Beach Lane (14 page)

“I guess we should go,” Mara said as the overhead lights blinked on and off.

“You think?” Ryan grinned.

They walked out to where he had parked the Aston Martin convertible, one of the few cars left in the lot. Even the valet guys had punched out. Ryan opened the door and Mara stepped inside. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said.

She rubbed her eyes, smearing her eye makeup all over her face.

“God, I look like a mess!” she said, pulling down the visor to check out the damage in the mirror.

Ryan turned. “You make a pretty cute raccoon.”

She wiped her face with tissues, amazed at how much makeup came off. Jacqui had really outdone herself.

They drove back to the house in comfortable silence. The night air smelled fresh and a little wet, and in the quiet of the night Mara could feel what made this place so special. Yes, all that posturing all the time was a little much, but it was beautiful.

“Well, good night . . .,” Ryan said, helping Mara up the steps.

“Good night.” She smiled at him sleepily. She walked down the garden path toward the servants’ cottage.

Ryan lingered at the doorway, his forehead knit in a frown. “Hey, are you going to bed?” he called.

“I was . . .,” Mara said tentatively.

“I thought maybe I’d build a bonfire on the beach. It’s a nice night, and, well, I’ve got some sleeping bags.”

Mara smiled into the dark. “That sounds great. Just let me change.”

* * *

A few minutes later Mara watched as Ryan dug a hole in the sand and filled it with firewood and kindling. She was wearing a T-shirt and pajamas and had scrubbed off all the makeup.

He struck a match. The newspapers flared up, but the firewood didn’t catch.

“I think they’re a little damp.”

“Here, let me help,” Mara said. She was an expert at building fires. Her parents liked to heat their house with their woodstove
through the harsh New England winters; they thought it was quaint, even though Mara knew there wasn’t much quaint about their single-story ranch. “You just need a little more kindling . . . and blow on the smoke. . . .” She arranged the sticks into a teepee over the newspaper, and when the initial blaze died down, a few red embers remained.

“Blow, blow!” she told Ryan, and the two of them huffed and puffed on the small sparks. The sparks became larger and finally the wood caught fire. Mara and Ryan cheered.

“I found some marshmallows in the pantry,” Ryan said, opening a bag. He grabbed a long stick from the cattail bushes and stuck one on. He handed it to Mara. She held it over the fire, watching the sugar melt into a brown glaze.

“When I was little, I always left the marshmallows in too long and they would burn and fall off,” Mara said, taking a bite.

“But you have to leave them on for a long time! That’s when they taste best!” Ryan argued.

He left his stick in the fire, and the marshmallow sizzled and fell into the flames.

“See, I told you!” Mara laughed at his dismayed expression.

Ryan speared another marshmallow. “This time you’re not getting away!” he said sternly to his food.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Mara dug her bare toes into the cold sand until it started to feel wet a few inches down. She could see the smallest orange reflection of their fire as the waves rolled in again and again. Behind them were the
biggest houses she’d ever seen, but it was the beach that impressed her the most.

“I always thought I’d stay here forever,” Ryan said, breaking Mara’s silent reverie.

“What do you mean?”

“Growing up, when we used to come out to the Hamptons, I never wanted to leave come September. I promised myself that when I was older, I would live here year-round.”

“It must get so cold, with the ocean right there.”

“Oh, it’s awful,” Ryan said cheerfully. “But there’s no one here. That’s what’s so great about it.”

“But now?”

“I don’t know. The house isn’t the same.”

“I’m sorry.” Eliza had told her once that the house used to be different—more comfortable, less like a big showpiece.

“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. I mean, what would I do here anyway?” He shrugged. “What about you—what did you think you wanted to do when you were little?”

“I wanted to be a scientist,” Mara said. “When I was nine, I was sure that’s what I wanted to do. I thought that would be cool, wearing a lab coat, looking in microscopes.”

“And now?”

“Well, I kind of suck at science! And I hate math. So no, I don’t think I’m going to be a scientist.”

“What do you want to do, then?”

Mara thought about it. What she really wanted to do was
become a writer. She wasn’t sure what kind, maybe a journalist. Or maybe the kind that wrote books. But it seemed like such an impossible thing. Like saying she wanted to win an Academy Award. It just wasn’t going to happen. Besides, her parents always said if she made it to college, she should be a lawyer or a banker, someone who made a lot of money. She couldn’t afford her dreams.

“I don’t know . . . maybe a writer,” she whispered. For some reason, she felt comfortable telling him. Maybe it was because he was so easy to talk to or maybe because she knew he wouldn’t ask her to explain herself.

“Cool.” He nodded.

They ate a few more marshmallows and kept talking on and off. Mara liked the silent time between the talking as much as she did their conversations. She never mentioned Jim because for once it was nice to not just be “Jim Mizekowski’s girlfriend.” To Ryan she was just Mara, and for once Mara felt pretty good about just being herself.

As the sky started to show signs of a new day, they zipped themselves into their sleeping bags like beach caterpillars. And then, in a quiet moment, while they listened to the waves crashing, Mara and Ryan fell asleep.

* * *

The next day Page Six ran two photos. One of Chauncey Raven straddling the current Wimbledon champ in the VIP room. The other was of Mara and Ryan, under the headline “Has the Perry Heir Found Love?”

eliza’s postmortem brunch of pancakes and page six

“OH. MY. GOD. I AM STILL SOOO WASTED,” LINDSAY
rasped, chasing down a Bloody Mary with an unfiltered Camel. “I am, like, hoovering these,” she said, alternately blowing smoke and smashing her face with a handful of french fries.

“Jesus, you should have seen me last night,” Taylor said. “I totally threw up all over Kit’s mom’s bathroom.”

“Oh, man, at least you guys had people to drive you home. I basically woke up in a ditch!” Eliza hooted. “I was, like, excuse me, how did I get here exactly?”

The three were playing drunken one-upmanship, where whoever was suffering from the most severe case of hangover won. They were at their usual table at 75 Main Street, a cute corner café in Southampton, checking out the scene from behind dark sunglasses.

“Psst. Check it out.” Lindsay nudged her friends as a famous comedian’s comely wife passed by with a double stroller.

“And isn’t that . . .?” Taylor asked, looking over her shoulder
at the bleary-eyed star of the latest romantic comedy flop.

“Uh-huh. Check out that face-lift. She can’t fool anybody. My mom said she’s, like, fifty-two.”

“No way!” Eliza hissed, loving every minute. “
People
magazine said she was thirty-eight!”

“The morning sun ain’t too kind,” Lindsay decided.

They attacked their pancake- and french-toast-stacked plates, feeling young and superior.

“I brought the paper,” Taylor said, digging into her bag for a rolled-up
New York Post.
She flipped straight to their favorite section: Page Six.

“Linds, there’s a photo from your party!” Taylor crowed, showing them.

HAS THE PERRY HEIR FOUND LOVE? the headline blared, over the picture of Ryan and Mara.

“Oh my God! Don’t tell me Ryan Perry has a girlfriend already!” Lindsay cried. “I’m so pissed! And at my party, too!”

Technically, Ryan and his friends were just hanging out at the club. He hadn’t even known about the party. But Eliza and Taylor wisely didn’t correct their friend’s assumption.

“Give me that!” Lindsay said, grabbing the paper from Taylor’s manicured fingernails. “Who IS she?”

“She’s gorgeous, whoever she is,” Taylor observed.

“Lucky bitch!” Lindsay hissed.

“And she’s wearing the Chloë top I wanted last season, but they sold out!”

“Why does everyone have to be so much cuter than me?” Lindsay complained. “It’s so not fair. She’s like a total babe and, of course, she gets, like, the hottest guy.”

“Mara Waters . . . Waters . . . I wonder if that’s Tobin Easley’s cousin? You know, I think I’ve seen her around somewhere.”

Eliza said nothing, feeling a tiny twinge of realization at how superficial this all was. If only these girls knew Mara was an au pair, they would never talk about her like this. She wouldn’t even register on their radar. As she examined the picture, Eliza also felt a rush of pride. Mara did look awesome, and it was all because of her . . . and Jacqui, of course, but Eliza liked taking most of the credit.

“I dunno, guys. I mean, I think she’s a little high waisted, don’t you think? Her legs are, like, up to her chin!” Eliza said. As if that could be in any conceivable way a bad thing.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lindsay agreed all too eagerly.

Soon the three are dissecting all of Mara’s “flaws.” Her eyes were too big. Her nose was way too small. Her smile, too wide. She was practically Quasimodo when they were through with the virtual dissection.

“And I don’t think she’s Tobin’s cousin. I heard she’s
working
for the Perrys,” Eliza said, whispering the scandalous news. “She’s practically the help!”

“Oooh . . .” Lindsay and Taylor were breathless with excitement. This was called hitting pay dirt.

“I heard it from Sugar and Poppy, and they would know,”
Eliza said. Sure, she was selling Mara out—but she also wanted to know what her friends thought of the whole deal.

“Ryan Perry’s dating—the maid?” Taylor asked, wide-eyed.

“No, she’s, like, the au pair or something,” Eliza explained, backtracking.

“Au pair!” Lindsay snorted. “Is that what they’re calling them now? Isn’t that just a euphemism for foreign sex slave?”

Eliza wanted to tell them that only one of them was foreign and that most of their duties were 100 percent real and dealt with four children under the age of twelve, but she bit her tongue.

“Ryan’s dating the housekeeper! That’s hilarious!” Taylor cackled loudly.

“So he’s, like, slumming,” Lindsay said smugly. “We should inform the
Post
! Tell Page Six we have a bigger scoop!”

Eliza had a difficult time keeping the smile plastered to her face.

After the girls were done, they threw down the newspaper. “So, like, what’s up with boarding school? Are you staying there next year, too?” Lindsay asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Hey, are you guys going to the polo match?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Of course,” Lindsay said. “You?”

“Charlie and I are sort of going together,” she confessed with a smug smile.

“So what’s up? You guys back together?”

“Not really,” Eliza said. “Not yet, anyway.” But he did ask her
to be his date at the polo match, and she had told him she would meet him there. She was also supposed to be working at the event, taking care of the kids. But that was fine since Charlie was actually playing on one of the teams and wouldn’t be in the tents much. He hadn’t exactly said anything about getting back together, but she was hoping that was all about to change at the polo match. Thank God she had bought that hot little wrap dress. Charlie wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Anyway, ladies, this was hella fun. But I got to go.” A little of the California talk that was so big in Buffalo right now snuck in as she threw down a twenty on the table.

Lindsay waved it away. “I have my dad’s Visa. Why do you have to leave so early? I thought we were going to go shopping after brunch.”

“Nah, I told my aunt I’d go to some art exhibit in Water Mill with her today,” Eliza lied. In fact, she was due to pick up Mara, Jacqui, and the kids at Fifi Laroo, where Anna had booked the kids for massage treatments.

As she drove down the street, her friends’ words rang in her head. “Au pair is just another word for mistress on the payroll!” “He’s dating THE MAID?”

God help her if they ever found out the truth about her.

prima donnas got nothing on these girls

MADAME SUZETTE WAS A FORMER PRIMA BALLERINA.
She had danced for Balanchine and Baryshnikov, and was once the star of the American Ballet Theater. She’d been linked with many rich and famous men, and earned the adulation of the cultured elite. It was one of the reasons why her studio was one of the most sought-after in the Hamptons.

On a bright Saturday morning, a group of little girls in black leotards and pink tights and ballet slippers stood in order of height against the mirror.

“Plié, plié, grand plié, plié,” Madame ordered briskly, walking up and down the barre. “Pointe tendu,” she directed, inspecting the girls’ outstretched toes.

“Szzt! Madeeezun!” Madame called. “
Arretez!
Toes point out! Like theez!” Madame stretched her foot to show Madison how her toe was arched out in a sharp point. Madison fumbled and tried to imitate it. Madame sighed.

“Allez! From the top! Plié, plié, grand plié . . .”

During the course of the lesson, Madame returned to Madison’s place several times to correct her posture, her arm movements, her awkward
rond de jambes
.

“Toes in, ankles out! What do you not
comprendez
?” Madame asked, as she forced Madison’s feet into fourth position. Several girls snickered. Madison’s cheeks burned.

“Isn’t that your sister?” someone asked Zoë.

After the grueling hour, the studio assistant set out milk and cookies as treats for the students, and Madame handed out performance grades on embossed note cards.

“Madison, you must
melhorez
. Improve. This is an art. A practice. You are not cut out for ballet. Perhaps you should take the jazz dance.” Madison lowered her head and reached for a cookie.