Summer of Love (11 page)

The wind swirls my thin dress around my legs and I pull my gauzy wrap close to my shoulders as I walk in between the white fang statues toward the main entrance. I note that there’s no gate, no security check in — not because it’s an open club. No, even more exclusionary is the no-gate scene: like the place is so exclusive they know no one would dare try to enter without explicit permission. That permission comes in the form of either a family membership given at birth (not kidding — Arabella pocketed one of the guidebooks for members — heh — and we took turns doing dramatic readings from it) or a an invite done by hand in calligraphy that is all very French circa eighteen-whatever.

My personal invite I have tucked in my bra mainly because I have no bag with me and in the mule heels I foolishly chose to don this evening, I’m afraid I’ll drop it and be denied entry to what will probably be the dinner party of the summer.

The wide driveway is blanketed in crushed shells that glow in the moonlight. The whole main building is symmetrical — the driveway is a large arch shape, and the main manor house is plucked into the middle, with eight illuminated antique streetlights on either side. At light six I stop and rummage in my breast area for the ticket. Of course, the small slip of paper has slid almost under the left one like it’s seeking shelter from the breeze so I have to dig around for it. Nothing like standing in front of an old money club touching your own chest — and nothing like doing so and then realizing you’re being noticed by someone.

“You okay there?”

I blush hard but in the night at least it’s not super-obvious. “I’m fine, Henry, thanks.”

“Well, if you need help…just let me know.” He’s a shameless flirt, especially after the beachrub — somehow, the post-backrub familiarity has led to a lot of speculation about underlying tensions.

I remove the ticket and my hands from my bra and display only the ticket for Henry. “See? I’ve got my golden ticket.”

“Ah, shame you retrieved it without another pair of hands,” he says and offers his arm to me. I take it and the two of us crunch our way up the driveway to the long, marble steps that lead up to the main building.

Outside the enormous doorway, Henry pauses and turns to me with a serious, less-flirty voice. “I’m really glad you came tonight, Love.”

“Me, too,” I say and wonder what the night has in store.

The first thing the night has in store is my reaction to seeing the theme of In the Midnight Hour come to life. Beyond the slinky dresses (from many a young lady read: I wore the contents of my underwear drawer because I could) are flowing fountains of champagne, tables set with individual pocketwatches as the place card holders, personal menus and flowers and several giant clocks all set to midnight.

“It’s very Gatsby meets Dali,” I say and realize how pretentious I sound but I can’t think of any other way to describe it.

“Isn’t it great?” Henry’s friend Lissa agrees. “It’s even better than his birthday last year.”

I hesitate to ask what that involved and focus instead on the scene to my left right and center. Henry’s wearing a smoking jacket from the nineteen-thirties and tuxedo pants, and while some of his friends take his cue and dress in elegant silk pajamas, or a dinner jacket and bowtie, there are a bunch of people who have interpreted the midnight hour to mean the midnight hour in music video. One girl, in a leopard thong and matching bustier, is shuttled over to the club office where she’s given the option of wearing a cape “to cover her buttocks” (I overheard) or leaving.

“Fuck the cape,” the girl says. “I work hard for this ass.”

I stifle a giggle and do what I normally do in crowded, unfamiliar settings where I am on the outskirts of the social hem: I go to the bathroom.

Of course the ladies’ powder room is an event unto itself, with various shades of cream and lemon to compliment the Calcutta marble sinks, and the plush sitting area complete with a vast array of toiletries and make-up. And the flushing mechanisms in the oversized stalls are operated by a discrete button you press with your shoe, lest your hands be required to do anything improper, like flush.

By the room-length mirror, I check out the outfit I chose from Arabella’s stash of Monti cast-offs. Having a mother that’s a model has its benefits, even if most of the clothes are floorlength on me. My dress is one part flapper, one part nightie. In a much muted plum color, it’s fitted through the top and ribs with gold straps just thick enough to hide evidence that I need to wear a bra. The bottom of the dress is slightly flowy, and lined with a thin underskirt in lighter plum that makes it look like it could be nightwear, which guess tonight it is.

My hair is in Arabella’s tangly twist — very windswept despite the complete lack of wind. Two giggling girls come in — one in a black camisole and silk boy shorts combo, the other in an outfit that could only be called slutty angel and I stare for a minute before heading back out for some nibbles.

“Champagne?” Henry offers me a tall flute filled with the bubbly and I sip at it while we stand at the edge of the dance floor. “Check out Jay and his women.”

“He’s got a way with the ladies, I guess,” I say and watch blond Jay as he manages to slow dance with two nightgowned women. “I guess they don’t mind sharing.”

Henry puts his arm casually around my shoulder, not close enough so that it’s a come on, more a buddy stance with underlying tension. I like the weight of his arm, the way he smells like some cologne that would advertise by showing something outdoors…maybe a sailing competition. “Would you?” he asks.

“Would I what?”

“Would you share someone?” Henry pulls me a little closer. I can feel the velvet of his smoking jacket and maybe I’d be more attuned to the fabric and the boy underneath it if it weren’t for the ultimate vision in front of me — gorgeous beyond belief. If it were the credits of a film he would be “Hot Guy in Suit at Party” but since it’s not a movie, I have to stare until it’s bordering on rude until I realize it’s not some random guy that’s making me drool, but Charlie.

“You know him?” Henry asks, watching me watch Charlie.

“A little,” I say and avoid looking at Henry so as not to give away my feelings. Plus, Charlie — in a suit! — is dancing with the ever-effervescent Hippie Mike, who looks not so much like a mellow hipster tonight but more like a French ingénue, with full lips and tousled bedroom hair and the requisite slim-fitting, body-hugging slip dress in pale, oceany blue — no bra (read: nice headlights). I cross my arms over my chest and then remember Mable once told me that particular stance made me look defensive — and that Asher said the same thing. Is that what we do in life, remember the things people have told us and then alter out mannerisms or words or actions accordingly?

“Charles — what a guy,” Henry says sarcastically.

“Charlie?” I say nonchalantly. “What’s his story?”

Henry waves to a girl in a pink babydoll dress and she blows him a kiss. “He’s got you calling him Charlie? That’s cute — that’s nice.” Henry clears his throat and laughs in disgust. “Charles is here only because of Mike —”

“She’s pretty incredible looking,” I say because it’s the truth and I refuse to be one of those women who cuts down other women around guys just in the name of self-promotion.

Henry nods. “Oh, she’s hotter than hell — but…”

“But?” I elbow him and he tightens his grip on me.

“But — well, she’s kind of off-limits, right?” He watches Mike dance with Charlie — they’re doing some version of swing or something that involves lots of dips and laughs.

The music stops and Henry taps his champagne glass to signal silence, which ensues rapidly.

“Please find your places at the tables — and thanks for coming to a timeless event — this is the shortest night of the year and hopefully one of the best…”

As Henry speaks, I watch the faces of his friends, his father — Trip Randall, island real estate magnate — as he downs one glass of champagne and reaches for another. Everyone looks happy, summery, wealthy. Then I look at Charlie — Charlie who drives a pick-up truck and makes a living as a fisherman — and feel terrible for him (even though he ditched me at dinner last year) — to be out of your element feels pretty sucky. Then I notice Mike staring at me and I look away. When I look back, she’s got her arm around Charlie’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear — Charlie’s response is to look directly at me and for a full minute, all we do is lock eyes. With each second that passes, I expect him to look away, or expect that I’ll back down — but as Henry speaks and someone gives a toast all I do is look right back at him. There is no denying it — there’s a connection there no mater what — no matter that his stunning girlfriend is next to him, that we’re both slightly out of place at The Manor Club, nor that Henry’s arm snakes around me again right as Charlie decides to walk over and offer a greeting.

“Love, it’s always a pleasure,” Charlie says sounding overly formal. Probably he feels he needs to be formal in this setting — and who wouldn’t — except it makes him seem even more out of place.

“Charles Addison,” Henry stretches out the words as if the name alone is enough of a hello and stretches his arm all the way around my shoulder, pulling me snugly against him.

Charles Addison. I guess I forgot his last name — Arabella and Chris and I just called him Charlie Boat Boy for so long. Or maybe I never knew it. But Addison sounds familiar. Note to self: Google search pronto. Further note to self: stop being so prep school and assuming that everyone — or everyone’s names — means something or connect to something.

Suddenly, Henry pulls me tighter and kisses me on the cheek (Charlie stares at this but doesn’t react in the slightest, to my dismay — not that I thought he’d leap on a table top and scream in protest, but maybe a flinch?) and then announces, “Well, it’s time to eat so we should take out seats. Love, you’re at table one am.”

He leads me away and I look for my name at table one am but don’t find it. Amidst the clock centerpiece, the trailing vines of flowers and gold-rimmed plates, there’s no trace of a pocketwatch placecard with my name.

“I swear I know you’re supposed to be here,” Henry says.

“I have my doubts,” I say as a joke but inside I’m thinking maybe it’s a sign — that I’m not supposed to be here and I belong out with the masses, working at the café, hanging out with regular, non-roman numeraled (i.e. Henry Randall IV) people. Or maybe I will forever be in denial about my own ladder-climbing. “But here’s Mike’s name.”

Right as I say it Mike traipses over, sipping her alcohol and smiling at me, all lazy and pretty and slides into her chair without Charlie anywhere. “Charles is outside taking a break,” Mike informs me and then turns her attentions to Henry.

Henry, caught between wanting to find my place and the new attention from Mike, puts one hand on my shoulder, the other on Mike’s head since she’s already sitting down. “Love — you were sitting right here — but someone must have rearranged the names…”

Mike looks up at us and grins, drunk but still functioning. “Never mind the seating chart, how about another round?”

I stand there awkwardly wondering where to place myself given the fact that the neighboring tables are full and the only people now standing are me, Henry, and the serving staff. Maybe I should just take a tray and start dishing out salads and cocktails. “I’m just going to run to the bathroom,” I say as the lamest excuse possible — how pathetic to make another trip to the powder room as an avoidance tactic.

“When you get back I’ll have this all sorted out,” Henry assures me but Mike’s hand on his thigh tells me otherwise. I look around for Charlie, wondering if he’d be thrilled to see Mike’s hand straying but then I remember he’s outside.

And in a momentary lapse of thinking (chalk it up to the champagne and lack of seat), I bypass the bathroom, carrying my drink, my shawl and my pride (which I thankfully didn’t leave back in the dining room with all the occupied seats) to the back of the manor to the large terrace that overlooks a wide expanse of lawn. The night sky is dotted with stars, the ocean is right ahead of me and so what if I don’t get any food or a place setting and Henry’s too distracted by Charlie’s girlfriend — the view’s nice.

“No seats available?”

I turn so my back is against the cold stone of the carved terrace railing. “No,” I say to Charlie. My breath is held in my throat, my skin immediately chilled as he’s close enough to me that I can feel the warmth emanating from his body. With one hand on the stone railing, Charlie reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a slip of paper and turns it slowly, revealing to me my own name.

“Behold your placecard,” he says hands it to me with a flourish.

Annoyed, I furrow my brow and snip, “Why’d you take it? Just to humiliate me?” I should have known, really. Anyone who stands you up can’t magically turn out to be okay, even if they are incredible eye candy.

Charlie’s face changes from sly to concerned. “No — no — I didn’t mean that at all…”

“Sure, just like you didn’t mean to stand me up. Thanks — I appreciate the kick in the butt, really.” I say it all, glad to have gotten my line in after all this time and I pivot on my borrowed heels and listen to the click click of them on the stone.

Charlie grabs my shoulder, causing me to turn around so we’re face to face. “I never stood you up…”

My mouth drops open, incredulous. “Oh my God — how can you say that? You invited me to dinner after we…” I don’t want to relive the kissing, the family talks, the fireside cuddling with him — it’s all too revealing now. “You asked me to dinner and never showed up. I think that’s pretty much the definition of standing someone up. In the dictionary of my life if you go to
stood up
, it says ‘
see night with Charlie on vineyard
’.”

Charlie looks like he could laugh or get pissed. “In theory I stood you up —”

I don’t let him finish. “In theory? A theory is conjecture — the opposite of fact, actually, so you’re wrong. You did, in fact, not show up. You didn’t only think about not showing up, you just did it.”

Charlie laughs — it’s so tense and we’re both so adamant — that it helps break the moment a little, but it’s still every bit as intense. “If you’d let me speak, which you seem to be unable to allow — you’d find…”