by Laura Moore
Luckily, the Thanksgiving and Christmas memories at Windhaven had stopped when Dakota turned thirteen. That was the year her grandparents began spending winters in Palm Beach, the warm climate easier on her grandfather’s failing health, his liver finally succumbing to decades of heavy drinking. Even the spring and summer visits to Windhaven dwindled to a few unpleasant occasions. Dakota learned to seize either schoolwork or her part-time jobs as a babysitter, plant-waterer, and dog-walker as excuses to stay away. Her regrets were relayed by Piper and accepted without question, and everyone was happier.
While the sale of Windhaven evoked no sense of nostalgia in Dakota, she did wonder who its new owner was. She knew her curiosity would be satisfied soon enough. Where the ever-flighty party girl Piper Hale couldn’t be bothered to recall or even be troubled to ask for the most crucial of names, her older sister, Mimi Hale Walsh, could recall entire family trees—and then hack them to pieces with a few choice anecdotes. Bitter and resentful that life hadn’t given her everything on her wish list, Mimi liked nothing better than to see others fall. Not even family members were exempt.
—
After she and Rae wrapped up at the Greenfields, Dakota drove Rae over to the East Hampton Citarella, a high-end grocery store, where her boyfriend, Marcos, would pick her up in the parking lot. Rae and Marcos had a place in Hampton Bays, just past the Shinnecock Canal. A distance of about twenty miles, in the off-season the drive took a little over a half hour. When the summer folk flocked to the east end of Long Island, the trip could clock in at over an hour. Not even sticking to the back roads to avoid Route 27, the artery that connected the Hamptons and ended at Montauk, the easternmost point, shaved off many minutes. Rae and Marcos were hoping to move closer, but housing prices eastward became exorbitant fast.
Pulling into a parking space, Dakota said, “See you Tuesday, Rae. Hope the party goes well tomorrow night. Call if anything comes up.”
“Most def.” Rae climbed out of the SUV and patted the bag protecting Dakota’s surfboard. “May the waves be cranking, D. And say hi to that crazy lady Piper.”
“Will do.” She, too, got out. A trip to the market’s deli was in order. Essential to refuel before tackling the double headache of her mother and aunt. From there she’d pick up the bottle of vodka at the liquor store and, if she timed it right, arrive at her mother’s house on Dunemere Lane after Mimi’s opening rant. There’d be plenty more to follow.
To avoid the line of customers ordering lox, sliced deli meats, and salads for the long weekend, Dakota went straight to the refrigerated shelves that held prepared sandwiches. She was bent over, her fingers around a turkey and avocado wrap and deciding between peach and lemon iced tea when a finger poked her in the side.
A freckled strawberry-blond girl in pigtails, an orange fleece jacket, and jodhpurs gave her a gap-toothed grin and waved. “Hi, Dakota.”
Her own face split in a smile. “Well, hi there, Gracie! Good to see you. Are you going riding?”
“Just finished,” Gracie’s mom, Gen Monaghan, said. She was holding on to three-year-old Brooke’s hand. “We’re picking up dinner—Alex is flying in later.”
Gen Monaghan was one of Dakota’s favorite people. A talented painter, she was married to Alex Miller, who had his own roots in the Hamptons, though his weren’t as deep as the Hale family’s. They lived in Georgica in a house Alex had inherited from his great-aunt Grace Miller.
Dakota had met Gen and Alex through that aunt, soon after she started Premier Service. Gen and Alex had needed help organizing their beach wedding, which, in spite of Alex’s wealth and connections, they were determined to keep a low-key affair. Aunt Grace had recommended that they turn to Dakota.
Gen claimed that Dakota’s success in corralling her many relatives and providing perfectly chilled champagne, raw clams and oysters, steamed lobsters, and a wedding cake free of a single grain of sand was nothing short of a miracle.
“We were in the produce aisle when eagle-eyed Gracie spotted you, which is terrific, because she’s saved me a telephone call.” Gen ruffled her daughter’s hair. “But if you’re rushing off to a job, I’ll catch you later.”
“No, I’m heading over to Piper’s. Elliott’s sold Windhaven, and Mimi is not happy. I’ve been summoned to listen to the Hale sisters’ lament.”
“That’s sure to make for an interesting concert.”
A mild and restrained response, considering that she must know that Mimi and, to a less acute degree, Piper hated that Gen, a Massachusetts “nobody,” had invaded their turf.
“Funnily enough, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, too,” Gen said. “Windhaven’s new owner? His name’s Max Carr, and he’s an associate of Alex’s. Max is looking for a company to help with the house, and so of course Alex thought of Premier Service. Would you be willing to talk to Max? He could be a good client for you.”
But at what cost?
The eruption would be full-blown, with the toxins lingering in the atmosphere long afterward, once the family heard that she was helping Windhaven’s new owner. She’d be working for the enemy. That no one had forced Elliott to sell the ancestral home to this Max Carr would be immaterial.
At Dakota’s hesitation, Gen asked, “Would it be ridiculously awkward?”
Dakota gave a little laugh. She’d be labeled a traitor. But Mimi had already stuck so many labels on her, what was one more?
“It might get sticky. But you and Alex have been really wonderful to me.” After the wedding, they’d sung her praises to anyone within earshot. With Alex’s connections, she’d tripled her list of clients. “I’d be happy to talk to him.”
“Oh, good. Do you have time to meet tomorrow?”
Damn. As Rae liked to say, the shit was getting real. She’d assumed he’d simply call and she’d spend a few minutes on the phone, perhaps pass on some names if she decided that negotiating the family minefield wasn’t worth it. “Uh, sure. I could meet him at Windhaven at ten o’clock.”
“Thanks, Dakota.” Gen stepped forward and hugged her. The front of her down vest opened like the wings of a blue jay. “I know how complicated your family is.”
“Complicated” being the polite term for dysfunctional.
Dakota didn’t do sympathy well. Whatever her childhood had been like, she was an adult now, financially independent, and fairly well adjusted. In the grand scheme of things, what were a few lingering hang-ups, especially when they were perfect for her chosen profession? Being a hyperorganized control freak accustomed practically since birth to demanding egotistical types held distinct advantages in the concierge business. “Happy to, Gen. Give Max Carr my number in case he can’t see me at ten.” It was possible he’d prefer one of the ludicrously expensive concierge services operating in Southampton, the kind that provided chauffeurs to drive Manhattan hairdressers out to the Hamptons so they could give eight- and nine-year-old boys a haircut because the mother claimed that was “simpler.”
Too much money could seriously damage a brain.
“I’ll have Alex give Max your info and tell him it’s a go. Oh, and are you free for Sunday brunch? We’d love to see you.”
“Thanks, I’d like that.”
“Hope things work out between you and Max.”
Dakota pictured the outraged expressions on her relatives’ faces and tried for an answering smile.
With her coloring, most people assumed Dakota was named for the Native American tribe. There had been a period as a kid when she would correct anyone who remarked on her name that no, as far as she knew, her father wasn’t a Native American. Nor was her mother fond of the states, either North or South. Piper was one of those “everything is fuzzy west of the Hudson River” types. The Dakota that she’d been named after was the prestigious apartment building in New York City, the one where John Lennon had lived and where, on the sidewalk, only steps away from its imposing arched entry, he’d lost his life.
Any attempts to explain the origin of her name
had ended when she was twelve. The reason wasn’t that she’d grown sick of people concluding that her mother must have been a John Lennon groupie. Her decision had stemmed from a talk Piper gave her. Not just any talk. The Talk.
From her friends, Dakota already knew about the one most parents gave. A cautious speech, it was sprinkled with soothing words like “respect” and “love” and phrases like “it’s perfectly normal.”
Piper, in her inimitable fashion, chose to personalize it.
Dakota was sitting in the smaller living room in the house on Dunemere Lane, the house Piper had bought when her parents delivered their final ultimatum—no bastard grandchild would live under their roof—watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch. She’d loved that series: the kids and their squabbles, the way they made up, the way they talked to each other, Cindy’s dorky pigtails, the way Mike and Carol hugged. Weirdly, her favorite character was Alice, the housekeeper. Practical Alice kept it together, calmly sliding casseroles and baking sheets dotted with carefully arranged mounds of cookie dough into the waiting oven while the eight family members succumbed to whatever crisis was unfolding.
It was the same with Batman. She adored Alfred. Batman and Robin might be out scaling skyscrapers to catch the Penguin; ever-unruffled Alfred carried tea in on a silver platter.
Longing for a father was taboo, drilled into her time and again by Piper saying, “It’s just you and me, doll. We’re a team.” And while it would have been wonderful to have a brother or sister to help her try to make sense of the reckless adults around her, what she yearned for even more was a stalwart Alice or phlegmatic Alfred, someone on whom she could depend.
She had been fully immersed in the Bradys and their happy, love-filled life when Piper wandered into the room, a glass of wine in hand. She was back from a cocktail party and still in her leopard-print leggings, high-heeled black suede booties, and a tuxedo shirt fastened with a single button. With her blond hair teased into a wild mane, she could have passed for a blue-eyed Kate Moss.
She sank down on the ivory twill sofa next to Dakota. There was no “Have you done your homework?,” no “Have you picked up your room?,” no “Have you eaten?” That wasn’t Piper’s style.
Besides, the questions asked by other parents—Carole and Mike Brady included—weren’t necessary. Dakota always did her homework, picked her clothes up off the floor, and brushed her teeth. She also made her own breakfast and brewed Piper’s coffee, carrying it carefully so the hot liquid wouldn’t slosh onto her hand as she climbed the stairs and entered the darkened bedroom.
Caffeine was essential to counteract the alcohol and whatever else Piper had ingested the night before. Without it there was no way Piper would get out of bed in time to drop her off at school. Piper had even taught her how to turn on the car so that the interior would be warm when, bleary-eyed and in a puffy down parka zipped over her Hanro camisole and cotton lounging pants, she would drive her to the middle school in put-upon silence. The second the car rolled to a stop near the brick building, Dakota would jump out with a quick “Bye,” and her mother would drive home and go back to bed, rolling out of it for the second time closer to eleven o’clock.
“Well, that was dullsville. Why do I ever think Ann Clark can throw a party? And what is this?” she said with a nod at the TV.
“The Brady Bunch.”
“Oh God, again? How trite.” Her free hand reached for the remote lying on the glass coffee table that was shaped like a blob. “Really, doll, there must be something better.”
“No, don’t! I like this show.”
Piper sat back with a huff of displeasure. For a few minutes they watched in silence.
Maybe her absorption in the sitcom posed a challenge. Maybe the reason the party had been “dullsville” was that no one had paid Piper proper court. Or maybe it was seeing Mike and Carol Brady in their striped pajamas in bed, a chaste foot of space separating them, that provoked her.
“I ran into Jenny Hollins at the post office today.” That was Chip Hollins’s mother. He had zits that he covered with gobs of Clearasil and he liked to tease Dakota about being John Lennon’s love child, which showed how stupid he was since Lennon was shot in 1980. “She said you’re learning about sex in school.”
Dakota went hot with embarrassment and stared harder at the TV screen. “It’s called health class,” she muttered.
“It’s probably as sanitized and boring as this show. The Joy of Sex is over there, you know.” She pointed to the built-in bookshelf to the right of the fireplace. “Though the book I learned about sex from was Fear of Flying.”
Dakota prayed for sudden deafness.
“Thank God for Erica Jong.” Piper took a long sip of her wine. “The sex I had with your father? Straight out of Fear of Flying, believe me. It was glorious and wild. No questions asked, just two strangers coming together. Of course, ours wasn’t a zipless fuck.”
Dakota wasn’t supposed to swear. Oh, Dakota, must you be so vulgar?
“Erica Jong coined the term ‘zipless fuck,’ you know. That book, it freed so many women from stupid social conventions about sex. And did I ever ‘fly’ with your father. Over and over again.” She smiled and stretched, arching her back against the sofa cushions.
Only the word “father” kept Dakota from plugging her ears or, better yet, racing upstairs and escaping. Not that retreating would by any means have ensured the end of the conversation. If she’d been in the mood, intent on finishing her tale, Piper would simply have followed, not bothering to knock when she entered. Ms. Penelope Worth Hale decided what rules and etiquette applied to her.
“So you met my father at the Dakota, right?” she asked as casually as she could.
“I was living in New York, subletting an apartment in Greenwich Village while I studied at Parsons. My teachers thought I was quite brilliant. If I’d stayed in the program, I’d be selling in Barneys and Neiman Marcus.” She gave a heavy sigh and raised her glass to her lips.
“But the Dakota is uptown, right?” she prompted.
“Seventy-second Street and Central Park West. Not exactly the hippest neighborhood, but the Dakota, well, it’s an amazing place. The group I ran with, we were always being invited to gallery openings, clubs, and parties all over town. And if we weren’t invited, we simply crashed. The party at the Dakota was thrown by some friend of a friend of Sara Pryce’s. Sara’s never really liked me. Jealous, I suppose. I would have skipped it and gone directly to the other happening on the night’s calendar—an outdoor bash at Battery Park, which I knew was going to be a mad scene—but Nina Chappelle, who was my real friend, had heard that Michael Douglas was going to be at the Dakota party. Or maybe it was some other actor. Whoever it was, Nina was obsessed with him. She loved to make it with celebrities. Still does, though since she’s gained so much weight she has a hard time attracting anyone at all. I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost my looks….”
Following one of Piper’s monologues was like following the trajectory of a ping-pong ball slammed too violently. It bounced all over the place.
Piper paused to sip her wine and perhaps contemplate the terrible fate of being as fat as her friend. Then she shrugged.
“Anyway, Nina begged me to come with her, promising me she’d heard the apartment was simply out of this world. So I went.”
Dakota sat very still so as not to distract Piper.
“It was unreal, Dakota. I’d been in some incredible digs in London, Paris, and Rome when I traveled after graduating from boarding school, but this apartment was fabulous. Totally over the top. Priceless antiques mixed with the most amazing collection of photographs and contemporary paintings. Glam beyond belief. And let me tell you, the people there were as wild as the apartment. They knew how to party.
“Enormous as it was—the owners, whoever they were, must have combined two apartments into one—the place was packed, with people streaming in and out like it was Grand Central Station. The music was blasting so loud I felt it in my bones
. So of course we followed it to the source. And get this—adjoining the vast living room was a ballroom! Nina and I started dancing. I was wearing my hair longer then and I’d found this super-sexy black leather mini in a shop on Bleecker and paired it with a fitted sequin bustier.
“Nina and I always drew looks when we danced together. The same thing happened at the party. Everyone in the room was watching us. But I only felt one pair of eyes on me. His. Before the song had even ended, I left Nina twirling and swaying and went over to him.”
Dakota held her breath.
“It was perfect. We didn’t exchange a word. We just stared into each other’s eyes and I felt as if I was going to explode. Silently he took my hand and led me through the throng and then down a hallway that was crammed with people smoking, drinking, necking. But this man, he had presence. They all made way for us.
“There was a door at the end of the hall. He opened it and there was a couple inside, doing lines of coke—” Piper broke off her tale to glance at her. “Oh, come on, don’t look so shocked, Dakota. Coke was everywhere back then. And believe me, we didn’t ‘just say no.’ ”
“So what happened?”
“Well, he only had to lift his chin like this.” Piper demonstrated. “And they split like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “We stepped inside. Lord, even the bathroom was outrageous in that apartment. Huge, and decorated with this sublime wallpaper that was covered with peacocks and birdcages and climbing roses. Classic Schumacher. I’ll never forget it.” She sighed happily at the memory.
“Anyway, he was the perfect screw. Strong as a bull and relentless. Masterful. I remember giggling with Nina afterward because I could barely walk. We had to go to the Odeon and have steak frites so I could recover my strength. Then we went to that bash at Battery Park, though honestly, after the Dakota it was kind of anticlimactic.” She laughed at her pun. “After that, we hit the Limelight. What a night. Definitely one for the books. I’ve often felt I should have written to Erica Jong about it.”
