It Happens in the Hamptons

by Holly Peterson

“Oh, hello. I’m looking so forward to meeting you,” Katie said. “I hope you got the flowers.”

  “They were beautiful, dear.”

  “George said he would get us together and I was leaving it to him, but perhaps I should have called myself.”

  “We women can’t leave anything to men. Haven’t you learned that, child?”

  Katie laughed. “I do unfortunately know something about that!”

  “Come to the Seabrook Club. Today. I like a late lunch. Two p.m. The first trials for the children’s swim meet are done this afternoon, always the first Wednesday the kids are out of school for good. Please tell me your Huck can swim?”

  “Yes, of course he can, but he’s not the most competitive kid.”

  “It’s good for him. Leave him with the lifeguard at the club. We need to talk and I need you to do something for me, for the club and community.”

  At 2:04, Katie ran out to the restaurant veranda. She sensed from Poppy’s schoolmarmish photos in the cottage that she did not tolerate tardiness. Getting Huck settled with a new person by the club pool had taken longer than the thirty minutes she’d allotted. She left him crestfallen, legs dangling into the water, sitting right under the lifeguard’s chair. If he sat there and didn’t cause trouble, Katie bargained they’d finish the entire lighthouse jigsaw puzzle later.

  On her way to find Poppy, Katie passed Seabrook members sipping their prized Southside cocktails made with gin, simple syrup, crushed mint, lemon, and a splash of soda. The elderly African-American bartender, Henry Walker, had amended the famous drink that originated during Prohibition in the South Side of Chicago, adding a sprig of flowering thyme.

  Katie found Henry holding court behind the bar, shaking a fresh batch. “I’m looking for Poppy Porter?”

  Henry smiled. “There’s only one Poppy. And she’s on the far right in the bright hat.”

  Katie looked out at the sea of club women. “I’m sorry. Everyone has a bright hat.”

  He laughed, his beautiful, white teeth shining from his dark complexion. “You’re right, young lady. Let me take you. And may I introduce myself? My name is Mr. Henry Walker. And you are?”

  “Katie Doyle. I’m visiting for the summer. This is my first time here.”

  “Well, there’s a first for everything,” he answered. Henry moved his large belly around the bar and offered Katie his elbow as if he were escorting her down the stairs to her cotillion. He was wearing a white polo shirt and crisp navy blazer with a Seabrook emblem on his pocket.

  They passed a table of boisterous women, possibly over-served, all sporting peach-colored sweatshirts that said, THE DAVENPORT FAMILY SUMMER SOLSTICE DINNER 2017 on the front and “Longest Night of the Year . . .” on the back. Katie figured they were another case of those matching Hamptons houseguests.

  “And this is the one and only Mrs. Poppy Porter.” Henry motioned with the palm of his hand. He then leaned in, “She knows she’s my favorite girl here.”

  “If only 1 percent of the men in this world were the gentleman you are,” Poppy said as she smiled at Henry, tucking her longish blond-gray hair under her huge hat. “So, sit, Katie, please.” She pointed to the seat, settling her own full figure back into the chair. “It’s fine you are a little late.”

  “I didn’t know if Huck would ever let me leave. Even though he’s eight, he’s still a kid who takes a little while to get with the program.”

  Poppy put her index finger into the air. “Waiter, two Arnold Palmers, please.”

  Katie thought it wise not to point out that she preferred plain seltzer or unsweetened iced tea instead of the sugary lemonade drink Poppy ordered for her. She smoothed out her shorts, and settled into her seat at the small white table. Poppy explained first, “I don’t drink until three. Ever. That’s when Henry makes me a Pink Lady.”

  “It’s fine, honestly,” answered Katie. “If you’d like some wine, I’m not going to join you but . . .”

  “Never.” Poppy pushed her lips tightly together. “Pink Lady at three.”

  “Okay then. A Pink Lady?”

  “Gin, grenadine, one egg white. Garnished with a cherry.” She smiled.

  “Raw egg whites?” asked Katie. “In this day and age when everyone’s so worried about salmonella?”

  Poppy chuckled. “Silly modern worries don’t interest me. You should try one. They’re delicious. Henry adds four cherries to mine.” Poppy wore bright pink lipstick that matched her hat, but no other makeup on her fair and freckled skin. She had a small turned-up nose and warm blue eyes, punctuated by deep lines when she smiled. At seventy-four years old, she had assumed her age gracefully, clearly not a fan of Botox or hiding the gray. “Are you enjoying your time in the Hamptons? Is my son doing all he can to make you feel welcome?”

  “Well, he’s been extremely kind. He had someone bring me my favorite bing cherries in a big pail when I first got here.”

  Poppy nodded knowingly.

  “That was you?” Katie smiled.

  “Of course that was me. But he told me to do it, so let’s us girls give him credit. He can be very thoughtful, my George,” Poppy said without any conviction. “Now, I did teach him the Porter family values that come from years of adversity in the sea. Did you know both sides of his family started whaling off the coast of Nantucket in the later 1600s?”

  “I did not, but I figured with the compass in the living room, maybe . . .”

  “They hunted the world’s oceans for whales, whose blubber was burned into valuable whale oil, in ships named the Aurora, the Catawba, and the Essex, the latter having been sunk by a whale who crested . . .” Katie pondered all the nautical equipment in the cottage, the harpoons, and the scrimshaw while Poppy recounted Porter adventures through the centuries until she concluded with, “Well, now, let’s go to the buffet before I tell you what I need you to do.”

  Famished after the dissection of colonial whaling techniques, Katie followed Poppy into the screened-in buffet area. Young children ran around in dripping wet bathing suits. J.Crew–clad mothers chased after them. Out-of-touch fathers focused on getting food and drink after a punishing game of tennis with their college fraternity brothers. On the way, Katie saw that Huck was now giggling on the diving board with another young boy his age. The friendly lifeguard was egging them on to jump, which allowed Katie to relax.

  Gray plastic tray in hand, Katie then perused the Episcopalian culinary choices before her: prison-grade turkey burgers on slightly frozen buns with slices of sweet pickles; deviled eggs (over-boiled and now covered with yellow, dried crust); and chef’s salads of processed lunch meats filled with air bubbles. For a more substantial warm meal, the gourmet offering included cod soaked in a nondescript, pasty white sauce, white rice with carrots, and tomato aspic. The “chef” had thrown a few courageous flakes of parsley on top as a show of WASP whimsy.

  Back at the table, Katie explained her rapport with George as best she could to the probing matriarch. “Your son is very thoughtful and deliberate, and certainly raised well. I can see he gets his handsome face from his father in the sailing photos. At the education conference, the moment he spoke to me, I was taken by his intelligence and honesty.”

  “Interesting,” answered Poppy. She crossed her arms over her plentiful bosom and twitched her teeny nose.

  “He’s also wonderful to my son, Huck, so what more can any woman ask?” Katie’s face told two stories: her mouth curled up in a smile at the thought of George’s kindness toward Huck, but her eyes penetrated Poppy’s with a nagging hesitation she couldn’t shake.

  Poppy may have been wearing a large sun hat with big cotton peony blossoms plastered all over it, a hideous pink caftan with bold orange stripes that screamed, “Palm Beach!” and sunny yellow pants that didn’t match anything except the Seabrook beach chairs. But, like her great-great-grandfather who hacked whales for blubber, she was a hardy woman who didn’t shy from the obvious.

  “Relax, child.” Poppy patted Katie’s wrist with her
freckled hands, her bright-pink nail polish playing off her sun hat. “Your independence is something to cherish. You can have the cottage no matter what. I am aware of your mother’s passing and how close you were. I know you upended your life to come here. I hear the tutoring company hired you from afar. You must have a good reputation in your community.”

  “My training as a learning specialist might lead to a special ed job at the Bridgehampton Middle School.” Katie cleared her throat. “I just want to say that if I do stay in the fall, I have no intention of staying in the cottage that you so generously have offered me. And I hope you got the first month’s rent?”

  “George told me you wouldn’t come if I didn’t cash that so-called ‘rent’ check. You don’t need to pay anything. No one does. If you insist, I will, but it seems wrong to.” Poppy shook her head. “My son and I have the other cottage several streets away.”

  “Well, I can’t say I can match you with a similar family history, but my son, Huck, and I are grateful. And yes, please cash it. I’ll be looking at the account until you do.”

  “Would your son Huck like to come see my museum?”

  “I’m so sorry, come see what?” Katie was finding Poppy more entertaining by the minute.

  “There’s a small whaling exhibit in our attic in the main cottage culled from Nantucket—you know we are descendants of the great Coffin family?”

  “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “They were stalwart seafaring folk who left a legacy of leather log books of each voyage, lances, duck decoys carved by sailors on long days at sea, what have you,” explained Poppy proudly.

  “Huck would love it.”

  “In the summer, we bring the kids from the women’s shelter—it’s a place where ailing single mothers, many with cancer, some local people, some immigrants, live with their children.” She leaned across the table. “I thought Huck might like to learn how the scrimshaw was made from whale teeth, etched with a needle and ink and polished. Apparently, Miles Coffin was quite the artist.”

  “Well, perhaps I can put your family history into the summer curriculum work for my students.” The people Katie knew back in Hood River didn’t discuss relatives further back than grandparents.

  “Now about that cottage,” Poppy instructed. “I ask everyone to pull their weight. We do need a fair amount of weeding, and if there’s a repair, I need to know if you or George can fix it. I prefer that because a squanderer I am not. No one in my family was, going way back to my great, well, I don’t need to bore you with my family history,” Poppy stated, apparently unaware of the sole lunch topic since Katie sat down. “And there’s a bird feeder. George and his father first put it up about forty years ago; he’s no longer here to see it. Please, keep that feeder full. He would want that.”

  “George and Huck are on it. Your husband passed away ten years ago, right?”

  Poppy pursed her lips tightly. “George’s father was a fine man. He had some faults. We had our issues, but then, yes, he was gone before we could resolve them formally.”

  “I’m sorry . . . that must have been difficult. I lost my father when I was a young child. I don’t remember him. My mother did it all alone. Like me.” Katie smiled. “But you are still so young.”

  “Well, I’m getting on.” Poppy took a huge gulp of her Arnold Palmer and pushed her sunglasses tighter onto her face. “And as for your chores . . .”

  Katie choked a bit on her bread stick, soft and stale from the sea air. “I did repair a bunch of very small things in the house. I put some geraniums in the window planters, I caulked the tub . . .”

  “I did not mean chores in your cottage.”

  “Then your cottage, you want me to tend to what?”

  Poppy laughed out loud. “Who do you think I am? No, not my cottage either. You’re the potential girlfriend, not the hired help! I meant here!” And she pointed her finger at the hallowed club grounds. “We have an annual garden party at the library; we call it the Patio Party. It takes place on a Saturday afternoon at the end of summer.”

  “Happy to help, Poppy,” Katie wisely answered.

  Poppy leaned across the table again and squinted her eyes. “Don’t forget, the hallmark of clubs like the Seabrook is civic duty. For over a hundred years, we’ve served Southampton by preserving historic homes, keeping the library and hospital coffers full, and maintaining town codes. All of our activities are crucial to the functioning of the town. We run can drives and soup kitchens in churches. I know we might look a little elitist from the outside, but that charitable element is the foundation of our values. I won’t let anyone at this club forget that. And I’ll be leaving here feet first!”

  “Well, I’d be happy to pitch in. I’d be helping the other cochairs?”

  “Yes. I must warn you they are not the most decisive women. I tend to stick with my age group, women who, frankly, seem more modern than some of today’s scattered housewives”—and she whispered, cupping her mouth—“Social climbers, a little too excited about seeing themselves in society pages!

  “But hopefully you can help them decorate the tables with flair. You’re an educator, you must be good with arts and crafts.” Poppy wagged her finger at Katie, and stared at her from under the brim of her ridiculous hat. “There are tables to dress, cocktails to choose, décor to arrange, and it’s all to benefit the young children,” she whispered, “many, you know, illegal immigrants. I don’t mind helping them one bit. Their families are just trying their best to earn a living—God knows what kind of education they get in the public schools!”

  Katie decided not to remind Poppy she was honored to be considered for a job in that very public education system.

  “I’d be glad to,” Katie answered. “If George would want me helping in any way, I’ll do anything.”

  “My son isn’t the easiest person in the world, but he’s very, very dear,” Poppy said. “I’d love him to get married one day. I’m not suggesting anything here, darling, just a family would settle him down. And I’m not averse to arrangements people have these days. Not to pry into where your son Huck’s father is, nor do I need to know, it’s just . . . well, actually, I’d love to know . . .

  “Waiter! Two more Arnold Palmers please! And tell Henry to start shaking me a Pink Lady soon—it’s quarter to three!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bond Girls or Girls Bonding?

  Saturday, June 24

  Katie rang the doorbell of a shingled home that was larger than most seaside inns. The uniformed housekeeper led her to the breakfast pantry, where the mother, Samantha Davidson, opened mail on the counter. She turned around only to ask, “The school sent you his evaluation, his neuro-psych test, right?”

  “They didn’t,” answered Katie. “But it’s fine, we can sit and talk a little about what you want for Jeffrey, and of course Jeffrey’s own goals for . . .”

  “I swear I asked my husband’s assistant,” Samantha said, motioning Katie to sit with her twelve-year-old son, who nervously pulled at his short brown hair. She had her biking shoes on already, and her feet clacked on the marble floors as she approached the breakfast table. “Anyway, it’s fine. Honey, can you say hi to the lady?”

  “It’s Katie Doyle. I’m a learning specialist.”

  “Learning specialist, huh? Is that better than tutor?” Samantha tapped her Fitbit tracking device several times.

  “All that matters is I’ll be coaching Jeffrey on new techniques. We just need to understand how he retains information best. I’ve written several papers for parents on coping strategies, if you’d like I can . . .”

  “Tell her, Jeffrey, tell the lady what your problems with reading are.”

  Jeffrey hesitated, not exactly sure how to explain all his academic issues that had plagued him since nursery school.

  Thirty seconds passed while Samantha stretched her hamstrings against the back of the chair.

  “Oh, never mind, I will,” Samantha added as if she were doing both of them a favo
r. “Jeffrey’s got word recognition issues. He’s good through a few sentences, and then they bleed together, right? He’s in a school that is too hard, and they say it’s touch and go, but we’re keeping him in.”

  “What school?” Katie asked. “Just curious why . . .”

  “It’s Trinity. His father went there. His siblings did fine.” Samantha bounced her fingers down to her toes, then rearranged the tight biking shorts around the top of her racehorse thighs.

  “Um, okay . . . well if Trinity’s remedial support isn’t . . .”

  “We’re sticking with the Trinity plan. Don’t even ask what we had to do for the annual fund.” Samantha patted Katie’s wrist like she was sweet, but didn’t know any better. “Anything Jeffrey needs, we always say. He’s worth it.” Samantha clipped her Fitbit inside her sports bra.

  “Well of course any child, Jeffrey included, is worth the investment to . . .”

  “Social studies and English trip him up. Oh, and biology, too. He can’t do textbooks basically. Otherwise you’re good, right, honey?!” Samantha clacked down the kitchen hall, and then turned. “Oh, and pretty severe A.D.D., you know what that is, right?”

  “Attention deficit disorder can be a blessing.” Katie turned to the despondent child now, her hand on his shoulder. “I know when you’re not interested, you can’t focus or even listen. But, when it’s something you’re into, like sports or machines, there’s no stopping you, right?”

  Jeffrey nodded, and let out a teeny hint of a smile. “Yeah, airplanes and basketball. I know a lot, I mean, a real lot, about them.”

  “I thought so. Honey, welcome to the land of the gifted. We’re going to use your A.D.D. as a driver of . . .”

  “I don’t medicate him in the summer, hate the zombie effect the Adderall gives him!” Samantha screamed back from way down the kitchen mudroom, yanking the cushion for her bike seat off a high shelf. “So he might not be able to focus one bit on what you’re telling him today, right, Jeffrey?!!” This time, the back screen door slammed shut, leaving Katie and the humiliated Jeffrey at the table, while three matching housekeepers arranged hydrangeas cut from the extensive gardens in vases at the counter.