by Roz Bailey
“Looks like a UPS convention,” Hailey teased.
Gravel crunched under the tires as I pulled up to the steps, swung my door open, and lifted my sunglasses onto my head. “Giant boxes! I love presents.” Navigating the stone path delicately in my D&G sandals, I hopped up the steps and sprang onto the porch to examine the shipping labels.
“Fortunoff! The Source!” I threw my arms around a box and pretended to hug it. “I almost forgot! It’s the outdoor patio furniture I ordered to replace that hideous aluminum junk Daddy bought last year. Oh, I can’t wait to see it,” I said, tugging at the lip of one huge box.
“Excuse me?” Marcella swung her black bag atop one box and scowled at the label. “Who delivers packages without getting a signature? Who leaves thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise out on someone’s front porch? You are so lucky someone didn’t drive by and cart this off in their truck.”
“The cleaning crew probably signed for it,” I said, shoving a key under the giant staple. “And it’s the Hamptons. People can’t just drive up to your house without raising suspicion.”
Hailey’s hands were on her hips. “Alana! Don’t break a nail! Remember, your hands are your future.”
I jerked my hands back as if they’d touched fire. “You are so right. We’ll work on these later. Let’s get settled in first.”
25
Hailey
“Let’s get unpacked and head over to Southampton,” Alana said, leading the way to the main wing. “They’re bound to have a few early Memorial Day specials, don’t you think? The boutiques are still quiet this time of year, and I have to say, some of my all-time favorite swimsuits were purchased in the shops out here.”
“Forget it,” Marcella rolled her chic luggage over the oriental rug. “I’m in a store all week long and it’s gorgeous out and we’re here at the ocean. Let’s go to the beach.”
What? No shopping fix?
Alana and I exchanged a look of confusion.
“But I thought you were a veteran shopper,” Alana said. “Besides, the beach is right out there beyond the dunes. We can do the beach anytime.”
“Listen, cookie, the stores will be there later, too.” Marcella removed her hat and flicked her pixie cut into place. “So where’s my room, honey? Don’t leave me hanging here.”
I think Alana was a little discombobulated, but she led us into the main wing, where the bedrooms were redecorated a few years ago with trendy themes such as the tie-dye room, the art deco room, the moose lodge room, etc. The art deco room was one of my personal faves, with its neon lighting and plastic spaceship chairs, but when we got to the top of the stairs, Marcella won the toss. I was relegated to the tie-dye room, a scheme reminiscent of my electric Kool-Aid acid parents.
“Like a regression to my childhood,” I muttered as I headed down to the end of the hall. “Did I ever mention that this room has ghosts for me?”
“Don’t worry,” Alana called after me. “No skeletons in that closet. We keep the family secrets buried in the basement.”
I was about to answer when I heard a voice. A man’s voice, coming from this end of the hall.
“Did you hear that?” I stopped and turned back to my friends. “I think there’s someone here.”
“Don’t be a lily-livered ninny!” Alana waved me off. “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”
OK, then. I pressed on and paused outside the door at the end of the hall.
“You know it,” came a man’s voice.
Was there a TV in the room? I didn’t remember. Maybe someone had left a television on.
“Judge Marshall-Hughs?” I called, feeling a little creeped out. I didn’t think Alana’s father would be here, and when he did come, he always stayed in the master bedroom, the south wing. I felt like a character in a horror movie, walking into a really bad situation. But Alana and Marcella were already unpacking in their rooms. I was being silly.
Pushing open the door, I saw light streaming through the grape tie-dyed curtains ... onto the tight buttocks of a black man who stood facing away from me, his hands in the dark hair of a woman kneeling at his feet. A woman wearing jeans and sneakers and a crisp blue cleaning smock. A woman who probably couldn’t hear me over the man’s moaning.
“Oh, my God!” I gasped as I realized what was happening.
“Oh, Miss Alana!” the woman cried, mistakenly.
“What? Oh, no!” The man swung his head around toward me. It was Trevor, Alana’s cousin. “No, don’t stop!” He told the woman, cupping her face.
I stepped back, stunned.
“Hailey!” he shouted.
“Yes?”
“Close the damned door!”
“What in the world has gotten into you, Trevor Marshall-Hughs?” Alana was red-hot, in his grill, her finger jabbing at the air, her head wagging. “Getting your groove on with the cleaning lady in my Daddy’s house! My Daddy’s cleaning lady! My parents’ house! And you just drive out here and bust in without calling anyone or asking permission and you drag that poor woman off to bed like a grunting Neanderthal?”
“We weren’t using no bed.” Trevor stared off at the ocean, cool and resigned, his arms crossed over his untucked polo shirt.
Marcella, Xavier, and I were twisted around in our lounge chairs to watch, although the scene was bound to be ugly and regrettable, like a twisted car wreck.
“I told you he wouldn’t care,” Xavier said. He turned back toward the ocean and reached down for his water bottle. “The man shows no remorse. Throw the book at him, Judge Alana.”
“I am going to be throwing a lot more than a book at you, Mr. Trevor Marshall-Hughs,” Alana continued.
“Don’t talk to me,” Trevor said, heading off down the beach. “I’m in no mood.”
“Apparently you were in the mood a few minutes ago! And I can’t believe what that bitch was doing in my Daddy’s house. I have half a mind to fire her ass.”
“Don’t even think about that.”
“Just watch me!”
Marcella and I had to twist around the other way to watch them go. Alana traipsed after him, hustling in her chiffon wraparound skirt to keep up with his long-legged stance. Occasionally the wind carried her voice back our way, but it seemed to be more of the same speech.
“I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” I said, though I knew it wasn’t really true. I’d been plenty embarrassed, plenty of times.
“He’s the one who should be embarrassed,” Marcella said.
Xavier laughed. “Come on, ladies! No harm done. The lady was willing, both parties are single, and if you subscribe to cable TV, I’m sure you’ve seen juicier scenes than Trevor with his pants down.”
“I guess.” I thought about it for a minute, then cracked a smiled. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it wasn’t sexy.” I laughed. “Actually, it was sort of comical.”
Xavier gave a mock sigh. “That’s what all my women say.”
By the time Trevor and Alana returned, our little beach party had grown into a dozen or so people, some neighbors, others just walking along the Dune Road beach and deciding to get in on the conversation and free drinks. The sky was clear and sizzling blue, and the temperature was veering into the seventies. Definitely sneaky sunburn weather, so we all lathered up, though the breeze off the ocean made it too cool for swimsuits just yet. Marcella had befriended a swarthy fabric designer from Chelsea and a couple who represented artists for children’s books. Xavier and Trevor flirted with the women, a group of flight attendants and some grad students who were preparing to spend the summer as camp counselors on the North Fork. Alana had the attention of a former Navy Seal who now ran a charter boat for local fishermen; I couldn’t tell if she was interested in him or simply wanted to know the best time of the week to purchase fresh fish.
I joined in the conversation occasionally, but most of all, I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my skin as I tried to focus on the sound of the waves smashing on the shore. My heart wasn’t into the party
scene at the moment; my thoughts were too wrapped up in someone else.
Antonio.
OK, maybe it was infantile, a goofy little crush, like the posters of Brad Pitt that I’d hung up in my locker in high school.
Only this time, I didn’t have to hang up posters. It was the real thing. Well, sort of.
I tried to pin down the facts, think of the real relationship qualities, as Alana had advised. What did I know about his personality? His background, aside from the standard bio in the tabloids? His likes and dislikes?
I knew I could answer some of those questions. Of course I could! But at the moment, the prospect of spending an evening with Antonio was such a bright light on the horizon that it overwhelmed every detail around it.
“Yo, people!” Xavier called, clapping his hands. “Ladies and gentleman, if I could have your attention for one moment.”
I lifted the brim of my floppy beach hat and found Xavier standing in the sand, working the crowd.
“My name is Xavier Goodman ...”
“Hi, Xavier!” a few of the flight attendants shouted back.
He pointed to them, nodding. “And I’m a fun-aholic. Now, I know, that probably sounds as squeaky clean as the Beach Boys in their hey-day, but it’s gotten to the point where you can’t say anything anymore. Can’t say party, baby. Can’t say ecstasy. Can’t say snow. Can’t say blow, for two very good reasons.”
Marcella and I glanced over at Trevor, who was doubled over laughing. Alana didn’t seem quite so amused. She stared down at her chaise and brushed sand from her skirt.
“You OK?” I asked her as Xavier went on.
She plunked her sunglasses down and let her head roll back on the chaise. “I just wish he’d stop. Why does it always have to be about him? I mean, here we are, hanging on the beach, and X has to turn it all into a show. He always takes control and makes it all about him.”
“You know what?” I said softly. “I think you two are just too much alike. That’s the problem.”
“Please! That is not at all what it’s about.”
Xavier’s jokes rolled on. “Then there’s the whole range of names that are no good anymore. Let’s see: Peter, Dick, Johnson, Willy, Woody, Murphy. Yeah, I met some Irish guy who called his thing a Murphy. What’s that about? I told him, no brothers ever do that, but he told me, what do you think Sean Combs did? I mean, you think it’s a Puff Daddy for nothing? Puff Daddy. I like the sound of that. Sure beats a Murphy.”
I recognized some of the jokes from his performance at the club. Others seemed to be spontaneous, improvised for the people on the beach. When he came to two grad students who were obviously a couple, Xavier shook his head and warned the guy.
“Beware the American princess! She will let you eat cake, then tell them ‘off with his head!’ ”
Alana bolted up in her chair and swiped her sunglasses off to glare at X.
But he went on, joking about how there’s an American princess in every crowd. Like a spider, she seduces her mate, then eats him for breakfast.
Alana leaned forward on her arms to confide, “Can I kill him now? I don’t think I can wait for breakfast.”
I shrugged as she stood up and smiled wide for the crowd. “And I’m sure you all recognize Mr. Xavier Goodman’s type. He’s the Joke That Wouldn’t Die.”
The beach grew quiet as Xavier squinted over heads of the group, watching her.
“I’m sure you have a friend like this,” Alana coaxed. “As a boy, he told you the same knock-knock joke over and over again until you ran screaming into the woods.”
That got a laugh.
“As he grew up, his jokes improved. People actually gathered around him at a party—at least for the first hour or so. But the problem is he never stops. He’s like a CD on auto-replay. You could go to the cleaners and come back and still find him playing the same tired material. Over and over again.”
This time, even Xavier forced himself to smile, though he wasn’t comfortable being upstaged.
“This is the friend who’s loaded with self-confidence,” Alana went on. “It oozes from his pores, an overabundance, probably the result of a hormonal imbalance, so common in men. If you could bottle and sell his self-confidence, you’d see a hell of a lot more female comics out there... .”
I watched in amazement, sure that Alana was hating every minute of this. Although she liked to be the center of attention, she wanted to be singled out for her beauty and fashion savvy, not for her public display of twisted logic.
There was a lot of anger brewing between Alana and Xavier, even Alana and her cousin Trevor. I didn’t understand it, but one thing I knew for sure: it was dangerous to cross Alana.
26
Alana
Somehow I managed to restrain myself from burying Xavier and Trevor in the sand and leaving only their heads exposed, with a honey glaze and a jar of fire ants nearby. And believe me, that required a great deal of restraint.
After we returned to the house and I had a chance to relax in the spa shower that Mama and I had modeled after a spa at the Tokyo Ritz, I realized it was wiser to spare their lives, especially considering that I needed their help getting my new furnishings in place. Part of the master suite, this spa was off-limits to everyone but my parents and me, and I thanked my lucky stars that Trevor hadn’t chosen my serene Japanese garden when he decided to have the cleaning lady polish his knob. With the fresh scent of shampoo in the air, I reconfigured our sleeping arrangements, deciding to let the guys stay in guest rooms of the main wing (way to ruin the tie-dye room for Hailey). We would move to the north wing, where the bedrooms hadn’t been redecorated since I was in college, but at least we’d have our privacy.
While my friends showered, I hollered up to the guys to get their butts downstairs and earn their keep. Trevor plodded down the steps, barefoot and yelping about not having a moment’s peace when women were on the premises. Xavier came behind him, wearing only olive cargo shorts and smelling lemony clean.
I stepped back from the landing of the stairs, a little distracted by the view. All that chocolatey skin and rounded muscles, slightly pumped but not so swollen that the bloated things wanted to leap out of the skin.
The man was fine. Delicious. And so out of line to come downstairs that way with my friends and me in the house.
“Would you get yourself decent and get back down here before I wallop your ass?” I crowed.
“I am decent. It’s eighty degrees out there. This is decent for eighty degrees.”
“I can’t work with you that way,” I insisted.
He tossed back his head and laughed ... all the way up the stairs.
Now what kind of response was that? Was I supposed to feel embarrassed or annoyed? I tell you, these two brothers deserve each other.
To my surprise, when it came time for the heavy lifting, Trevor had a smart attack and found a dolly out in the maintenance shed. Like regular repairmen, he and Xavier wheeled those boxes around to the screened-in pool side atrium and popped those nasty giant staples out with long, flat screwdrivers.
“Oh my Lord!” I gasped as X lifted out the first chair, an all-weather natural wicker armchair with sumptuous cushions patterned with palm trees, orchids, and tropical flowers. “It’s beautiful! Coco Island Escape—just as I planned.” The design theme had slipped my mind, but now that I saw the warm coffee tone of the wicker, it all came rushing back. “I’m going to get two potted palms from the local nursery, and I’ve got tiny little turquoise lights to string along the far fence. I’m modeling everything after a little oceanfront café in the Bahamas. I haven’t been there yet, but Condé Nast Traveler rated it the number one getaway for 2004.”
Trevor stepped away from the huge cartons and pulled one of the green aluminum chairs away from the table, causing a spine-tingling scratch on the concrete. “What’s wrong with these chairs? These look new!”
“Please! Daddy got those hideous specimens because they were on sale and they were green. The set is
called Lime Freeze. Doesn’t that say enough?”
Trevor sat down in one. “They look okay to me ...”
“He wanted something to match the grass!” I said, gesturing to the short-cropped green lawn beyond the pool patio. “You don’t match grass, you accent it. The coco wicker will work so much better.” I went to the largest carton. “This must be the table. Some assembly required, but there’s a toolbox in the maintenance shed. Do you think you can manage it before dinner? I’d love to dine alfresco tonight.”
“Can I manage it?” Trevor sat back and crossed his arms behind his head. “I’m liking the green chairs. And if you don’t like the chairs, what’s wrong with the table? It’s just a glass top with white legs.”
“Am I speaking in a foreign tongue, or what?”
“I think we can handle the table,” Xavier conceded.
“You go handle the table, X,” Trevor said, looping one leg over a green chair. “I’m happy as a green salamander right here in my green chair. Wouldn’t mind a beer or one of those fancy cocktails with a little umbrella in it. How ’bout you make it a melon ball daiquiri. Or a green apple martini ...”
“If you would like to eat dinner this evening, you need to help your friend assemble the table,” I told my cousin as I smoothed a hand over the cheerful tropical print on the newly unveiled chair. I sat down and closed my eyes, recalling photos of the Bahamian paradise from the magazine spread. Ahhh!
“What about the green furniture?” Xavier asked.
“Send it out on the surf.” Even as I said it, I worried at how ecologically depraved that sounded. “Actually, just put it in the shed? We’ll get someone to cart it away after the holiday weekend.”
