As soon as we landed, I saw our mothers—mine and Delilah’s—waiting for us on the tarmac. They looked nearly identical, so it was anyone’s guess which comely, middle-aged blonde had birthed the comely, teenage blonde. No stranger would’ve ever guessed the flat-chested, skinny little string bean with the dull brown hair was a product of the lovely lady in lavender.
My mother loves lavender. It’s a trademark for her. She never appears on television or at a public function without something lavender, even if it’s just a raw silk scarf draped around her perfectly toned, tanned shoulders, while the rest of her body luxuriates in a white silk shirtdress that shows off her beautiful ballerina legs. She danced professionally in Chicago for a few years but never broke out of the corps de ballet, so she quit. When my father met her, she was a cocktail waitress in a not-so-fancy restaurant. She still takes ballet classes (in a lavender leotard, natch), and my father says the reason Mom is so effortlessly elegant and graceful is “all those years of ballet. They taught her to sit up straight, walk like a princess, and never eat a goddamned thing, not even the stuff she bakes.” And while it’s true that my mother was unnaturally skinny by Chicago standards, where we eat a lot of bratwurst without shame, she fits right in with the rail-thin priestesses of New York high society.
“Darling!” Mom cried out in a voice so embarrassingly sweet I thought everyone else had to know it was bullshit. “You look so thin! God, to be seventeen again.” She quickly looked at Merilee Fairweather for approval, and when Merilee laughed and nodded her agreement, my mother perked up even further. She rushed forward to envelop me in a Chanel No. 5–scented hug, and I patted her awkwardly on the back. My mom was wearing a silk scarf and silk dress, and she also had on these fancy, white open-toe high heels from Ferragamo (I only know this because she never shuts up about Ferragamo) and a string of pearls, and her fingernails and toenails were done in this kind of off-white champagney color.
I was dressed in maybe a slightly dissimilar fashion. I’d made a dress out of this old long black T-shirt with the lead singer of the Cure on the front, and I wore a black camisole underneath (no bra, I don’t need one) because the T-shirt falls off one shoulder, and I cinched the whole thing around the waist with one of my dad’s old black belts. My hair was up in a ponytail, and I wore a jet-black pair of vintage Doc Martens with slouchy black socks.
I realize from this description I sound like some weird Goth kid, but I’m not Goth in the least. I like the Cure, and the Docs are comfortable. But did I wear all that black because I was kind of hoping it’d freak my mother out a little? You’re damn right I did. And it worked, too. I could tell she was a little embarrassed when she said, “Darling, you remember Mrs. Fairweather, of course. Merilee, I’m afraid it looks as though Naomi is going through a bit of a phase.” I caught Jeff’s eye then, and he looked as if he were about to crack up. I tried hard not to laugh as I greeted Mrs. Fairweather.
“I think you look lovely, Naomi,” she said, looking me up and down with the kind of blankly cheerful expression that meant she either liked my outfit or was on benzos. “Very creative. You and your mother should come with Delilah and me to some of the Fashion Week shows this September.”
Mom just about died at that one. “We are coming!” she said immediately, before Mrs. Fairweather even had a chance to shut her mouth. “Naomi, I don’t care if you have school—I’m flying you out here, and we’re going to go. Delilah, will you be walking in any shows again this year?” All I had heard about from my mother the previous summer was how Delilah was going to make her runway debut walking around in clothes designed by a close personal friend of her mother’s. It was no one I’d ever heard of, but being around my mother for many years has forced me to learn a few things about fashion, if only through osmosis. Delilah looks like a skinny, gorgeous high school cheerleader, so I never imagined those high-fashion people could make her look bad. But my mother emailed me a link to photos of Delilah walking in that designer’s show, and they had managed to make her look like a freaky ghost. Who puts white powder on a blond girl’s eyebrows, anyway?
“Yeah, I’m gonna walk again this year,” Delilah said politely, her hand intertwined with Teddy’s. “In a couple of shows. Maybe three.”
“And we just shot a mother/daughter feature that will be in the September issue of Vogue,” Mrs. Fairweather said proudly. “It was about models and their mothers.” My mother gasped with joy.
Teddy spoke for the first time, letting out a snort of laughter. “Yes,” he said, putting one arm around Mrs. Fairweather and the other around Delilah. “She’s walked in one runway show and done one Gap ad, and that makes her a big supermodel.” Delilah poked him in the side and he jumped, laughing again.
“Oh, Teddy.” Mrs. Fairweather sighed with an indulgent smile. “You always tease.”
“We haven’t really spoken since you were a little boy,” my mother said, smiling at Teddy. “I’m Anne Rye. I catered a few of your birthday parties when you were small, darling.” She widened her eyes and her smile. I was instantly repulsed. She was flirting with some teenage football douche. Ew.
“Of course I know who you are, Anne,” Teddy said smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t just want a handshake—I want an autograph!” They shook hands as Mom let out a happy squeak of laughter. Being completely obsessed with her career doesn’t give my mom much time to date, so I’m sure pressing the flesh with Teddy Barrington was her thrill of the month.
“You’re the famous actor,” she purred. “I want an autograph, too!”
“Only if I get a chocolate cake,” he teased. Ugh, I hate when guys work older women like that. It’s so obvious to everyone else. It’s embarrassing. Some guys do it at school with this one teacher, Mrs. Grey, and she always falls for it.
They all went on chattering among themselves, and at some point Jeff inserted himself into the conversation and was introduced to my mother, who thankfully didn’t try to pull a Mrs. Robinson with him. I had enough issues with my mom without her trying to hook up with an underage hottie. (He was kind of hot, I had to admit.)
We got into Mrs. Fairweather’s huge SUV, and Teddy insisted on getting behind the wheel, which I guess was standard operating procedure when he was around. I can just imagine what my mom would say if I had some boyfriend and he tried to pull that move. Anne Rye is not a woman who knows how to give up control.
“Baxley’s for dinner? Or the Living Room?” Teddy asked casually, steering out of the airport parking lot.
“Well, yes to Baxley’s,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “You know what Senator Fairweather says about the Living Room.”
“Well, lucky for us, he isn’t here to have heard me suggest it! Or, really, anything else I might suggest later,” Teddy said, winking at Mrs. Fairweather. My mother tittered. I looked at Jeff, who rolled his eyes back at me. Jesus, Teddy knew how to play women.
Delilah, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the interplay between her mother and her boyfriend. She sat with her head against the window.
On the way to Baxley’s, we drove past the creepy new version of the notorious billboard advertising Dr. Zazzle, New York’s most famous plastic surgeon. It was the only billboard in town and was the source of some controversy—apparently, the local guardians of tradition felt it didn’t fit with the community’s “character.” It showed a cartoon version of a smiling Dr. Zazzle standing beside a buxom blonde in a bikini. She was holding a sagging, gray pile of flesh—presumably, her own old skin. I saw it approaching and blanched.
“Ew!” I exclaimed, surprising myself and everyone else in the car with the first word I’d spoken since we started driving. “What the hell is that?”
“Naomi!” my mother said in the voice she uses when I’ve embarrassed her. “Where did that tone come from?”
“Mom, that billboard is even grosser than last summer’s version. She’s holding her skin.”
“Well, it isn’t her real skin, obviously.”
“Hello? I know that? But it’s a totally disturbing image.”
“It is pretty weird,” Jeff said mildly, and I knew for sure I liked him.
“I can name two people who’ve spent some time with Dr. Zazzle,” Teddy said playfully, looking at Mrs. Fairweather.
“Don’t you start, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather nearly squealed. “You are bad.”
“One of them,” Teddy said meaningfully, glancing in the rearview mirror at Delilah, “really nose a lot about him. She really nose what it’s like to go into his office one way and come out another.”
“Teddy,” Delilah said without taking her gaze from the window, “I will beat you.” He erupted into laughter, even though she didn’t sound like she was kidding.
“See, Naomi,” my mother said. “I told you blondes can be tough.”
“You never told me that, Mom,” I said wearily, closing my eyes.
“I did, dear. You just don’t remember.” Her voice had a tiny edge.
“Okay. I don’t remember.” Die die die die die.
“I’m always trying to get Naomi to go blond,” Mom said. “You should’ve seen her when she was twelve, and Jonathan Astoriano did her highlights. She looked so much better.”
“Did you?” Jeff asked in an urgent tone of voice, grabbing my arm. “Did you really? Tell me the truth, Naomi!”
“I really did,” I said dramatically. “I really, really did.” We both laughed, and my mother looked at us in confusion, not sure what the joke was. Jeff’s hand was gone, but I had liked the warmth and the pressure of his touch.
Before long, we pulled up to Baxley’s. Teddy flipped the keys to a valet he greeted by name, and we all filed into the restaurant. Teddy marched a bit ahead of us, and when he approached the thirtysomething hostess, he asked her a question in a low voice the rest of us couldn’t hear.
“Folding napkins,” the hostess responded loudly, and Teddy winced.
“Folding napkins what?” Delilah asked sharply, her seemingly permanent languid attitude momentarily gone.
“They were just folding napkins at our table, and now it’s ready for us!” Teddy answered without missing a beat.
Delilah nodded coolly.
On the way to the table, we passed the bar, behind which stood a good-looking Italian kid. He had what they call a Roman nose, and it stood out from his face like a giant sail.
“Giovanni!” Teddy said, reaching out for a fist bump. Giovanni obliged and grinned. He wore the regulation Baxley’s white button-down shirt and tie, but he seemed as if he were wearing a costume. I got the feeling this was a guy more accustomed to sleeveless cotton T-shirts and spotless sneakers.
“Best bartender on the island, this guy,” Teddy said with hearty enthusiasm. Giovanni smiled and replied, “Naw, man, just doing my job. Go have a nice dinner.”
“You know, we’ve got a great deal to celebrate,” Mrs. Fairweather said once we were all seated. “The Vogue photo shoot this past week; Teddy, Delilah, and Jeff finishing up their junior year at Trumbo; Naomi visiting; and of course, the good news from Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.” Mom blushed with happiness and was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Yes, Mrs. Rye,” Teddy said. “I follow the financial news pretty closely to keep an eye on our stock price, and I’ve heard so many reports recently that you’re basically taking over the world.”
“Our stock price” meant the price of Barrington Oil, Teddy’s family’s little global multinational mega-corporation.
“You may all call me Anne,” she said. “I haven’t been a ‘Mrs.’ in years, and I only kept the Rye so that Naomi and I would have the same last name.”
“Although you can still change it back to Gryzkowski,” I offered dryly. My mother looked fleetingly as if she wouldn’t mind if the Hellmouth were to open beneath me and swallow me whole. I smiled sweetly.
“Well, Anne,” said Teddy, “tell us about what’s happening with the business.”
Mom launched into a recitation of all the exciting things happening in her sugar-and-cinnamon-sprinkled world: an end-of-summer celebrity photo shoot for Bake Like Anne Rye! magazine’s inaugural issue; planning the next season of her award-winning Food Network TV show; being a guest judge on a very special dessert episode of Top Chef.
“And of course,” she added, “launching our very own line of branded food products. Cake mixes, baking tools, and my favorite, Bake Like Anne Rye! Secret Recipe Perfect Frosting.”
“What’s in this ‘secret recipe’? What exactly makes your frosting so irresistible?” Teddy asked, wiggling an eyebrow and leaning forward.
“Oh, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather giggled. “You make me glad I never had sons! I couldn’t have handled it!”
“Well, you might have to handle it, if this one plays her cards right,” Teddy said, putting his arm around Delilah. She seemed entranced by her napkin and gave no sign of affection in return.
“You’re too young to talk about getting married,” my mother chided him.
“We Barringtons marry young and mate for life,” he said, and Mrs. Fairweather smiled adoringly.
“Yes, he did actually just say that,” Jeff whispered in my ear. I gave him a look that expressed everything I wanted to say but couldn’t, and he nodded in agreement.
Our waitress approached the table. She had dyed blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her skin was tan in that orange way, and her French manicure was studded with tiny rhinestones. She was prettyish, with a big chest and a perfect body. Skags, who is more judgmental than I am when it comes to women’s looks, would’ve said she had a major case of butter face. (Everything is pretty . . . but her face.)
“Hi,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her ample chest. “I’m Misti, and I’ll be your server tonight.” Her Long Island accent was pretty thick, and I thought I saw Jeff’s mouth twitch at the way she pronounced “SIR-vah.”
“Hello, Misti,” Mrs. Fairweather said with a warm smile.
“Hi, Misti,” said my mother.
“Misti,” Delilah piped up. “Is that with a ‘y’?”
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Teddy said heartily. “Let’s order!”
Delilah looked at him, and there was a steeliness in her gaze that I’d never seen before. He seemed to shrink into himself.
“It’s an ‘i,’” Misti said nervously, twisting her hands together.
“Of course it is,” Delilah said, smiling very slowly.
“That’s lovely,” Mrs. Fairweather said with the same expression she’d worn when assessing my clothing.
“Anyone in the mood for some drinks?” Misti asked quickly.
“God, yes,” said Teddy.
“Now, Theodore,” Mrs. Fairweather said mock-sternly, “you know that I cannot in good conscience allow you to order a drink.”
“I’m more interested in your bad conscience,” he said, winking.
I looked at Jeff. He mouthed, I know.
We ordered drinks (wine for the mothers, soda for us), and my mother demonstrated some actual social niceties by drawing Jeff into the conversation. I learned that he was on Trumbo Academy’s golf team and was, according to Teddy, good enough to make Stanford’s team.
“That’s where Tiger Woods played, Naomi,” Teddy said, addressing me directly for the first time since we’d been introduced.
“Ah,” I said. “Well.”
I learned that Teddy was on Manhattan’s only private school football team and would be the captain heading into his senior year, just as Jeff would be the captain of the golf team.
“What about you, Naomi?” Mrs. Fairweather asked. “What do you like to do at school?”
“Naomi gets straight A’s,” my mother interjected with what I think was pride, or maybe she’d already had too much wine. (“Your mother’s always been a lightweight,” my dad would say. “I mean that literally, and with the booze.”)
“Whoa,” Jeff said. “You’re, like, a genius.” I looked for sarcasm in his expression and couldn’t find any.
“Seriously,” he continued. “I’m good for A’s in English and humanities, but you get A’s in math and science and everything else? Pretty impressive, Naomi.” I liked the way he said my name.
“It is very impressive,” Mrs. Fairweather agreed. “Do you play any sports, do any clubs?”
“I’m in the LGBT-Straight Alliance,” I said. It was true. Skags made me join because she said if I didn’t, it meant I was homophobic. And, anyway, she needed my vote for president. It ended up that no one else ran against her, so she automatically won. But I’m still glad I joined. It’s like the only fun club at our school.
“And what is that?” Mrs. Fairweather asked. My mother looked less than delighted.
“It’s the lesbian-gay-bisexual-transgender-straight alliance,” I said. “We march in the Gay Pride Parade every year in Boystown, and we make ‘It Gets Better’ videos and stuff.”
“How nice,” Mrs. Fairweather said dryly.
When we ordered appetizers and our entrées, Delilah made Teddy order for her, whispering into his ear. It creeped me out only slightly more than his flirting with her mother did.
Misti brought out our food, carefully balancing the plates of lobster and sautéed scallops and fried oysters and popcorn shrimp and, for the mothers and Delilah, three undressed arugula salads.
“You all get started without me,” Teddy said abruptly, rising from the table. Delilah didn’t look up from the arugula she was halfheartedly pushing around her plate.
“Guess I drank that soda a little too fast,” he added offhandedly, and headed in the direction of the bathroom.
Suddenly all I could think about was all the bottles of water I’d drunk on the plane, and on the SUV ride to the Downtown Manhattan heliport, plus a Coke at Baxley’s, and how it was all kind of straining my bladder. I tried to sit still and listen to Mrs. Fairweather talk about Senator Fairweather’s diplomatic trip to Canada, but I honestly couldn’t concentrate. My mother had drilled into me at a young age that it’s customary for only one guest to excuse him or herself to the bathroom at a time, “because more than one guest missing interrupts the flow of conversation.” I knew that rule as well as I knew her other etiquette lessons, like the one about leaving your napkin folded on your chair when you went to the bathroom, and of course, the classic no-elbows-on-the-table rule. But my need to pee was rapidly approaching emergency status, and there was no sign of Teddy returning.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out finally in the middle of Mrs. Fairweather’s criticism of the Canadian health-care system. “I just—uh, I really need to excuse myself for a minute.”
My mother waved me away dismissively, never breaking eye contact with Mrs. Fairweather. Relieved, I got up from the table and fairly dashed to the ladies’ room. I inherited my tiny bladder and my tiny boobs from my mom—although she got the latter surgically enhanced the first time her catering business turned a profit.
Here’s another thing I got from my mom: a terrible sense of direction. It’s the only thing that explains why I took a left out of the bathroom instead of a right. Baxley’s is in a big old Victorian house, so it’s got some twists and turns to it. Anyway, I took a wrong turn out of the bathroom and ended up in the wrong dining room, so I just kept going and ended up in the wrong corridor, which concluded with the wrong glass door, which looked out at the back of the restaurant, and with my luck it was the exact wrong moment because there was Teddy Barrington shoving Misti hard against the wall. She staggered a little.
And I swear to God, at the exact freaking second I realized what was going on, Misti-with-an-i looked up and locked eyes with me. I immediately spun around and started walking away, but I heard the door crash open behind me and felt a big paw on my shoulder. I jumped and spun around to look at Teddy. He looked panicked, but he seemed to relax when he saw how afraid I was of him.
“I’m not—I didn’t—” I tried to get the words out. “I didn’t mean to spy. I just got lost coming back from the bathroom.” I saw Misti the waitress behind him, looking terrified. Half her face was a little red.
“It’s okay,” Teddy said soothingly, putting his other hand on my other shoulder. He turned his head to Misti. “Why don’t you get back to work.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. Misti obediently scurried past us, shooting me a nervous glance.
I was trapped.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Teddy said, frowning. “The last thing I want to do is put you in an uncomfortable position.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut. This seemed to please him.
“Look, Naomi,” Teddy said, staring so deeply into my eyes I felt really exposed and uncomfortable. “Delilah and I are going through a rough patch. We’ve talked about being in an open relationship, and I think that’s really what she wants. But it isn’t official yet, and Misti’s upset because, well, she wants to be with me. But Delilah tends to get depressed, and I really think it would be unhealthy for her to hear about this. It could really cause some serious problems for her. With her health. Do you know what I mean?”
I just wanted to get the hell out of there, so I nodded vigorously and said, “I won’t say anything. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it really isn’t,” Teddy agreed. Then he flashed his big white smile at me and patted me on the head. “You remind me of my sister,” he said.
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to that.
“She’s dead,” he said.
“Oh.” I really wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to that. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it’s really sad, but it was a long time ago,” he replied. “Thanks for understanding about this whole thing, Naomi. How ’bout I head back to the table first, and you wait a minute and then follow?” I was about to protest that I didn’t know the way back to the table, but he was already gone. I waited the Teddy-prescribed minute and then found a busboy who pointed me in the right direction.
I sank down at the table between Jeff and my mother. Teddy, who had his arm around Delilah, was too busy teasing Mrs. Fairweather to look up. Delilah was actually giggling, as was my mother.
“What happened?” Jeff asked quietly. “You look really pale.”
“I am really pale,” I said.
“Yeah, but something freaked you out.”
“How do you know? We just met two hours ago.”
“I can tell.” He lowered his voice even further. “Let me guess—it had something to do with Teddy being gone so long.”
I sipped my water quickly.
“You saw him with her, right?”
I almost spit my water out, like they do in movies.
“Shh!” I hissed, glancing nervously at the other part of the table. “They’ll hear you.”
“No, they won’t,” Jeff said. “Giovanni always puts rum in Delilah’s and Teddy’s Cokes, so they’re a little drunk. Your mom and Delilah’s mom are each on their third glass of wine, so they’re definitely drunk. No one is paying any attention to us. And besides, I know about the whole thing, anyway. Teddy’s my best friend. Everybody in town knows, too. If Delilah doesn’t know, she’s an idiot.”
“If he’s your best friend, then why are you talking to me about this?”
“Because it’s interesting. It’s an interesting turn of events, to have you drawn into it. This changes the game a little bit. It’ll require a slightly altered strategy on his part.”
“Do you always talk about people’s lives as if you’re talking about a round of golf?”
“Usually,” he replied.
“Great,” I said.
“Misti’s dating the bartender,” he said. “He’s twenty-one. She’s, like, nineteen. They’re from up-island. Babylon, I think. Italian, if you couldn’t tell. Their families own a bakery together. Immigrants. The American dream.” He chuckled to himself. I purposely turned away from him and pretended I was interested in Mrs. Fairweather’s conversation.
“You know they love Delilah on the blogs,” she was saying to my mother.
“On all the blogs?” Teddy asked innocently.
“What’s that one that writes about you—the one that called you the next big modeling sensation, the return of the supermodel?” Mrs. Fairweather asked Delilah, ignoring Teddy.
“The Wanted,” Delilah said, and even looked a little proud.
“That’s it,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “The Wanted. All the kids are just in love with it. Of course, it’s all about them, so why wouldn’t they be?” She laughed lightly.
“I’ve never heard of it,” I said. “Is it like Perez Hilton, or something?”
“Sort of,” Delilah said. “It’s mostly a fashion and style blog, but it’s about people who go to independent schools in Manhattan.” It’s so funny how rich people have invented a less hoity-toity term for “private schools.” As if we normals don’t know it’s the same thing.
“But she does bigger stories, too,” Delilah continued. “She covers Fashion Week in New York, plus social events the rest of the year—parties and stuff like that. Sometimes she writes about models. I guess she thinks I’m good.” You could tell Delilah was underplaying it, because even she couldn’t hide that she was kind of excited by the attention.
“All the girls at Trumbo are obsessed with The Wanted,” Jeff said. “If they get mentioned on it, it’s like they won an Academy Award.”
“The girl who runs it will grab photos from Trumbo parties off Facebook and analyze what everyone’s wearing,” Teddy added. “It’s probably not even run by a chick. It’s probably some thirty-year-old dude in his mom’s basement.” He and Jeff snickered.
Delilah ignored them and looked at me. “It’s a really pretty site. And the girl who runs it goes by Jacinta, even though no one knows if that’s her real name. She takes a photo of what she’s wearing each day, but you only ever see her from the neck down. She could be anybody.”
“It’s me!” Teddy announced. “I’m Jacinta!”
“Oh, you are so not Jacinta,” Delilah said. “Jacinta has perfect taste.”
As if on cue, Misti showed up for the mothers and Teddy to sign their account cards. She murmured, “Thank you.” I saw her hand shake a little as she took away the cards. Our eyes met for a moment, and she flicked hers away.
“She’s going to have to be more subtle than that,” Jeff whispered.
In the car on the way home, Teddy drove faster than was absolutely necessary.
“Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather said, giggling. “Slow down.”
But he didn’t, and we ended up at my mother’s house rather quickly. Her house is lovely and expensive, but it’s no mansion—“just” five bedrooms, and only three bathrooms (the shame of two bedrooms that aren’t en suite!), a finished basement with a game room and home theater, a living room, dining room, big kitchen, and a spacious back deck. It has a nice view of the narrow, northern end of Georgica Pond, which laps the edge of the property. It’s not the fancier, Steven Spielberg-y end of Georgica—it’s nearer the highway, and the public landing where clammers and fishermen are allowed to enter, but you can make out the back of the Fairweathers’ house across the water. The property is still considered desirable, though not as desirable as beachfront real estate—but, as Mom never tires of pointing out, some people even prefer the pond as more private and less touristy than the beach.
“Our humble abode,” my mother said wryly when Teddy screeched to a halt at the bluestone driveway.
Mrs. Fairweather said, “I have always thought your cottage is darling. I remember when the Timothy Stanford family owned it, and they always had the loveliest eggnog and caroling at Christmastime.”
“Well,” Mom said darkly, “I’d like to make some improvements, but I won’t have anything more done to it until I can find the perfect restoration experts to maintain the integrity of the original layout.” Mrs. Fairweather nodded approvingly.
“Weren’t you talking about putting in a pool with a waterslide in the spring?” I piped in. Jeff held in a snort.
“I most certainly was not talking about anything of the sort!” my mother snapped. “I did have an idea for a nice Zen garden with a reflecting pool, but it wouldn’t be for swimming. And of course it would be nothing like the one next door.” The house next door was something of an infamous legend among my mother’s friends. A three-story cedar-shingled castle, it fairly towered over Mom’s house. It even had a couple of turrets in the Queen Anne’s style. And while Mom had one very well-maintained acre of land, the house next door sat on over two acres. It even had a moat, sort of.
A winding pool designed to look like a river dominated the backyard. It snaked along the right side of the yard and then doubled back, curving along its original path and then snaking out along the left side of the yard before curling around and returning to meet the place where it started. I imagine from above it looked like a giant bubble letter U drawn with squiggly blue borders, with perfect green lawn filling in the space between. There were a few rustic-on-purpose footbridges scattered along the river pool’s path, and here and there, little waterfalls built from smooth stones. There were even a couple of story-high waterslides. It was actually really cool, and ever since I was eleven, I’d secretly longed for a chance to swim in it.
“Who lives in the Disney castle, anyway?” Teddy asked. “We’ve never been introduced.” You could tell by “we” he meant the entire great and powerful Barrington Oil clan. Super-rich people never really think of themselves as individuals—they’re forever blessed, or doomed, to be an extension of a glamorous genetic web.
“Neither have we,” said Mrs. Fairweather.
“God knows we haven’t, either,” my mother said with a touch of resentment. “Some Europeans who never actually visit. They rent it out to summer families and, I’m telling you, Merilee, they pick the people with the noisiest children. Last year it was a Saudi family who let their boys swim until three o’clock in the morning. Nine-year-old twins. Screaming little madmen. You can imagine how much we loved that.”
“They were just excited to have that pool,” I said, not sure why I was defending a pair of rich Saudi boys. “It wasn’t their fault their parents let them stay up.”
“I’m not saying it was their fault, Naomi, darling,” my mother said testily.
We were all silent for a moment.
“Well,” Mom said brightly, “it’s time we got ourselves to bed. We should be able to sleep through the night this year. No kids next door.” She leaned forward to peck Mrs. Fairweather near the cheek, and then began to clamber out of the SUV.
“Who is staying there this year?” Delilah asked with mild interest.
“Just some young woman, as far as I can tell,” my mother said. “She has a cleaning service come in every week, and the florist is over every few days. When I got here in May, she had an interior decorating service over for a full week. I can’t imagine any owners would let her redecorate if they knew about it.”
“Maybe she’s doing it in secret,” Jeff suggested. “That would be a very East Hampton sort of crime.”
“Like wearing white after Labor Day,” I said.
“Or not going to a top-tier university,” Jeff added.
“Oh, you two,” Delilah said. She giggled mischievously.
“We should hang out sometime, if you want,” Jeff said in a low voice as the adults chattered to each other. “I’m a pretty nice guy. Really.”
I looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” I said. He grinned at me, and I had to admit, he looked really good.
I got out of the car, and we waved goodbye as Teddy tore off.
Once the car was out of view, my mother and I stood outside the front door and looked at each other. Neither one of us was particularly pleased with what she saw.
“I’m going to bed,” she said abruptly. “Do you need anything?” Now that no one else was around, she had dispensed with the doting mother act.
“I’m just going to hang out here for a bit,” I said. “Stretch my legs.”
“Be careful. Don’t wander or get lost.”
“Mom, this is like the safest place in the entire world. Nothing bad ever happens in the Hamptons.”
“Okay, okay,” she said with a sigh. “I forget that you know everything. Just remember to lock the door behind you when you come in. You’ve got your key, right? I’ll take your suitcases in.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t go on some kind of artistic walk through the yards and scare the neighbors,” she said. “The last thing I need is for you to get arrested for trespassing.”
“What the hell is an ‘artistic walk’?” I asked.
“You know what I mean,” Mom said with a sigh.
She gave me a dry kiss on the forehead and took my suitcases into the house. I stood and watched her go. She turned off the front porch light and the front walkway lights, leaving me suddenly awash in near-total darkness. And aside from the dramatic spotlights on the river pool, the enormous house next door had not one light on, either. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, the almost-full moon cast enough glow to allow me to wander without too much trouble.
On impulse, I took off my Docs and socks and dropped them on the front porch. It was summertime, and that meant I could go barefoot, building up the resistance on my feet until I could walk on even a hot sidewalk without wincing. I’ve always liked going barefoot in the Hamptons. It’s so clean that you don’t need to fear stepping on a needle or in dog crap like you do in Chicago. And it made me feel vaguely scandalous. When I get away from my mother for a solo journey in town, I’ll slip off my flip-flops and put them in my beach bag, wandering down the sidewalk “just like some kind of dirty hippie,” as my mother once said in disgust when she caught me. I don’t care, though. I’m a Chicagoan through and through, which means I instinctively shed clothes (not in a whorish way) every time the temperature passes sixty degrees. So my feet get a little more sun. So what?
If moonburn were a thing, the tops of my feet would’ve been fried that night. The moon seemed to glow brighter and brighter with each step I took, acting like a giant lantern in the sky. I walked around the side of the house and watched the moonlight sparkle on the water through the trees.
Something strange caught my eye, an unusual light from an unusual spot. It was tiny, and at first I thought I’d imagined it, but I hadn’t—it was a pinprick of green, and it was coming from some inscrutable spot on the back deck of the castle house, in an area shadowed by one of the big turrets. It seemed to hover in midair, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I crept closer to the neighboring yard than I ever had before. I got so close, in fact, that I managed to make out the shape of a person cradling whatever it was that glowed green.
Then, all of a sudden, light flooded the person’s face, and I realized it was a she. And what’s more, she had just snapped open a laptop. The green light had come from the charging dock on the laptop, where a power adapter was plugged in. I could see now that the adapter cord ran to an outdoor outlet on the castle’s deck, and she had set the laptop down on a small table before her.
I felt a little stupid, but my embarrassment was soon overwhelmed by fascination with what I beheld. The girl was beautiful, with a white-blond bob and blunt-cut bangs that glowed in the light of the computer. Her big, thick-lashed eyes were trained intently on the screen, which I couldn’t see from my vantage point. She had high, prominent cheekbones and full lips. She was so ethereally thin that she looked as if she might blow away in the light evening breeze and turn into a firefly, or a star. She could’ve passed for a teen angel, or maybe a fairy. Illuminated as she was by the computer screen, she didn’t look entirely of this world.
Maybe it was because she didn’t seem real, but I actually thought about talking to her. It would’ve been completely out of character for me, and chances are I would’ve just freaked her out, probably, and then had to hide from her scornful gaze every time I sat on my mother’s deck. She didn’t look like the type who could generate scorn, but if she was anything like every other girl I’d met during my East Hampton summers, scorn was her second-favorite feeling, after boredom. Instead, I stood, frozen and silent, and watched, for what must have been several minutes, as she read and typed on the computer.
Then she did something I’ll never forget. The girl stood up, facing the lake. The white light from the laptop screen lent her face an unearthly glow from below as she stretched out her arms toward the twinkling houselights in the distance. She held it for a long moment, like some kind of yoga pose, just reaching and reaching for something I couldn’t identify. Then, after what seemed like hours, she scooped up the laptop and went into the house, leaving me alone in the moon-drenched yard. I lingered for a moment, listening to the sound of the spring peepers and other frogs calling to one another from the muddy banks of Georgica Pond. I turned back toward my mother’s house. I knew it was time for me to go inside, too.