Katie wondered, He got out yesterday and didn’t call?
George walked across the small, unkempt lawn next to the cracked driveway and held Huck in his arms up high above his head, which made the child giggle. He then smiled warmly at Katie, slid Huck piggyback around his back and asked him, “Can I show you something kind of cool?”
As she watched George hold her son tightly, then grab a little bag from his car and walk away, she noticed his hair had grown a tad over his ears since she’d last seen him four weeks ago. His forty-something years weren’t showing anything but a little gentlemanly elegance. George’s arms shone in the morning light as he held Huck up to a bird feeder in a tree: they were strong and masculine in his navy, tattered polo shirt. She wasn’t one for khakis on a man, but George’s were so old and wrinkled, they looked good. His moccasins pretty much ruined his look, but she’d work on that.
She’d only been with him in Portland on his business trips, and he’d worn suits or jeans and light jackets in the colder Pacific Northwest air, both with freshly dry-cleaned, folded button-down shirts. This look was foreign to her, relaxed and decidedly preppy. They were equals out West: strangers connecting in a Hilton Hotel conference where she’d had solid command of her topics on stage. If anything, she gained a little control by taking him to restaurants she knew on the Willamette River in town. He looked different out on his turf; the ease, the comfort granted him a degree of power and took away some of hers. Perhaps, she figured, that explained the persistent anxiety in her stomach.
And now the man she had flirted with in the surf shop popped into her mind. His arms weren’t this good, not as solid and muscular by a long shot—and she wasn’t one for a lover with a slight build. Still, the man from the shop’s clothes were better, more like people from Hood River, and his jeans fell off his hips in an inviting way. He had a cool style, and she instinctively liked that better than the Brooks Brothers uniform George now had on.
George probably had at least ten years on the handsome guy in the store, forty-three to his thirty-three or so. Or maybe he was thirty-five, she wondered to herself, shielding her eyes to try to see what George and Huck were doing in that tree.
George yelled back at her, holding Huck up to see something hidden. “You know this is a bird feeder from my childhood. Did my mother, Poppy, stop by? My father and I painted it when I was Huck’s age.”
“Didn’t hear anything from her yet, but I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
George walked back to the porch, holding Huck’s hand, and released him to go into the house. “She wants to take you to the Seabrook Club for lunch, which is going to be a little bit of a culture shock for you. She’s going to call you. She likes a late lunch and wanted to see you there, alone.”
“Sounds fine. What does she know about us? Any topics I should avoid?”
“I didn’t tell her anything. She just assumes there’s a woman in the house, and she wants to see her herself. She talks better without me, you’ll see.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “I cannot wait to show you both around. Clamming, tennis, the perfect ear of buttery corn.”
“Of course. I’d love to see her. I’m good with women only.” Katie put her hands on her hips again to stand firm. She was feeling better now. This George was really handsome, and so kind with her child. He seemed genuinely happy to have them living here.
“Nothing’s off-limits with my mother. You’ll like her. She’s kind of irresistible in her own Ayatollah way.”
At the very least, she’d see the inside of that dilapidated country club George had referenced once, which probably looked like this cottage on the inside. She remembered a pink blouse that could be steamed. Did she even bring that here?
Then, she convinced herself clothes didn’t matter, so it was silly to focus on them, either her own or George’s. She was fine. All was in order. The glorious sun warming her back slayed the nighttime worry fairies.
She liked how George walked, not like he owned the world, but in a sexy alpha way, like he’d be able to take charge of situations. The guy in the T-shirt could barely talk to her in the store. George was more substantial. He had walked right up to her in the Hilton by the breakfast spread like he was a sexy caveman ready to drag her by her ponytail into his lair. Let’s leave. Now. Huck came out of the house, and George placed him again in his arms to get more birdseed out of a box in his trunk.
Katie had never been one to consider “breeding” as a plus, but this George did have some intangible hint of class that she now understood as she watched him in his element. His frayed pants and polo shirt held historic substance of some kind, worn for decades on golf courses and stubbornly unchanged, like the fabric on the couches or the steps peeling with paint beneath her. It all reeked of an elite, laissez-faire, don’t-show-too-much-effort-in-life style.
Middle-class people in Portland didn’t like old clothes and furniture; they liked their houses neat, clean, presentable. Ikea had worked for her because she was drawn to the uncomplicated nature of white and spare, an environment where, unlike this cottage, Windex could do its job.
George was so old-world he couldn’t help it, she decided. Katie didn’t think he had a ton of money, for he flew coach on airplanes and his company only put him up in mediocre hotels. But he did have some kind of lineage, some roots to bankers and investments that settled him squarely in the upper class. Two family homes in the Hamptons signified a certain level of wealth, even if the cottages were old and small and falling apart. Although she hadn’t seen his mother’s home, he’d told her it was a cottage just a tad bigger than this one, and that both were nestled into cul-de-sacs and not near the estate section of town nor the ocean.
After a good five more minutes with her son and the bird feeder, George returned, and put Huck down. “Let me at least properly say hi to your mom before you go to camp.” While Huck ran into the house, he grabbed Katie’s hips and yanked them into his, whispering into her ear, “I know I said I’d give you space, but I don’t know if I can wait.”
She felt an instant longing for this man she’d fallen for fast. Their familiar feel together helped her body stop shaking. As he’d embraced her, she knew that his “take it slow” plan wouldn’t work; she’d felt the hardness in his pants from the brief, but erotic embrace. Her mind flew to the first moment she lay beneath him in Portland when, shimmying her jeans down her knees, he’d whispered, “tell me what you want, I need to know, I want to know exactly . . .” She’d been too shy to answer in words, barely knowing him; it wasn’t easy to explain anyway. Turned out he knew just fine without a bit of instruction or guidance.
“Can I take you to dinner?” George asked, “I have a sitter we know, the girl a house down. There’s a place on the bay in East Hampton. It’s a drive but at sunset it’s perfect.” His azure-colored eyes stared into hers with a safe hint of romance.
Dinner would be nice. He’d tell her everything she needed to hear: the tutor hours would pile up higher than the summer cornstalks, that job in the Bridgehampton school would be hers for the asking, and her research would get noticed at child-study centers in Manhattan once she’d had time for more follow-up calls. He’d look into her eyes the way he had in Portland, determined to make her his.
Tonight, she’d have one of those Kirs he’d ordered for her in that little bistro in Hood River, a rose-colored drink she’d never tried before, crème de cassis liqueur and white wine, something he always had in Paris. Then she thought about the possibility of Paris—she’d never been—of sex in Paris, of a little inn in Paris with couches covered in tattered fabric, of white wine Kir in Paris . . . yes . . . okay this wasn’t a faulty plan. Katie allowed herself to smile. Her finances were fine, the jobs would come, and this relationship might even work for real. Those anxieties would be fleeting.
Huck shook his head vigorously at the dinner date suggestion, slamming Katie back into reality. She didn’t even hesitate, knowing her son wasn’t a champ with new sitters. “Sorry, le
t’s have drinks here. I can cook. I’ve never even cooked for you and it’s the least . . .”
“You’re not cooking. That’s too much work. I want to spoil you with the amazing food of the Hamptons. There’s my spot on the bay, it’s . . .”
“It’s fine. We’ve got time. I’ll shop now after I drop Huck at camp. He’ll be asleep by eight anyway; he’s exhausted.” Katie looked at George’s eyes in that womanly wiles way, trying to make very clear that she’d do the same thing to his body she’d done the last time they’d fallen in bed at his Hilton Hotel on weekend sex marathon four. They didn’t need to wait a week. She wanted it, too.
“Okay, that sounds like a plan. I love home cooking. I never get it. Anything you prefer.” And George added with special emphasis, “I mean that across the board, Katie. You do what you want here. Take your time; enjoy yourself. You deserve it, what with the sad changes, you know,” he whispered, “and of course the deadbeat . . .” He twirled his hand in the air, rolling his eyes a bit, referring to Huck’s dad who sent Hallmark cards with fifty-dollar bills every six months or so.
George grabbed the orange-and-brown donut bag and handed Huck his favorite: French Cruller. “I got three more in the bag if you want.”
“George! Sugar high. Please?” Katie pleaded, knowing she’d get little reaction from either man or boy by her side.
“Too late,” answered Huck, sugary glaze plastered all over his mouth and chin.
As George laughed and ate the opposite end of Huck’s cruller, this variety being his all-time favorite as well, she knew just then, sugary glaze now stuck to his manly stubble, it was good she’d come here: he was kind, generous, handsome, not forcing her too fast into anything. All good, right?
Chapter Thirteen
Helipad Heaven
Saturday, June 10
Julia and Jake Chase landed promptly at 10:00 a.m. at the small Beachwood Lane helipad out near the Southampton jetty. The blasts of sand shot out from under their Sikorsky helicopter, announcing to all that yet another Manhattan chieftain was feverishly arriving to relax. (And that there would be hell to raise with anyone within one hundred yards if he couldn’t.) The Chase driver waited inside his shiny black Cadillac Escalade SUV on the other side of the street, license plate reading, BEACH1, (out of the Chases’ seven vehicles) to avoid the Saudi sandstorm before him.
The two pilots came out of the cockpit first. They ran with their heads hunched to avoid the thud-thud-thud of the propellers overhead, and started unloading the mounds of matching Goyard luggage for the five Chase family members. Like the driver, the family was also practiced in the art of helicopter arrival on the sandy lane helipad. They remained in their seats another four minutes to allow the windswept dirt to settle, and for the men to place their bags in the SUV.
Tote bags, larger weekend bags, a few giant-sized duffels, all marked with the distinctive brown Goyard background and the owner’s initials and varying red-and-yellow, and orange-and-pink stripes were ferried to the SUV. On the family’s last stroll down the Rue St. Honoré in Paris over spring break, they agreed it would be “so cute” if they all matched when they traveled together. Jake enjoyed not flinching at the $4,470.00 price of the smallest “Croisiere” duffel and ordered nine larger pieces in perfectly ascending sizes.
Julia Chase came out first, taking the hand of the copilot. She felt beautiful in the sunlight. It didn’t hurt that her husband had spent half his time reminding her he was the luckiest fucker on earth to have bagged her. Her honey-colored hair blew in her face. She wore tight jeans on her short, but shapely legs, Stan Smith–style sneakers from Barneys that cost six hundred dollars instead of the original ones costing eighty dollars, a white Gucci button-down blouse showing her signature, slightly too much, gorgeous, silicone-enhanced breasts, and a gray Alexander McQueen zippered sweatshirt with a jeweled skull on the back hanging over her shoulders. A snow-white bulldog named Betsy, with an S & M gold-and-black dog collar, toddled down after her, pulled by his matching Goyard leash.
Next, the eldest son, Evan Chase, peered out from the helicopter cabin, proudly assuming his twenty-year-old, urban, super douche stance. He squinted his eyes, and pulled his new Tom Ford sunglasses down from the top of his head. His black hair was overly coiffed to mimic the latest David Beckham short-on-the-sides-and-straight-up-fade-on-top style. He wore a Salvatore Ferragamo gold medallion-ed belt that matched his jeans, a stiff baby-blue button-down shirt, and bright orange J.P. Tod’s suede driving shoes.
Next came Julia’s mini-me—that young brunette, illegal-to-touch, sixteen-year-old Alexa Chase, in a crocheted miniskirt and a tight V-neck body suit that cut low on the back. She expertly maneuvered her Jimmy Choo rope platforms down the helicopter steps with ease, as the multiple Hermès enamel bracelets, and two Cartier Love bracelets clanked on her wrist (her mother had the white gold and diamond ones costing $15,600 each; hers were only yellow gold at $6,300 each).
Aware that the family’s handsome pilot tried to avert his eyes as her skirt blew up in the wind, Alexa made sure to flaunt her inherited sexuality with every step just to drive the poor guy nuts. She thought about how crazy it would be if she blew him. Some of the staff in her young life (pilots, chefs, that one doorman) were, like, really hot, but, it wouldn’t be right to do them. Her parents’ guests at parties were much fairer game.
She had fuller legs than her mother, a smaller waist, larger breasts, and a rounder, J-Lo ass, an attribute she made sure to highlight with each day’s well-planned outfit changes. Her long tresses were held up most days in a high ponytail that still reached the middle of her back.
Young Richie descended next with his curly brown hair, and slightly pudgy eight-year-old build, wearing nondescript jeans, running shoes like any American boy, but a “Free in St Barth’s” $140 T-shirt that gave him that superior Manhattan rich-kid badge. Finally, the patriarch, Jake, surveyed the adjacent parking lot across the road just to check out any less-monied onlookers who stopped to gawk at the arrival of a helicopter. He reminded himself it was a great thing that, just by showing up, he could remind anyone in the near vicinity of his monumental success in the Laundromat sphere.
In the car, the oldest sibling, Evan, sat up front in his usual seat and instantly plugged his iPhone into the car stereo AUX jack. He played the latest ASAP Rocky song at a volume that he knew would annoy his mother.
“Turn that down!” she yelled on cue as she pulled herself into the second-row seat. “That hip-hop gives me headaches. You know that, Evan. If you’re going to live with us this summer in the city and every weekend, there are certain rules of mine that have to be respected.”
“Mom. Stop,” cooed Alexa. “You have to let him live his life now. He’s got a real job and he needs to unwind.” Things had been on the upswing after that episode a few years back in his junior year spring in high school where Evan had been caught dealing Xanax. He’d collected it from the adult medicine cabinets at his friends’ houses. (His father had to give the school enough money to construct a rooftop art center to get them to give him a diploma.)
Life for her brother had been very stressful, and he was finally getting everything back on track before his delayed first year at University of Miami this fall. He had repeated tenth grade, and also took a gap year to “calm down” and “work in the real world” after those rough years in high school. A few months ago, Evan had finally found an internship he’d liked (he’d quit half a dozen after one-week trials), and seemed to be flourishing in the music video–producing firm his father had largely financed with a golfing buddy from Boca.
Evan turned from the front seat. “Since when do you defend me?”
“I’m not. Mom’s just being ridiculous. Like when she tried to tell me I couldn’t go to Tide Runners today. It ends at noon and it’s only 10:00 a.m.” Alexa then raised her voice, so the driver could hear her. “I’d like to be dropped off at water camp please, Mario.” She was in the far backseat of the three-row SUV and was already d
raping a towel over her body to change into the outfit she’d instructed the housekeeper, Edviane, to leave in the car for her. Mario wasn’t, like, hot at all, so she didn’t need to flash him anything in his rearview mirror while she changed.
“Give me a break,” Evan yelled back at his sister. “You’re not going to honestly spend another summer with those idiots. Why don’t you get an internship at the Southampton magazine, or with some P.R. party company here, rather than hanging out on a water ski boat all day?”
“Your job at the video company that Dad forced those guys into hiring you for is not really a job if you’re taking every Friday off to ‘wind down’ with your Xbox and FIFA game. And besides, I get in shape in the water.”
“All right, all right.” Jake stepped in. “It’s not up to you all to judge each other’s choices. Your mother and I decide what is an appropriate way to spend the summer. Alexa, you honestly want us to drop you from the city right into the camp?”
“Yep,” she groaned from the third row, shimmying out of her miniskirt and into an even mini-er bikini under the shield of her towel. “I promised Kona I’d be there. I just have to be there.”
That got Julia’s attention. “You what? What does Kona have to do with any of your choices?” she asked, aware her daughter was growing into a woman way too fast. “Kona is not aware of every single kid who’s there; he can’t be that concerned who shows up.”
“Since when the fuck do you know what Kona wants and doesn’t want?” answered Jake, protective of his ability to cull local “buddies.” “I know that guy better than you do. I was the one who talked to him about his business plan last summer, not that he knew what the fuck I was talking about. I could tell my advice was fuckin’ Mandarin to that guy. But this summer I’m going to help him get his ass in gear to . . .”
It Happens in the Hamptons Page 7
