The Season

by Jonah Lisa Dyer

  “I’m bored,” Lauren said suddenly. Her declaration broke the spell, and seemed more a comment on our conversation rather than a statement about how she felt. She stood up in that itty-bitty bikini and stretched languidly this way and that. It had the desired effect. Andrew looked at her. She clearly enjoyed the attention, the way his eyes moved up and down and all around her body. “Come swimming.”

  “I want to finish this,” he said, pointing to his half- written letter.

  “Later.” She beckoned with her eyes, and her hips and lips. Watching her act, I figured he was about to crater. What guy wouldn’t?

  “You go.” His tone was firm, and she, predictably, pouted. When this too produced no result, she looked at me.

  “Megan? Swimming?”

  “Not right now,” I said, still determined not to have my body compared to hers in anything resembling daylight.

  “Eeerghhh.” She slinked off and when she got to the steps of the pool she paused dramatically, then daintily dipped in one toe, swirling it like a straw in a daiquiri. “Oh it’s perfect.” She glanced now at Andrew seductively. “You’re positively sure?” She posed by the steps awash in golden sunlight—this had to get him. After all, he had a pulse.

  “You go,” he said, and I felt her slump in disappointment. As if to further slam the door on the discussion, Andrew slid the very dark sunglasses from his head onto his face. I had gone back to my book to cover any notion I had a dog in this fight, but I watched furtively as she went down the steps and slid into the water with nary a ripple. She swam slowly and carefully, her neck extended and her head well above the water, to keep her hair dry. Galling as it was, Lauren swam as regally, and effortlessly, as a swan.

  I was torn. I had zero interest in my book, and the thought of swimming around in this gorgeous pool was pretty tempting. However, this required I remove my T-shirt. But why let this guy and his snotty opinion keep me from doing what I wanted?

  “Changed my mind,” I said, standing and taking off my T-shirt.

  Rather than enter via the steps, I went to the diving board, bounced high off the end, and flew up into the air. I tucked and grabbed my knees to my chest.

  “Cannonball!” I hit the water with a giant splash.

  The shock of the water temperature was less than I expected, and I surfaced feeling clean and alive. I dove again and swam hard along the bottom, reached the other end, and came up beside Lauren, now sitting on the steps.

  She leaned back and rested her elbows on the pool’s edge.

  “Come join us!” she called to Andrew.

  “No thanks.”

  “But why?” she pleaded.

  “Two reasons. First, maybe you two have something private to talk about.”

  “But we don’t,” Lauren insisted, turning to me. “Do we?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s the second reason?” she asked. He gazed toward us through his sunglasses.

  “You both know how good you look,” he said finally. “And I can see you better from here.”

  Lauren pretended shock but was secretly pleased at his compliment. I was perplexed. Both? Why include me—out of charity? I waited to see if there was more. But Andrew went back to scribbling.

  “Let’s tease him,” Lauren said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “But how?” she wondered.

  “He’s your boyfriend.”

  “I know, but he’s just so—so perfect.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I said. Now Andrew looked up, and I measured him from the steps. “Everybody’s got flaws,” I said, “and I think his is . . . arrogance.”

  Andrew thought this over.

  “Possibly,” he conceded. “And you . . . you think you know everything about everybody.” He leaned toward me, and I saw a sliver of his eyes over his dark glasses. “But you don’t.”

  Seventeen

  In Which Megan Bags Her Limit

  IN THEIR QUEST TO OUTDO EVERYONE ELSE AT debutanting, the Battles flew Bobby Flay down to cook for their Denim to Diamonds ball. The centerpiece was barbecued quail. Individual birds by the hundreds would be hand-rubbed with spices, stuffed with tiny fresh jalapeños, wrapped in bacon slabs, and slathered in butter, then roasted over an open pit that would have done nicely for an auto-da-fé. Just before serving, the tender birds would be bathed in a burgundy wine sauce reputed to be irresistible due to a secret ingredient.

  Not content to make do with store-bought quail, the Battles had arranged for their guests to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. That morning buses would take willing early risers to a fancy shooting ranch nearby, where they could pepper away at live quail flushed by dogs and their handlers.

  At 4:28 in the a.m. I stuck my nose out of the fabulous Battle cabin. It was still dark outside and chilly. Back inside I put on a heavy roll-neck sweater over an Under Armor base layer, jeans, boots, and a faded purple Elmer Fudd hat trimmed with rabbit fur—my hunting hat and good-luck charm. I grabbed my barn jacket and my shotgun case and left quietly, trying not to wake Julia, then walked along the path to the barn.

  “How do?” an older man asked, tipping his hat as I joined the line for breakfast. He was a red-faced, well-fed sort with a grandfatherly smile.

  “Great, thanks. You?”

  “Fine,” he replied.

  “Smells good,” I said. And it did.

  “Real good,” he said, sniffing the air.

  Up ahead buffet tables were spread out on the drive with warming tables. Choices included breakfast burritos, huckleberry pancakes, biscuits and gravy, bacon, hash browns, and Bulletproof coffee. The Battles weren’t skimping on the pre-dawn breakfast.

  Standing off to one side chowing down on a burrito, I surveyed the crowd and quickly realized I was the only one there sporting a womb. This was Texas and I knew lots of women who hunted, so I could only guess the other ladies found beds more tempting than the chilly morning air.

  “Megan, have a seat,” Zach said graciously, and moved to one side of the bus. I squeezed in between him and Andrew, who stiffened noticeably.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Hi, Megan,” Andrew said simply.

  “Andrew.” He looked out the bus window. Zach noticed my gun case.

  “You brought your own gun?” he asked cheerfully. Is he ever in a bad mood?

  “Present from my dad for my thirteenth birthday.”

  “Sweet,” Zach said. “Does Julia have one?”

  “No, she got diamond earrings.”

  He laughed. “So you really hunt?”

  I nodded. “Mostly with my dad. We have a lease down in the valley, and when I was a kid we’d go down there, camp for the weekend.”

  “Deer?” Zach asked.

  “Mainly, but also ducks, quail, anything that fit in the freezer. It was just nice to get one-on-one time.” I felt kinda bad talking about quality time with my dad in front of Andrew. “Really I just love to shoot,” I said.

  “Well, I’m a terrible shot,” Zach said, “but I have to be here. Should be fun, though.”

  Andrew continued looking out the window. I knew he was from New York. Had he ever hunted with his dad? Could he shoot? He seemed like the type that would hire someone to shoot his birds for him. As if he had heard my thoughts he glanced my way, but I looked toward Zach, unwilling to give Andrew the satisfaction of knowing that I had any thoughts about him, unkind or otherwise.

  Cooper Creek Ranch was a first-class operation. Hosts greeted everyone, and a gaggle of handlers in orange vests stood off to one side holding back dogs, mostly pointers and spaniels that knew the drill and were eager to get going.

  We stood in a rough line on a bluff overlooking wetlands where the doomed birds still slept. Far to their right the dogs and men were about to start forward, and when they did the birds would flush up ri
ght in front of us. It was like skeet shooting, but with live targets.

  “You should be down here, Miss,” one of the hosts said, and led me to the front and low-right position. Ostensibly he did this out of politeness, as it would allow me first crack at any birds coming up, but from his manner and the shuffling and murmuring among the men, I knew this courtesy also spoke to some fear about my ability with a loaded gun. When I started blasting away, the smart money clearly wanted to be well behind me.

  I felt someone arrive on my left, a few yards away, and just knew it was Andrew—I could feel his presence, that intensity that hovered wherever he went.

  “If you’re trying to intimidate me,” I said without looking over, “it won’t work. My courage rises when someone challenges me.”

  “I’m not trying to intimidate you—I’m here for tips,” he replied.

  My reply was lost in the whistles blaring below. The dogs surged ahead, barking, and I braced my gun against my shoulder and squinted down the sight, aiming low. As the dogs bounded into the marsh, I heard rather than saw the whoosh of a bird heading skyward.

  Then I saw them: two quail rising in tandem, just feet apart. Without hesitation I fired and took the higher one first, just at shoulder level. An instant to re-sight and pump and my second shot came nearly on top of the first. If you weren’t paying attention you might have thought it was an echo, but the result told the story—two clean kills in less than a second.

  As the party had barely registered that there were birds to shoot, it was with some surprise that they realized I had taken both. Another flew up, and I let go another thunderous roar from the Remington. A quick downward flutter. The gun didn’t move a lot in my hands, and after this display all the men now felt very comfortable standing pretty much anywhere but where the birds were.

  “I guess you do shoot a little bit,” Andrew said behind me. I smiled, already feeling better.

  Now the dogs, all loose below us, moved in farther, and birds were coming up quickly in bunches. I took a pause and let them go, and the group along the bluff banged away. Within fifteen minutes I had bagged my limit, with only a single miss. Andrew too had bagged a good number of birds, and we were resting when Zach came up.

  “Take mine,” Zach said. I raised my eyebrows.

  “Seriously?”

  “Please—I can’t hit them, and it’ll make me look good with my dad, and Julia. Plus, we need all we can get for dinner tonight.”

  “I got your back,” I said, smiling. “You want half?” I offered Andrew.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said. I shrugged and reloaded.

  A quail flashed on my right and I followed it for a half second, finger on the trigger, then fired—down it went. More birds flushed below, and I caught another. It was downright noisy out there, but Bobby Flay would not be short for dinner.

  Flay and his toasted birds turned out to be supporting players in an evening so full of stars that astronomers looking north from Dallas might well have assumed a new galaxy had formed. The Battles drew some heavy water and the turnout was huge—250 tables of 6 sold for Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital, and close to 1,500 people milled around their “barn.”

  Denim to Diamonds is a Texas thing. It means the most expensive and flashiest jeans and shirts and hats, the most exotic cowboy boots—ostrich, caiman, python, shark, lizard, and stingray. Lauren’s boots were M. L. Leddy’s, handmade in Houston from farm-raised alligator (wild alligators sported scuffs and scars) —and rumor had it they’d cost twelve thousand dollars.

  Our hats were custom. Julia’s and my handmade beaver Stetsons came from a tiny store in Jackson Hole where McKnights had shopped for close on a century, and Mom wore a red Kate Spade ordered from New York. My shirt was black silk embroidered with yellow stitching and roses—Margot had found it in a vintage store, then tailored it to fit snug. Julia wore a starched pure-white Anne Fontaine cut in a severe hourglass, and Mom went with a hand-sewn Ariat in coral.

  Then there were the diamonds. Size mattered, so there were massive diamond earrings, chunky rings, glittering necklaces, and ice-cube-sized pendants. There were also diamond-studded hatbands, tennis bracelets, and Texas-shaped brooches. Rather than knock over Harry Winston’s in Highland Park Village, Mom went into the safe-deposit box for the family stuff. Julia wore matching diamond and sapphire earrings with a choker passed down from Mom’s grandmother. I went with a diamond hatband and matching cuff links originally made for my great-grandfather to wear at his wedding. Yes, he wore a tux, but he matched it with black crocodile boots and a black Stetson. Mom wore one-carat round studs, her sweet-sixteen birthday present, and a diamond and emerald brooch. The whole affair was the kind of ostentatious dude-ranch display my dad loathed, and frankly, I was glad he wasn’t here to see it.

  The celebrity quotient was high. There were politicians, football players, and country stars, but the undisputed North Star that evening, the brightest light in the night sky, was Andrew’s mother, Penelope Dandridge Gage—Penny to her friends. She had flown down from New York on the family jet, dragging along a Hollywood power couple and a talk-show host. She wore solid black jeans and a black suede shirt, but rather than cowboy boots chose Ferragamo ballet flats. And of course she brought Mitzy, her dog, who was the hit of the party, even when she peed right by their table.

  I only saw her from a distance. Zach said she had a ferocious temper, and admitted to being scared of her. She wasn’t tall but somehow towered over the entire room. Lauren never left her side, and introduced her to everybody who stopped by, a line that went clear to Fort Worth. Watching her I thought of the Pope conferring blessings and forgiveness on his audience.

  Without Hank there I felt somewhat detached from it all. My date, Stephen Cromwell, a Beta from the University of Texas, was perfectly nice, amiable, and benign. We ate together and danced once, and then he went in search of his girlfriend, at my urging. With so much star wattage it was easy to fade into the background, and from my perch I saw Julia canoodling with Zach. According to Julia their ride had been romantic and then some, and it looked like that might continue later. Zach clearly adored her and I could tell that she was quietly falling for him too.

  By ten the place was hopping, and hundreds of couples scooted around the dance floor, an acre or so of parquet laid down for the occasion. Abby drew the short straw for this party, with Hunter careening her around out there like a mad dervish. Ashley One danced with her very handsome date, a young heart surgeon named Dr. Chavez, and Sydney danced mainly with her father. Andrew danced first with Lauren, then his mother, and Mrs. Gage did her best to find the unusual two-step rhythm. Her effort drew applause—even Mitzy barked her approval—and she offered a small bow when the song ended.

  At midnight we all went outside for the fireworks. Years before, my parents had taken us to Washington, D.C., for the Fourth of July, where our nation had generously provided a fireworks display worthy of the occasion. Soaring rockets and whizzing streamers and giant starbursts exploded for a solid twenty minutes, with flares and embers arcing over the Washington Monument and the reflecting pools. The Battles must have hired the same company. The scope and length of the majestic fireworks that night served, like a symphony’s crescendo, as an emphatic reminder that in the race for biggest and most expensive deb ball, the gold medal was already taken.

  Under the glow, Andrew stood next to Lauren. She looked put out, not sporting a new ring as far as I could see. She’d probably figured his proposal would happen before the fireworks, but clearly it hadn’t. I supposed it could still be pending, but Andrew didn’t look like a guy about to propose to the love of his life—he looked more like a cat in a carrier. He caught me looking his way and this time I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

  In the crush afterward I lost sight of both Julia and Mom. Getting up at four thirty to go shooting was catching up to me, and I was walking to the cabin and bed when my phone
went Wa-OO-gah. A text from Julia: a single red heart emoji. At least one of us was having fun!

  In need of a place to kill time, I found myself in the Battles’ actual stable. Horses made good company, in my opinion, as they kept their thoughts to themselves. Inside I found the light switch and looked around. It was a stable, but not like any the horses I knew lived in—the cement floor gleamed and looked clean enough to eat off. But I could smell their scent, and when I walked back, noses poked out from stalls, eager for a rub and some attention. I wished I had a carrot or a sugar cube, but lacking any treats, I offered my hand to a sleek, gorgeous thoroughbred. He snuffled my palm, and I rubbed his nose softly. He rolled his head to the side and eyed me shyly. I closed my eyes and inhaled a rich animal bouquet with hints of tack and hay.

  “Megan.” It couldn’t be. I turned.

  “Are you following me?” I asked Andrew Gage, a bit testy.

  “No. Of course not. Lauren isn’t feeling great and I wasn’t tired and I, I—like horses.” So freaking awkward. “But if I’m disturbing you, then—”

  “No. It’s okay. You like horses?” I asked.

  “Love them.”

  “Me too.” He reached out his hand, let the horse snuffle it. “We have a barn,” he said. “I’ve always liked going there.”

  “Full of Triple Crown winners no doubt?”

  “There are no Triple Crown winners in our barn,” he stated, all mock outrage. “Maybe a Kentucky Derby or two. One took the Belmont, I think, but I am positive that none of them ever won the Triple Crown.” I laughed—this was that same charming guy who parked my bike. Where had he gone? “Actually, we don’t have racehorses,” he continued. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice, but they’re just for riding.”

  “And fox hunting?” I didn’t phrase it as a question on purpose, but threw it at him like a dart. It landed, but not where I expected.

  “I have actually been fox hunting—once,” he said. “But secretly I rooted for the fox.”