Summer Darlings

by Brooke Lea Foster

  Heddy jotted it on the first page, while Gigi twisted a lock of hair around her finger.

  “No one ever tells you this when you’re a kid, pussycat, but I’m telling you now. The best part about growing up is that you get to write your own story. Don’t worry who grew up where, or who went to what school. Just write the part, then play it. You want to be a writer, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gigi grew exasperated. “Well, start writing.”

  Heddy considered her life until this point. The sequence of events that led to her birth had nothing to do with her. The day her grandmother died was arbitrary. Going to college had been her counselor’s idea, and her mother, shocked that it was within reach, helped pay for Heddy’s applications, working overtime to cover the initial fees. Those things happened to her; it wasn’t a destiny she had any part in controlling, and whatever was meant to happen to her from now on, simply would.

  “I’m not sure you’re right, that I can write my way into a different life,” she told Gigi.

  “And why not? I did it.” Gigi squeezed Heddy’s shoulder. “Look, not having a father, not having the kind of family you wanted, is one thing that happened to you. But it’s not the only thing that happened to you. You shouldn’t let it define you that way. I never did.”

  Heddy wrote it slowly in her best cursive, liking the sound of it. It’s one thing that happened, not the only thing.

  “If I let every little shit thing that’s happened to me bring me down, I’d be living in a goddamn sewer.”

  Heddy chuckled.

  “You should see the arrogant asses I’ve dealt with in Hollywood. I’ve had to bow to them, worship the temples of their egos. I had one guy, a director, tell me he’d give me the part if I was committed. Committed? What did marrying someone have to do with winning the lead?”

  “Did you ask him?”

  “Bet your bottom I did. He told me he was afraid he’d cheat on his wife with me, giving me this slick look that turned my stomach.”

  Heddy pretended to vomit.

  “I politely told him he was bold to assume I’d even want to see his hairy back.” A buzzer rang out, and Gigi reset a kitchen timer for fifteen minutes. Then she rolled over.

  Heddy held her hand over her gaping mouth. “Did you say that?”

  “Of course not. I needed the role. Anyway, I had the last laugh. This was before The It Girl. Now I tell those monkeys what movies I’ll be in, and they worship the temple of my ego.”

  Gigi picked up a fishing pole, casting the line into the sea, and handed it to Heddy. Then she picked up the other pole, cast out the line similarly, using the spindle to reel her line taut. “And we wait,” she said, humming the tune from Singin’ in the Rain. “You see, a lot of people go fishing, and they wait for a fish to bite. But we could sit here all day with these poles and nothing may come of it. The same is true for love.” Something tugged her line, and Gigi reeled it in, revealing nothing but a clump of seaweed. “Don’t let these women, these Mrs. Perfects, make you think a man falls into your lap.”

  “Certainly not a well-connected one.” Heddy smiled, but what she’d said seemed to agitate Gigi. The actress narrowed her eyes to slits.

  “You can marry a Vanderbilt, but if it’s not for love, even a little bit, it’ll be empty. These are different times, and you can make your own way. You don’t need a husband to define you. You can define yourself.”

  Heddy looked around at footsteps on the dock. A woman in a tight bun and white apron carried a tray with two drinks, each a Tom Collins, a wedge of lime on the rim of the glass. The woman gave one to Heddy, the gin stinging her tongue.

  “It’s strong.”

  Gigi drank hers down like water. “Hardly. Karina makes them like lemonade.” On a small table, Karina arranged a water pitcher, a bowl of lemon wedges, and two glasses filled halfway with ice cubes.

  Her glass empty, Gigi asked for another. “Much better. Now where were we?”

  Heddy gulped, liking the sting this time, and picked up the small notebook to look back through her notes. “I shouldn’t wait for a fish to bite.”

  “Right, exactly. So first, you must decide which man is worth your time. Let’s call him the mark. And don’t go by attraction alone to find the mark. You’re not looking for a sordid affair.” Gigi dangled one foot off the dock, lifting the other so she could pick at her toe polish. “I tend to look at watches. They tell a lot about a man.”

  This surprised Heddy, and she scribbled watch?, amused. “But it’s just a timepiece.”

  Gigi batted her long eyelashes. There was a whole lot of sultry in those lashes. “Oh no, sugar pie. A man’s watch is a powerful piece of information. It tells you everything you need to know. Is he practical, wearing one of those department store Timexes? Is his choice gauche, a gold Rolex shipped on a boat from Switzerland? Maybe he’s new money, and desperate to announce his financial standing. Cartier? A sense of style, classic taste, old money. Stay away from a man with a pocket time piece—too old-fashioned.” Gigi crossed her legs at the knees. “Personally, I like men with a pilot’s watch, something with multiple dials. Says they like a good adventure, to do a little exploring on you. Cary’s got my attention right away: a handsome dark face with white numbers, a few little dials. Gives me goose bumps just looking at it.”

  Heddy used to stare at the watches in the case at Tiffany’s when she’d visit her mother at work. There was one, a woman’s watch with a skinny, slinky gold band, that had tiny diamonds at every hour. She wondered what it’d be like to own a watch like that.

  “And those pilot watches,” Gigi purred. “They usually mean he’s good in bed.”

  “Gigi!” Heddy swallowed another gulp of Tom Collins, blushing. “So I found him, the mark. Now what?”

  Gigi stood, so Heddy rose up, but she listed, the sun making her woozy. Gigi took her hand. “Pretend I’m, I don’t know, Rock Hudson. No, no. I’m the mark, and I walk up to you,” Gigi said. Heddy peered down at her feet as Gigi approached, seeing lines of water through the dock slats.

  Gigi did her best baritone voice. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Feeling the pull of a shy smile, Heddy averted her eyes to the horizon. “That would be nice.”

  “Oh brother,” Gigi sighed. “I need to start at the beginning. It’s more like this…” She rested her hand on her hip, her opposing shoulder pushed down in a sexy stance, her head angled to the side. “I’d love a sidecar.… I’m from the city. You too—wow! Have you ever been to the Village Vanguard? Great jazz. Maybe we should meet some time.”

  Heddy buried her face in her hands. “I can’t do that.”

  Gigi frowned. “Well, it doesn’t have to be exact. Let’s start with the eyes. You need to make eye contact—no one trusts someone who doesn’t make eye contact.”

  Gigi pretended to scan a crowded room. She stopped at Heddy, held her gaze. It was like a spotlight shining on her. Nothing else but Heddy. It made Heddy feel funny; she had to look away.

  “No, no, no,” Gigi scolded. “Think of it as a pause. When a guy catches your eye, don’t look away. Then you look nervous, like you’re waiting for the commuter train to whisk you out of there. His eye will move right over you.” Gigi kissed her chin to her shoulder, let the soft smile pass back over her face. “But if you pause, return his stare for an extra-long moment, that tells a man ‘come get in my taxi.’ ”

  Heddy lost herself in a fit of giggles, trying to stop. “My turn.” Heddy walked through an imaginary door, settling her gaze on Gigi, who was standing at the end of the dock.

  “Count to five in your head,” Gigi encouraged. “Let the mark know you’re there. That’s it.” She matched Heddy’s gaze, perfectly serious, and Heddy bit her cheeks to keep from laughing again.

  “Think of it as your signal,” Gigi said. “And it’s okay if you’re shy. That’s sexy, too. Because when a shy girl goes for it, guys go bananas.”

  Heddy set down her Tom Collins. She was
feeling on top of the world from her buzz, but she had to pick up the kids later. “I can do this. I’m going to stare at him until he sees me.” She went to hug Gigi, but the actress just patted her on the back.

  “There, there,” she said. “Let’s get you some water.” Heddy guzzled down the water, then poured another and drank that, too. She burped.

  Gigi took a fresh cocktail from Karina, the ice cubes already melting. “So once he comes to you, chat him up, let him buy you a drink, laugh at all the right places. But then, do the boob rub.”

  Heddy crossed her arms over her chest, like she needed to protect her breasts from incoming nuclear missiles. “The boob rub?”

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud, then shot its rays back down on them. “It’s my little trick. Men love to feel strong, even little boys do; they’re born that way. So at some point, maybe after the first drink, find a reason to squeeze his arm, right up between here.” She pointed at her cleavage.

  “Gigi!” Heddy yelped. “I couldn’t!”

  “Oh, but you can, sugar pie—it’s nothing.” Gigi acted out the scene. “Grab hold of him like you just saw something scary, or maybe like you’re extra excited about something. Use your hand to squeeze his bicep—what is it with men and their bicep muscles? Then hug his arm against your chest.” She held her hands up like she was squeezing two big muscular arms, and getting tremendous pleasure from it.

  “But what if Jean-Rose saw me do that? What would she think?”

  “I’m sure Jean-Rose boob-rubbed her way across Darien in her day. She found her own mark, then reeled him in. Trust me when I tell you: Ted was not her first choice.”

  The alcohol made Heddy feel like she’d been rocking on the rough seas, and now this. What was Gigi saying?

  She hiccupped.

  “You’ve convinced yourself that these society ladies exist on some holier-than-thou plane. Well, hardly.” Gigi lit a Chesterfield. A cloud of smoke plumed overhead as she blew O’s. “Look, sugar pie, everyone leaves parts of their past behind as they grow up, even Jean-Rose. You don’t have to carry yours around like a backpack weighing you down with bricks. All anyone cares about is who you are right now.”

  She wasn’t telling Heddy to be someone else. She was telling her to edit. To omit. To figure out the parts of herself she was proud of and let go of the parts that she wasn’t. It was like revising a story; she was always cutting details to shape the plot. Perhaps Heddy could revise her own story. She was doing that already at luncheons at Wellesley or even when she talked to Jean-Rose—she simply left things out. And what Gigi was saying is that it didn’t matter; everyone edited. Maybe it’s how we all survived, how we all emerged out of childhood in one piece. We figured out who we wanted to be and called ourselves that, despite what anyone else said we were.

  “That’s why this nonsense about her blocking my application at the Island Club is ridiculous,” Gigi went on. “Her scrappy little self can’t stand how far I’ve come, how she’d never be able to support herself the way I can. But she made her own bed, marrying for money. She could have married for love. Anyway, I digress. I’m sorry. Sometimes I get the stage, and I can’t stop. Enough about this old nonsense.”

  Heddy imagined a youthful Jean-Rose bonkers for someone other than Ted. When Jean-Rose was drunk on the couch that night, she said something about a man named Nelson; was that him?

  “What do you know about Ash Porter?” Heddy asked.

  Gigi fiddled with her bracelets. “I know he likes to surf—I ran into him on the beach once, a golden boy. Not my type. You have something for him?”

  “Maybe.” Heddy peeled back a splinter of wood on the dock.

  “Oh yeah, what part of him?” The actress lifted her eyebrows suggestively.

  They burst out laughing for a second, and when Heddy recovered, she said, “But I have a chance with someone else, and I like him, too. Quite a bit, actually.”

  The actress purred. “Haven’t you seen The Trio in Tuscany?” When Heddy shook her head, Gigi waved her off. “It’s okay. No one saw it, but the point is, my character was in love with two men, and it makes for an impossible ending.”

  Heddy leaned forward. “What happens?”

  Gigi bit her lip. “I don’t want to confuse you.”

  “I could just ask someone.” Heddy laughed. “It was in the theaters.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell you. She chooses the good boy, the one who her mother wants her to be with. But the night before her wedding, the bad boy sneaks into her dressing room and convinces her she’s making a terrible mistake, and they run off together.”

  Heddy grinned. “Why was that movie such a flop?”

  Gigi smacked her. “Because my costar stunk.” Gigi creased her eyes, like a tired cat. “Look, with Ash, you can get away most of the time with just smiling pretty. He seems like a flirt, and men like him want women to flirt back.” Gigi’s lips parted into a soft grin. “Like this, no gums. Don’t smile so big that your eyes wrinkle. Let the muscles in your face relax.”

  Heddy mimicked the downy-soft look on Gigi’s face.

  “That’s it! You got it.” Gigi applauded. “But who’s the other boy?”

  “Sullivan Rhodes.”

  “The one with the paper? I had lunch with his mother the other day. She’s incredibly sophisticated. I kept watching how she raised her fork to her mouth, parting her lips just so and tilting her fancy hair. With every bite. That’s some high-class stuff, little girl. You sure you’re ready for that?”

  Heddy stared at the ripples in the sea. “You mean, is his family ready for me?”

  “No, I’m talking about you. Marrying someone like him comes with responsibility. Endless social engagements, then those ridiculous conversations where you’re forced to nod along to whatever anyone says. You’ve got to be sure, that’s all.”

  Heddy imagined a jeweled comb in her hair, a spangly dress, hanging on to Sullivan’s every word—it didn’t fit. “But Sullivan is different from that.”

  “That’s what he says, but they all get trapped in it. Money like that, it’s like velvet handcuffs.”

  “I suppose,” Heddy said.

  Gigi ran her long fingers up the smooth plane of her legs, squinting. “Sullivan. I bet he wants to talk books and history. Pretend you’re a professor with him. Not literally, but channel your intelligence. He’s used to his mother, who is cold but whip-smart. Snuggle him up, since his mother probably never did, then list what’s on your nightstand. Men like girls who are passionate.”

  “But aren’t most men looking for a girl to tend house?”

  “A man doesn’t want to marry a maid. He wants to marry a woman who screws like a one-night stand but still gets up to make breakfast. Show him what a good time you are.”

  Heddy burst out laughing. Perhaps it’s why Gigi got the guys. Because she was free in a way that other women weren’t. She thought of Ash, how he’d taken her on his surfboard. How she’d been able to see the force of the ocean, how much it seemed to open him up to her.

  “Don’t laugh, it’s true.” Gigi ran her fingers through her hair, combing the tangles from her swim. “It’s not all sex, of course. There is something to the glow. Happy girls always get the guy. Be light. It’s infectious.”

  “How am I going to do this?” Heddy buried her face in her hands.

  “Don’t think you have to be so mature around a boy. Unbutton.”

  “Well, not until the third date.” In the distance, Heddy saw a 4WD truck bumping its way down the beach.

  “Is that what girls have declared acceptable these days? In my day, it was marriage.”

  “I mean, it still is, but if you’re not going to hold out, I mean.”

  Gigi sat up, cross-legged, facing Heddy. “You think I care when you’re going to make it with a boy? C’mon. Half the men on this island have seen me naked.”

  Heddy stared dumbly, like she didn’t know what she was talking about.

  Gigi smacked her. “Don’t be one o
f those people who pretends not to know!”

  That made Heddy laugh. “Sorry.”

  A light bulb went on in Gigi’s eyes then. “One more thing, pussycat. You’ll need this to land the mark. Copy his body language. If he runs his hand through his hair, wait a moment and do the same. If he’s looking out at a passing ship, lean forward and look, too. It’s this unconscious thing, but it turns men on. We always do it in movies to let the audience know that a girl is into a guy.”

  “Really?”

  “You can practice at my party. I’ll help you.” There was a guy with a camera inside the 4x4, and he started snapping. “This is private property, asshole.” She put on her sweater, her wet bikini top soaked through two circles on her shirt. It was unfortunate or extremely fortunate, depending on who was looking. “I have to run.”

  Gigi flashed her a megawatt smile before striding away, swaying her hips for the photographer. “Can’t wait to see you in that dress.”

  “But don’t you need to ask me questions, about stuff?” Heddy realized then that she’d been looking forward to Gigi prying into her past. It might feel good to come clean about everything.

  Gigi blew her a kiss. “I got everything I need.”

  * * *

  That night, she wrote Beryl:

  July 16, 1962

  Dear Beryl,

  First off: Congratulations!

  Now, sit down because you may faint: Gigi McCabe has become my confidante. I’m going to her party, she lent me a dress from The It Girl, and this guy I can’t stop thinking about will be there. I could get you an invitation—Hollywood people are coming! It’s July 21. You could stay here, and we could gossip about the sorry old lots trying to be chic.

  How is Phillip? You’ll be happy to hear that I’m dating more than I ever have, and I’m considering making it with one of them. And why not? Gigi said to go after what I want.

  The bad news is that there’s been a bit of a housing mix-up at school, and I lost my place in the dorm. You may need to find another roomie.…