointed, his shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. “I’m outta here. This party’s beat,” he said, moving on.
Watching him go, I hoped his bad mood wasn’t all about me, though it did strike me as strange that Steve had suddenly made himself the guardian of my reputation. I filled Darcy in as we walked on the hard-packed sand toward the glow of the fire. “Apparently Austin is talking. Steve’s mad at me for lowering my standards.”
“I hate when guys do that. Like sex is the big conquest for the guy, the big humiliation for the girl. Don’t let him make you feel bad. Believe me, Austin will feel worse when I get my hands on him.”
“Like that’s gonna hurt him.” Darcy was five feet four and a size 2, and the image of her pouncing on Austin like a kitten actually made me feel better.
Ambient light glowed over the heads of the people gathered at the bonfire—forty or more revelers from Anusa’s party who’d wandered down here to mellow out, smoke some weed, or listen to some classical guitar by a musician casually perched on a log. Two coolers of beer, domestic and imported, lay open in the sand, and a few yards back toward the cliffs a long barbecue grill was set up. Two chefs wearing white bib aprons and tall hats stood behind smoking skewers of chicken and steak.
“I don’t see them,” I said as Darcy and I circled the group. “Where do you think they went? I do
n’t think they’d leave without saying something.”
“It’s not Tara’s usual M.O., but now that she’s so in love it wouldn’t surprise me. I told them they could use my place anytime they want. Dad and his honey left in a flash, probably thinking I’d report everything to Mother dearest. Anyway, now that Dad is gone, the Love Mansion is back in business.”
I thought it was a little strange that Bud Love didn’t feel comfortable in his own summer house, but Darcy had ruled her parents for years. My eyes flicked over the faces, coming to a dead stop.
Austin Ritter? It couldn’t be.
I grabbed Darcy’s wrist and squeezed. “He’s here,” I hissed. “Austin.”
“Oh, great.” Darcy’s brow arched as she spotted him. “Now we can have a weenie roast.” She stepped forward, pulling me with her. “Come on.”
“No! Let’s just go.” I didn’t like confrontation, especially when the other party had just humiliated me and spread the word to half the guys in Southampton.
“I am not going to let you walk away from this,” Darcy whispered in my ear. “He’s the one in the wrong, and he’s got to pay.”
“It never works that way,” I lamented.
“Just come on.” Darcy kept her hand clamped onto my arm, marching me over to Austin, who sat back leaning on his elbows, his hairless legs sprawled in front of him, crossed casually at the ankles.
In the periphery I could hear meat sizzling on the grill, the guitarist plucking “Stairway to Heaven,” and the accented voice of that girl in the sarong circulating among the bonfire crowd with her tray of shots in test tubes. I heard the dull roar of the ocean smashing on the shore, and the occasional shout from down the beach. But all of these sounds blended into a dull blur of background noise secondary to the red hammer thrumming in my head, pounding out pure anger.
“Oh, it’s Austin,” Darcy said loudly, wrinkling her nose. “I thought there was a bad odor coming from this spot.”
I braced myself, expecting him to say something vile, but he just stared through our legs, turning to the guy beside him, a burly, bearded guy with aviator glasses. “It’s cooling off, isn’t it?” Ignoring us, Austin shook out his red lifeguard sweatshirt and wrapped the sleeves around his neck.
The burly guy’s beady eyes flicked from Austin to Darcy and me, then back to Austin, leery and perplexed.
“Go on. Pretend you don’t see me. Pretend I’m invisible,” I spoke quietly, calmly, like a female metronome. “You can’t hurt me, Austin, I’m beyond that now, but you know that saying: ‘What goes around, comes around.’ ”
Austin turned to the bearded guy. “Do you hear someone talking?”
“Oh, that’s mature,” Darcy said.
“That’s funny.” Austin cocked his head. “I’m hearing these voices, but it just sounds like ‘Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.’ ”
The burly guy held up his hands. “I’m outta this, man. A conscientious objector.” He pushed to his feet and headed over to the grill, leaving Austin alone, cross-legged in the sand, with Darcy and me standing over him.
Heads turned, and I sensed a few people watching us, seeking an entertaining diversion. Well, tonight I possessed the passion to deliver the performance of a lifetime.
“In some ways, I blame myself.” I spoke quietly, my eyes trained on Austin, who seemed to be squirming a bit now. “I suppose I always knew you were vain and narcissistic. Nobody’s perfect, and I was willing to overlook a few flaws. But did any of us realize the level of depravity you’d stoop to? The sheer cruelty—”
“And rudeness,” Darcy added, clearly impressed with my speech.
“So rude.” Looking down on him now, his curled beak of a mouth and his beady eyes, I wondered how I ever found him attractive. He was way too pretty, a spoiled little Lord Fauntleroy dressed in lifeguard’s clothing.
Which suddenly struck me as odd. “Wait a minute. What’s with the red shorts and T-shirt? You came to this party in your lifeguard uniform?” A few feet away someone snickered. “Oh, but that’s your rap, isn’t it?” I went on. “Of course! Everyone knows a girl can’t resist a lifeguard.”
“Excellent point,” Darcy added. “Totally vindicating for you, Linds, though it doesn’t seem to be working for Austin tonight.” She pretended to scan the group. “Poor Austin. All buffed out in his lifeguard gear with no prospects in sight.”
“Though it’s not that kind of party,” I said. “More of an arts crowd. Fashionistas and artists.”
“True,” Darcy agreed. “Maybe you should have worn your Jackson Pollock mask, Austin. Or John Irving. You could pull off that handsome, sulky look. A total lie, but not beneath you.”
We’d hit a vein. I could tell by the way he shifted uncomfortably, his chin jutting out. He checked his watch, and I suspected he was just going to go, leave without giving us the satisfaction of really getting to him.
“Shots here. Anyone like a shot? Wild Turkey or Jagermeister? Green apple or peach schnapps . . .” The tall, thin waitress in the pretty sarong was circulating again, holding out her tray of colorful test tubes. I was about to say no thanks, but then I thought again.
“You know, I could use a few shots.” But instead of reaching for a single test tube I grabbed the entire tray, held it over Austin’s head and tipped it, slowly at first, so that only the thick, syrupy liquor poured out onto his head, lap, and shoulders.
Stepping back to miss the mess, Darcy let out a roar of delight. “Wah-ha! Yeah!”
“Oops,” I said flatly. “My bad. But then again, the only way Austin can be tolerated is with a few shots.”
All around us people were laughing as Austin finally lifted his dripping, sticky head and made eye contact, his eyes glimmering coldly.
I smiled. “Now, was it that hard just to look me in the eye? I think not. And in the future you might think twice before dishing dirt about someone behind her back. And manners . . . get some.”
In a fit of anger he rose to his feet and snatched the empty tray out of my hand. I held my ground, staring right back at him, silently daring him to try and justify his behavior. “Does someone need a little anger management?”
He retreated, turned, and ran toward the water, sand spraying behind his feet.
Darcy did a little victory dance beside me, swinging her hips, stirring the pot. “Go Lindsay, it’s your birthday! Go Lindsay! You dissed him . . .”
It was a first for me, deliberately contriving to humiliate someone—and succeeding. Not my style at all, but today it had seemed necessary.
Then I turned and saw Bear watching from the edge of the crowd, face scruffy with a few days’ growth, eyes gloomy and disappointed.
Disappointed with me.
Turning away from him, I bent down to help pick up the test tubes and suddenly wanted to cry. Revenge was a shallow thrill, especially when you just kicked the love of your life in the teeth.
I plunked the sand-coated test tubes into the tray, mumbling: “Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .” Yes, I deserved my own chapter in the Book of Stupid.
23
Elle
“Hey, have you seen three girls who look like Charlie’s Angels?” Elle asked a tall, dark-skinned man who’d been directing guests onto the estate.
“Yah, mon. Like . . . everywhere. We got Charlie’s Angels, the Breakfast Club, and the gang from Cheers. Oh, and I just helped E.T. find a parking spot for his spaceship.” His deep, rich laughter boomed in the night.
Elle liked him immediately. His name tag said Mr. Fitzroy.
“Seriously?” A middle-aged man with a shaved head eyed Mr. Fitzroy intently. “Spielberg is here?”
“Did I say that?” Mr. Fitzroy clapped a hand against one cheek. “Not that I ever drop names, don’t ya know.”
“Well, Mr. Fitz, you’re no help at all, but you do make me smile. But I’m telling you, if the Angels swing back this way, tell them Elle is looking for them.”
“Okay, Elle. And what about the devils? You want me to help you f
ind them, too?”
Elle shook her head, her long earrings jangling. “I’ve been fighting demons all my life.” As Mr. Fitzroy turned to greet another guest, Elle ventured onto the green lawn, feeling the Hamptons world open up in a way she hadn’t experienced in all her years as Dr. DuBois’s charge at the research center or the professor’s daughter at academic functions. The jangling steel drum music, the huge lawn teeming with people lit by dancing torches, the laughter and salt air on the breeze . . .
This was an eye-opener indeed, well worth her return to the States.
After a cup of tea and a game of catch-up, Lindsay’s mom had insisted that Elle head over to the designer’s party to find the others. Good old Mary Grace—her second mom. She’d let out a squeal when the older woman had come to the porch door. Mrs. McCorkle had recognized Elle instantly, of course, and as soon as they got to talking the years melted away in a flash. Sitting in the old ladderback chair in the paneled dining room brought Elle back to countless days and nights lounging in the McCorkle house, playing cards or Monopoly, dreaming up moneymaking schemes, painting each other’s toenails, making fudge or popcorn or both. When Mrs. Mick ordered her to go off and find “the young people” at the party, Elle didn’t want to burst her bubble and point out that, aside from Lindsay, that group wasn’t going to be so relieved to have “Trouble” back in town.
Although Elle had never met Anusa the designer, she’d crashed her fair share of parties and felt right at home strolling the grounds in her short, faded denim skirt and bikini top, a tropical print with a sea of aquamarine dotted with tiny yellow, pink, orange, and purple flowers.
Passing a buffet table loaded with fat shrimp on ice, cheeses, and crudités, she realized she was hungry and grabbed a plate. While she was munching a carrot, a woman with very large amber jewelry insisted she join their group, and she sat down, mostly listening as the guests talked about the soaring real-estate values in the Hamptons and the tight housing market. After that she waited in line at one of the little tents, hoping to have her fortune told. The two gentlemen in front of her in line, one as thin as a pencil with a shaved head, the other solid and well built, with silver hair, struck up a conversation, and she enjoyed talking with them, realizing from the conversation that they were gay and not trying to hit on her.