My phone buzzed with an incoming text, and it sounded like a cluster of killer bees had descended on my room. When you’re hungover, everything is louder.
I groaned and rolled over, noticing that my sandals were still on. I kicked them off, and they thudded to the floor.
I groped for my phone, which rested atop a side table assembled from discarded wood that had been used on some dead rich person’s yacht. (In my mother’s house, every object has a fancy origin story.)
The text was from Delilah. It read, Sounds like SOMEBODY had a pretty sexy night! ;)
I blushed and texted back, Not SEXY. I don’t move that fast! ☺
She wrote, LOL. I’m soooooo glad you had fun! Next time don’t say no to tennis! ☺
I wrote, I won’t. Promise!
The weirdness of girly-texting with Delilah Fairweather was actually less intense than I’d thought it would be. Could I be getting used to talking to her like a real friend? And if I were used to talking to her like a real friend, did that mean she was a real friend?
This summer was getting odder by the day. Since when did I happily and comfortably swill champagne with the sons and daughters of America’s finest families? I started to analyze the previous evening the way I always do the morning after a party, but I stopped after a few seconds. Maybe it was my hangover. Or maybe it was something else—a conviction that I was going to do things differently this summer. Maybe I didn’t need to overthink everything.
I checked the time on my phone: 12:00 p.m. I was really surprised my mother had let me sleep that long. Had some spirit of kindness possessed her? Or had she been so enormously pleased by my decision to go to the party that she’d decided to indulge my love of sleep?
It turned out to be the latter reason. When I shuffled off to the bathroom to take a shower, she ambushed me in the hallway, full of questions.
“Was it fun? Did you have a good time? You must’ve had a good time—you’re still in your party clothes! Whom did you meet? Any boys? What was the Jacinta girl like? Did Delilah go to the party?”
“I’ll tell you after I shower,” I said.
The hot water felt incredibly good on my skin, and I realized to my relief that I didn’t have a monster headache or stomachache—I was just tired and a bit out of it. Because I knew it would give my mother a little bit of a thrill (I couldn’t say why I cared to give her one, but I guess I was in the mood to be nice), I put on one of the new Marc Jacobs dresses she’d hung in my closet—a simple, sleeveless cream-colored cotton sundress with an A-line skirt. I checked myself out in the mirror, and I had to admit I looked good in it. I was starting to realize that my mother had smart instincts with clothes sometimes.
Downstairs on the back deck, my mother actually clapped a little when I came outside and sat down.
“Oh my God, Mom,” I said. “Seriously?”
“No cartoon T-shirts or ratty jeans!” she said. “You look fabulous. Now sit down and tell me everything.”
She’d laid out oatmeal in simple white bowls with small white containers of honey, brown sugar, chopped walnuts and almonds, and mixed fresh berries. This was accompanied by a mini-omelet. My mother loves making miniature versions of regular food. “We all know Americans need to eat less,” she said once on a very special Thanksgiving episode of her Food Network show. “And I’m delighted to be part of the solution.” She went on to teach everyone how to make mini–organic turkey meatloaf with wee servings of organic mashed potatoes and organic gravy. I doubt anyone obeyed her command to “eat less this Thanksgiving, for your waistline and your world,” but I can say with authority that at that Thanksgiving, she ate exactly one spoonful of mashed potatoes and a small arugula salad.
I attacked my omelet first, surprised by how much I was craving grease and protein. Of course, with my mother’s cooking, you got very little grease—the concept of fatty foods grossed her out—but the protein was there in abundance. After I inhaled the omelet, I set to work on the oatmeal, which was delicious. She’d flavored it with cinnamon and a touch of nutmeg, so it tasted like Christmas.
“So tell, tell,” Mom said, pouring me a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Who was there?”
I recounted as best I could the list of attendees. I hadn’t been able to identify too many people, but I told her about Ainsley Devereaux, the Fitzwilliams sisters, a few friends of Delilah I’d seen jumping naked into the pool (I didn’t tell her that part), the Stetler brothers, and Jeff Byron.
“Jeffrey Byron!” my mother exclaimed delightedly. “You know, his father has expressed interest in buying shares of Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc. when we go public later this summer.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said, shoveling berries into my mouth. “His dad’s a music producer, right?”
“Darling, don’t speak while you’re chewing. And take your elbows off the table. Yes, Herman Byron owns Byron Records. I couldn’t tell you any of the names of his artists, but I know he’s very successful. He’s on the Vineyard for the summer.”
“With his new girlfriend. I know.”
My mother raised her eyebrow and looked at me inquisitively. “And how would you know that? It wasn’t in any of the papers.”
“Jeff told me.”
My mother’s eyes widened with sudden excitement. “Jeff told you! Oh, he must like you if he confided in you.” She withdrew a tube from her purse and delicately patted a bit of moisturizer with sunscreen on her face. My mother is obsessed with avoiding the ravages of time and sunshine.
“I don’t think it’s a secret in his world.”
“But you talked to him!”
“Sure. The other day when we came from Manhattan, and last night at the party. He’s nice. We . . .” I tried to stop myself from saying it, but part of me just really wanted to tell someone. “We rode the Ferris wheel.”
My mother let out a little squeal and clapped her hands again. I turned red and felt a flush of anger.
“Oh, I can’t believe it! You chose the perfect summer to start acting like a real girl.” She sighed happily. “Anne Rye’s daughter and Herman Byron’s son. Thank you, darling. This is going to be so good for me.”
“It has exactly nothing to do with you, Mom,” I snapped. “Would you just let me have something of my own for once? And there isn’t even a something to talk about. We rode the Ferris wheel. That’s it.” I immediately regretted putting on her stupid dress.
“Don’t get an attitude with me, Naomi,” she snapped back. “You may not care about your social life or your future—or mine—but I do. I’ve spent your whole life caring enough for the both of us, and now it’s starting to pay off.”
“Are you seriously taking credit for this? God, you’re a narcissist.”
“And you’re a brat.” We glared at each other. Just then, a smiling face appeared at the side of the deck. Jacinta’s white-blond bob and enormous Fendi sunglasses were a welcome distraction from my annoying mother.
“Hello!” Jacinta said. “I hope I’m not interrupting your brunch. I just wanted to pop over and introduce myself.” She smiled winningly at my mother, who immediately shifted into her public mode, all perfect posture and poise.
“Come on up,” I said. “Your timing is perfect.” My mother shot me a side glare as Jacinta walked up the steps and popped her sunglasses up on her head.
“I’m Jacinta Trimalchio, the girl next door,” she told my mother, shaking her hand. My mother beamed.
“Oh, Jacinta,” she said. “It is so wonderful to finally meet you! I was just looking at your world wide website yesterday and marveling at how lovely it is. Naomi is a huge fan.”
“Well, I’m a huge fan of Naomi’s,” Jacinta said. “She’s featured on the site today, in her Marc Jacobs dress from the party.”
My mother smiled at me triumphantly. “I picked that out, you know,” she said proudly.
“How wonderful,” Jacinta said. “You have exquisite taste. In fact, you inspired me! This is Marc Jacobs as well. A bit less subtle, but I do enjoy it.” She was wearing a long, silky red sleeveless dress splashed with colorful flowers.
“Darling, sit down.” My mother patted the chair beside her. “Shall I fix you an omelet or some oatmeal, dear?”
“Oh, thank you, Ms. Rye. I don’t want to pass up on a chance to try your cooking in person, but I’ve already eaten breakfast.” Jacinta settled her long, impossibly thin frame into a chair. “But I would love a glass of orange juice.”
“Call me Anne. And you are tasting my cooking, because I squeezed it myself not twenty minutes ago.” Mom giggled as if it were the funniest thing in the world. Jacinta took a big sip.
“Perfection,” she said, and my mother shot me a satisfied smile, as if she’d won whatever secret competition she thought we were in.
“I hope the noise last night wasn’t too awful, Anne,” Jacinta said apologetically.
“Not at all,” Mom said. “I barely heard you. But then, I’m a heavy sleeper.” I wanted to add that her over-fondness for Ambien might have something to do with it, but I kept my mouth shut.
“The police did pay us a visit right after you left, Naomi,” Jacinta said. “It was the fireworks. They were nice, though, and didn’t give me a citation for that or the underage—um, or anything else.”
“Personally, I think liquor laws in this country are an atrocity,” my mother sniffed. “In France, where I trained, children are educated about wine drinking as an art form.” I tried not to roll my eyes.
“I came over to steal Naomi away for lunch, but I see you’re brunching,” Jacinta said.
“Oh, Naomi can go,” my mother said. “She only had her little omelet and half her oatmeal. I’m sure she’s got room for more, don’t you, Naomi? You always did have a big appetite.”
“Yeah, you know what?” I said. “I’d really like to eat something different. Let’s get out of here.” I stood up quickly, nearly knocking over my glass of orange juice.
“We’ll take my car,” Jacinta said.
“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t have one, so otherwise we’re walking.”
Jacinta’s car turned out to be a spotless, shiny little white Mercedes-Benz convertible she’d leased for the summer. The car would’ve immediately caused a stir on my block in Chicago, but here in East Hampton it was just one of the many luxury vehicles lining the town’s streets. We drove into the Village of East Hampton and parked near BookHampton. Jacinta told me she wanted to take me to “the most divine new restaurant, love. It’s called Crave.”
It wasn’t exactly divine, but it sure was out of this world—out of the world of East Hampton, anyway. It felt more like a hip spot in Soho or Tribeca, with its sleek interior, exposed pipes, minimalist modern furniture, and thumping music. Even the model-gorgeous waiters and waitresses seemed to have been imported from an episode of Sex and the City. It was the kind of fancy place where the waitress looks bored by your very presence and where the daily specials include things like gently tormented brussels sprouts and severely slapped salmon with a blackberry attitude reduction. It was too trendy for my mother, but she would’ve approved of the tiny portions.
Jacinta seemed eager to tell me her life story. I still couldn’t figure out why she singled me out, but I didn’t want to question it. “I’m a year older than you—I’m eighteen. I just graduated from a teensy little boarding school in Switzerland, nothing anyone here has ever heard of. It’s really itty-bitty, barely forty students. But I was only there for my senior year, because before then I was traveling all over the world, popping in and out of schools for a semester here and there, but mostly being privately tutored.”
“Homeschooled?” I asked.
“No, tutors. My mother and father are diplomats, and they’re too busy to spend time teaching me calculus and French. My father is from an old Spanish family—they’re aristocrats—and my mother is from a family of Montana ranchers. The wealthiest cowboys in the Wild West, she used to say.” Jacinta laughed and took a sip of her passion fruit–watermelon iced tea.
“So where did you grow up?”
“Oh, everywhere. All over. Too many places to name,” she replied, and I immediately felt the ember of suspicion in my mind. Given my question, most people would proudly rattle off a list of cities to prove how well traveled they were. Either Jacinta was just humble or she was lying.
“So can you speak Span—”
I hadn’t even gotten the question out before Jacinta swiftly answered, “No, my father never taught me.”
“Oh.”
“Just English, and French, from school.”
“Ah,” I said.
“I grew up in so many places that I never had the chance to really put down roots or make friends,” Jacinta continued in what sounded a little like a rehearsed speech. “That’s why I’m so glad to meet you, Naomi. It’ll be so fun to have a real friend this summer.”
“Where are your parents, anyway?”
“Oh, they’re on assignment, love. In Europe,” Jacinta said. It all sounded very exotic to me.
“I decided I wanted to have some fun on my own this summer,” she said. “You know, without Mother and Father.”
I was about to ask another question, when a pretty thirty-something woman with long brown hair and expensive-looking highlights approached our table. She wore those oversize late ’80s–early ’90s glasses that always look so ridiculous in movies from that time period (and in real life, if you ask me, but I’m not exactly up on trends).
“Excuse me. You’re Jacinta Trimalchio, aren’t you?”
Jacinta smiled at her. “That’s me, love.”
“Oh my gosh,” the woman said, sounding starstruck. “I’m Erica Rawls. I’m the associate style editor at Vogue.”
“Erica!” Jacinta cried, standing and throwing her arms around the startled editor. “We’ve corresponded! Oh, what an honor to meet you.”
“No, the honor’s mine, really,” Erica gushed. “You’re just so incredible, and I’m so inspired by you. Some days when I’m feeling stuck, I’ll just look at your site and get all kinds of ideas. We all think you’re just amazing.”
If Jacinta’s story was even a little bit exaggerated, her reaction to Erica was 100 percent genuine. She got very quiet, and her eyes grew enormous.
“At—at Vogue?” she whispered. It was almost as if she were speaking to herself. “Vogue thinks I’m amazing?”
“Completely,” Erica said.
Jacinta put her hands over her heart. She opened her mouth and closed it soundlessly. Her big green eyes shone. For a moment I thought she might weep. But she quickly regained her composure. If she blinked away any tears, I didn’t catch sight of them.
Erica gave me a cursory glance, then decided I wasn’t worth acknowledging. I’ve had this experience plenty of times with my mother, when press people or fans assume I’m just her assistant, and don’t bother shaking my hand or even making eye contact with me. I end up being invisible. Not that it really bothers me, but it does tell you something about a person. Erica Rawls had quickly achieved “not a nice person” status in my book.
Jacinta was too kind to let me dangle there in silence for too long, so she quickly said, “And this is my dear friend Naomi Rye.”
“Hi,” Erica said with as little effort as possible. “Jacinta, it’s so fabulous to see you out here. Do you think you’ll come to the city soon?”
“Well,” Jacinta said, “I’ve finally got a September coming up with a clear schedule. For once, I won’t be traveling everywhere. I can actually go to Fashion Week. I suppose you’ll be there, too?”
“I always am,” Erica said. “We really should talk—I could use a good guest correspondent with a really fresh, young approach.” She handed Jacinta her card. Jacinta accepted it almost reverently, handling it like a precious jewel.
After Erica bid us farewell—in other words, air-kissed Jacinta and ignored me—Jacinta looked at me gleefully.
“Vogue magazine!” she whispered. “Can you believe it?”
“You’re really getting influential,” I said.
“Oh, I’ve only just begun,” she replied. I believed her. I didn’t know how much of Jacinta Trimalchio was real and how much was fake, but she was clearly a force to be reckoned with. I’ll admit it—I was impressed at how snooty-snoots like Erica Rawls and Ainsley Devereaux fell to pieces when they met her. A little over-the-top, but that’s part of what made her so fun to be around. As if she were reading my mind, Jacinta said, “About last night . . .”
“Yes?”
“Remember when I asked if you could have Delilah Fairweather over so that I could meet her?”
“Of course.”
“Did you mean it when you said that was all right, love?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh, goodie!” Jacinta clapped her hands together like a little girl and let out an excited mini-shriek. I laughed at her childlike enthusiasm. It was kind of adorable.
“Jeez,” I said. “You must really be a Delilah Fairweather fan.”
“Oh,” Jacinta said. “You have no idea.”
As we drove home, I asked Jacinta if she had a boyfriend.
“No time for a boyfriend,” she said. “No time for anything, really, but my work. I guess you could say I’ve been waiting for the right one for a long time.”
I thought of Jeff, wondering if he could be the right one. Then I told myself I should calm down. We’d only kissed a few times.
Jacinta pulled into her driveway, worriedly pointing out the divots in the grass where drunk girls’ high heels had sunk into the sod.
“I’ll have to get a lawn man over to fix that before I meet Delilah,” she said.
“I thought we were having her over to my house,” I said.
“Oh, to start. But of course I’ll want to bring her over to see my house, too.”
“Of course.”
“I hope she likes it,” Jacinta said wistfully. “Do you think she’ll like it?”
“I don’t know her well enough to say,” I said. “But I can’t imagine anyone not being impressed by this house. And by you.”
She gave me one of her signature big, tight hugs. “Thank you, love. I am so glad we’re friends.”
“Me too,” I said, and I meant it. My summers in East Hampton were usually awfully lonely. But this year, within the space of a couple of days, I had acquired two friends and a maybe-possibly-not-to-be-a-dork-but-it-could-happen boyfriend.
Jacinta and I put each other’s numbers in our phones. Then I walked home in the afternoon sunshine, leaving Jacinta behind to poke around in her rented lawn, a look of concern on her pretty face. I wondered why she cared so much.