When I think about this place, I can taste the wooden stick of a popsicle, feel my lips, all slick and shiny from the frozen goodness. I remember how full my closet used to get, mostly with sandals, back when we were teens. Dozens and dozens—one summer more than two hundred—pairs of sandals. Sunscreens, tanning oils, the scent of swim suit toasted in the sun. All of us lining up in front of the mirror wall in my bathroom, comparing tan lines.
Charley, Mags, Amelia, and I would spend most of July here in Southampton. My older siblings only brought one friend each, but starting that first summer, I got Charley, Mags, and Amelia. Mom even had the designer re-model my room around us four. That’s why, to this day, I have two sets of lilac bunk beds.
And that’s why I came back here this summer.
Because I’m not giving up the Hamptons. I refuse.
I repeat that to myself as we climb into Maggie’s robin’s egg blue Bentley. Charley’s riding shotgun. Amelia hung back so she could sit with me.
“The fab fucking foursome,” Charley sing-songs as Mags starts around the circle drive.
Charley, Amelia, Mags, and I met at Brandon Hall, a private school in the Riverside/Dunwoody area of Atlanta. We’ve been best friends since second grade. But Amelia and I are slightly closer to each other than we are to Mags and Charley. I’m not sure when it happened—over time, I guess—but I’m grateful for it as Mags turns up the music and Amelia leans over the console between our two seats.
“So…you ready to help me get laid?”
The lewd words sound ridiculous coming out of Amelia’s sweet, Southern mouth. I can’t help smiling.
“Always.”
I try to mean it. I try to be happy that I’m out with my best friends; we’re back in the Hamptons for a few wild weeks—all out of school, off work from internships, between other vacations. Amelia hooks her arm through mine, and we’re swaying to the new Bey when the Bentley rolls past the Parsons’ home. My eyes pull to it like a magnet.
Dark.
Thank God.
Amelia gives me a look that says “I told you so” while lip syncing “I ain’t sorry.” When Maggie rolls off the road onto the grassy shoulder beside it, the car’s nose pointed toward the ocean water glinting between houses, I freeze up.
“Front seat, front seat!” Charley hops out, snapping her fingers. “Moo, moo! Get moo-ing!”
I laugh. For years they’ve been teasingly calling me the cash cow since I can get us into clubs and parties they wouldn’t be able to access without the Rhodes name. Gag-barf.
But tonight, we’re going to have fun. I check myself over in the vanity mirror as the we roll to the back of the line of cars outside the gates of the Carnegies’ summer home, Bright House. Beyond a black iron gate, the white, columned, Greek-revival-style house is all lit up. The windows wink like diamonds. The lawn is a sea of twinkle lights and shadows. Looking closely, I can see guests perched on balconies, drifting through the rooftop gardens.
One look at the Bentley and security waves us in. Maggie’s father is a famous defense lawyer, and she herself has gained some notoriety for working at Vogue magazine and occasionally cat-walking at fashion shows. Her ride is recognizable.
“Now who’s the cash cow?” I tease.
Mags sticks her tongue out and shakes her head, hair extensions bouncing off her bony shoulders.
A few minutes later, valet has the car and we are standing on the vast lawn, lit by scattered fire pits and lanterns that dangle from the trees lining the driveway. To the rear left of the house, a hedge maze winks a hundred eyes. Small, glass bubbles rest atop the sharply manicured leaves, spilling amber light.
I flex my hands and resist the urge to wipe them on my coral pink silk chiffon gown. It’s flowy and layered, the fabric rippling in a gentle breeze. It’s also Gucci, and worth about $10,000.
My palms continue sweating as my eyes dance over the round, white tables scattering the lawn.
He isn’t here, I tell myself. The Parsons’ house was dark.
Still, I feel like a rock is lodged in my throat.
I feel something tickle my ear and jump.
“Whoa now,” Amelia says with a soft smile. “You had a flyaway.”
Another urge: to run my hands over my thick, chestnut-colored hair, which Charley pulled into a half updo. But I see people moving toward us. I can feel their eyes. I hold my head high and my shoulders straight and act. It’s not that hard when you’ve been doing it as long as I have.
Maggie’s hand encircles my arm. “Let’s go inside. I need to say ‘hello’ to Homer.”
Homer is Declan Carnegie’s nickname. He plays for the Red Sox, and somewhere along the way, people started calling him Homer for all the home-runs he hits.
Maggie knows him from college. They both went to Cornell.
Amelia, Charley, and I follow her up the porch and through the giant front doors, nestled between the home’s thick columns. Servers bustle just inside the foyer, offering drinks and hours d’vours (I hear “caviar parfait” and something else with the word “salmon” from the servers).
We pass Cal Hawthorne and his new girl, Rose something. Cal eye-fucks Amelia, which is seriously not classy.
I look around, taking in a watercolor ocean mural on a nearby wall. It’s been a few years since I was here, and I don’t think I remember seeing it last time.
We pass through parlors and libraries, a very formal living area done in variants of cream and tan. I can smell lobster and a whiff of something buttery coming from the direction of the kitchen. I can feel the eyes of people all around us—eyes on me.
Hold your shoulders loose, I tell myself. Let your arms hang casually. Project relaxation. You belong here.
It’s true: I do. But I don’t feel that way. Not anymore.
It was a bad idea to come here.
I’m struggling to get a deep breath when Amelia and Charley strike off toward the ladies’ room. Thank God, Mags doesn’t notice me freaking out. She’s not self-centered, just distractible and naturally oblivious. She bumps my shoulder as we go in search of Dec.
“I’m glad you’re here, girly.” She smiles.
I manage to return it. “Me too.”
Liar.
TWO Lucy
And what a good liar I am.
For the next half hour—thousand years?—we meander through the home’s ginormous living rooms and parlors, passing a taxidermied moose, two real-as-fuck Picassos, and a car-sized sundial in the center of a glass-ceilinged room, as we mingle with just about everybody and their brother.
Marcia McCormac, a gossipy, baby-doll looking blonde who does nothing but run marathons and lay out in the lawn of her family’s estate in upstate New York, asks me where I’ve been. I tell her I’ve been training horses out in Colorado.
“That sounds exciting.”
I ignore the sarcasm in her voice and nod, my head held high. “It’s really fun.”
Felix Bridger, a descendant of Jim Bridger—a la Fort Bridger, one of the big trading outposts of the Wild West—makes his way to me and wants to talk politics, assuming I’m a good contact, I guess because I’m living in the “west” now and I’m originally from Georgia, where there are lots of people with views similar to his own.