It Happens in the Hamptons

by Holly Peterson

  “This is civilized,” Katie remarked, as Julia poured a chilled, violet-hued martini out of a large shaker into a hard plastic martini glass. “Oh, do I need this. It’s been a strange week, a long week. Thank you.” She laughed a little and sipped the drink. “I really appreciate your reaching out. I was thinking about my mother, and how gregarious she was.”

  “You mentioned her before. I’m sorry.”

  “Anyway,” Katie went on, shaking her head a little to cast off sadness, “she always pushed me to be more open to different people.”

  “You saying I’m different?”

  “No, you’re not different, as in something bad,” Katie backtracked. “Everything in Southampton is still an adjustment for me.”

  A filthy, wet Labrador down the beach chased a flock of seagulls and leapt over a wave, his four legs stretched out front and back. The sun, not yet ready to set, was covered in a line of clouds that turned the sky light pink.

  After a few moments of small talk about kids and the weather turning unexpectedly colder, Julia asked, “And this George guy?”

  “Well, I came to the East Coast to find a new place to work, and possibly at the same time, conveniently, to be with a lovely man. It’s just George is a bit different from when I met him out West. He’s a little hard to read,” Katie explained. “Clearly, I’m so resolved!”

  “It’s so true that environments can change people.”

  “Well, take his club for starters.” Katie nodded her head toward the fortress on a distant dune.

  “Seabrook?” said Julia. “He’s there?”

  “Hmm-mmm.”

  Julia nodded, looking down at it. The beach was dotted with other mansions atop rising sand dunes, haze smearing them into the landscape like a fuzzy camera lens. Some of the immense homes had shingled sides with white windowpanes, several chimneys shooting up, and circular porches rounding out the second floor bedroom suites.

  Interspersed among the older-style houses, contemporary structures jutted out from the sea grass, constructed like intersecting cubes. Right angles were the rule, and all beachfront views were lined with huge glass panes. Either style reigned, no architectural creativity in between.

  “No offense to your guy, but the Seabrook members are locked into their old world, Mayflower deal. It’s a little hard to get past that. I get it. Don’t forget, though, those clubs do so much for the town in terms of restoring historic homes and keeping land preserves safe from too much development. They are very active with people here in need, you can’t deny them that. The hospital and the library wouldn’t exist without the decades of support from that club.”

  “His mother is introducing me to women who chair this fund-raiser for the library.” Katie shook her head. “I’ve been put in charge of table dressing ideas, even though all I know about table settings is the fork goes on the left and knife on the right . . . and then I hear it’s not settings, but decorations for cocktail tables. Maybe I’ll suggest a friend like you help me?”

  “They wouldn’t like that.” Julia laughed. “I promise you. There’s no potluck type of inclusive anything going on over there.”

  Julia poked her finger hard into Katie’s back. “Looks like someone is into you.” Luke Forrester was walking toward them far down the sand. “One question, I’ve wondered about, especially as you talk a little wistfully about George. You and Luke?”

  Katie was mid-sip, as she took the opportunity to pause. “We aren’t, I’m here with George. Luke is just, we are friends.”

  As Luke walked into earshot distance, Julia said loudly with a little too much force, “Totally, agree, it’s cooler now, needed these blankets!”

  “Hey,” Luke said, not sure this was a good idea barging into girl time. He sensed he’d interrupted something more than weather talk.

  “You want to sit down?” Julia asked. Katie remained silent, her mind flashing on the day in the boat when he’d been so fun with the five boys. And then, reluctantly, on that turquoise bikini stripper act.

  “I just have a question.” Luke paused, his fingers playing with his cleft chin nervously, wanting very much to tell her that Simone was a former friend, no matter what porn scene she’d acted out on the docks. “I wanted to take Huck to make s’mores maybe one night soon, maybe on one of those Friday beach cleanups the biology department sponsors? I promised him. Julia, you and Richie could come, too.”

  “At night?” said Katie. She wondered if Simone would be there.

  “It’s just a whole group of us who care about the environment and try to get people psyched up for beach cleanups. We surf a little, grill dinner.”

  As Luke got more and more excited about the plan, Julia banged Katie’s knee with hers and raised an eyebrow at her. Oh, really? Not that into you?

  “I take my students when the weather is warm in spring and fall down near the jetty at the inlet. We have a bonfire. I have these little cast-iron skillets, and we heat up strawberries and pour it on the s’mores to melt the chocolate. We played a marshmallow game once at camp and Huck literally finished the whole bag; he’d love it. Maybe this Friday, there’s a big cleanup and I could take you?”

  “Well,” Katie answered, knowing George was coming this Friday and she’d promised to make him her special grilled lamb roast. “This Friday I can’t, but I guess Huck . . .”

  “No, fine. I mean, yes, fine, I just wanted you to see the cleanup, too. But, sure, I could just go with Huck.”

  Julia banged her knee at Katie so she’d save him. Katie obliged. “It would be better if we went together. Soon, not this weekend, but sure, that’s really nice, if Huck and I could go together.”

  With three different people trying to salvage the invitation, Luke bowed out. “Anyway, I gotta go back.”

  “Not into you? Really?” Julia raised an eyebrow. “After that performance, you’re going to maintain that? His friend Simone knows it and doesn’t like it. Just telling you my vantage point. I watched her disrobe on the docks the other day. I think that was for you, not Luke.”

  “You don’t think they are still together at all?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested?”

  “I’m—” Katie had to laugh a little. “I don’t know what I am, to tell you the truth.”

  “That’s allowed.”

  “Well, you’re a gorgeous woman. I’m sure you have your fair share of men after you, even though you’re married,” Katie retorted, yanking her Portland Sea Dogs baseball cap down. “That Kona is after everyone. I’m sure he hits on you. I’m sure all the men out here do.”

  “Listen, I really love my husband. He’s brash but he pours his love on me and the kids all day, and I like that. I need it, actually. We’ve got a good thing. He tries to act all macho and fight me on family decisions, but we both know he’s going to let me win on anything that counts.

  “But I play with Kona’s mind because he deserves it.” Julia leaned into Katie and touched her shoulder gently with hers. “Nothing better than controlling a man who is used to controlling way too many women. As for you and Luke, just saying, looks to me like there’s more there there.” Julia shifted her head toward Luke, now marching away from them. She neatened up the items in her Balenciaga tote bag, which cost more than all the jeans, sneakers, and sandals in Katie’s entire closet. “Who is this George anyway? Do I know him? You know the Hamptons are all one small town and big town at once.”

  “His name is George Porter.”

  “I know him—or, I know of him.” Julia nodded slowly, trying to place his face. “He’s good-looking and holds a ton of sway over at that club. It’s not a club we are part of, so can’t say I know him well. But his name is bandied about, and his mother, Poppy, is very well known. What does he do?” Julia was worried for her new friend that George had the reputation as a man with many women chasing him. She couldn’t remember if he’d ever been linked to someone.

  “He’s into investing. Not sure it’s really working. He seems frustrated on th
at front, working too hard.”

  “Where does he live? And do you know anything about former girlfriends, was he ever married?”

  “Never married, doesn’t ever discuss former flames. He’s very elegant that way, very gentlemanly. He lives in a small cottage, over behind town. And his family or mother owns a second one on Willow Lane where I am staying,” Katie explained, forcefully, “I’m paying rent.”

  “Hey, I don’t judge. Whatever system works, it’s fine.”

  “Well, anyway, I just don’t want to be totally beholden to him, you know.”

  “I do know. It causes you to owe him and that adds a layer of complication. I get it. You’re smart to pay for it on your own,” Julia replied. “Many of the people at the feared and famous Seabrook don’t have any real net worth to speak of, except the cottages they inherited. I’m not saying having money should be important.”

  “It isn’t. But I’m interested in you saying they aren’t very wealthy in there. I can’t tell.”

  “In that club, you’ve got guys who are fifth generation Harvard or Yale and everything’s been handed to them in life. Some of them didn’t do so well as adults, never got used to having to do work that required actual effort and accountability.

  “Many of those men are frustrated the markets didn’t treat them like their fathers and grandfathers—in the sense that making money is harder these days with the economy so unstable. So they are hanging fiercely onto their dwindling inheritances. They for sure have power at the club. But I’m not sure that power really translates anywhere as it used to.”

  Katie didn’t care about George’s financial stature, but she didn’t like that he might be more desperate than he let on. Or that he was hiding something, which Julia seemed to be alluding to. Katie took the last sip out of her glass and brushed her lips. “You know, he’s a wonderful man, and I’m grateful for his kindness. I’m just making sure I have my own source of stable work. Which, by the way, Jesus! People here spend a lot on tutors. I’ve never heard of charging so much an hour for dyslexia coaching. Back in Hood River, it’s like a quarter or a fifth of the price here. Even the bigger Portland areas don’t charge nearly as much.”

  “Well, you’re an accomplished, published learning specialist. They should pay. But, coming here, it’s fun, isn’t it? Exploring something new?” Julia smiled warmly. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you never really answered me on Luke, but that’s what girlfriends are for. Ignoring the obvious while stating the obvious.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Patio Party Gauntlet

  Wednesday, July 5

  The Patio Party Decorations Committee Chair flung open the frail front screen door of her cottage. While forcing out a huge breath, Topper Tobin announced to Katie with a transparent smile, “We are so glad you could join us, we’re just desperate for the help.”

  Topper was a blond, Stepford wife with three low-functioning, teenaged boys. They were fourth generation students at the Hotchkiss boarding school, the eldest residing at the Tobin Hall, a dormitory donated by their grandfather. Two of them were on academic probation, and the youngest minutes from requiring rehab for his early-onset marijuana addiction. This summer, she’d sent them all on expensive Outward Bound trips to learn to step up to the plate a little in life. Topper asked Katie to come in and lured her into the gauntlet of the planning committee.

  In the hallway, Katie noticed Topper’s felt, baby-blue, three foot by five foot Hotchkiss Bearcats school banner. Topper thought it “cute” at age forty-three to display an emblem of her past. She had chosen not to exert herself much ever since her field hockey heyday when she had peaked in every psychological and physical way on that hallowed team. Katie followed Topper’s portly frame out to the back deck.

  Two spoiled King Charles spaniels pranced around, sniffing at Katie’s ankles. The Tobin house was small by Hamptons standards, more the size of the Porter cottage. It had no pool, only a small lawn and a patio filled with gardenias in run-of-the-mill red clay planters. (Why waste money replacing something that lasts?)

  “We are so happy that our handsome George Porter plucked you from God-knows-where’s-ville out West,” Topper yelled back at Katie without turning to look. “We hear you both just hit it off. We wanted to make you feel part of the efforts of our club to give back because that’s soooooo a part of what we do.”

  Katie may have been a relative ingénue with the clubby crowd, but she knew helping the less fortunate souls of Long Island sooooooo wasn’t part of what they do. Katie wondered right away whether this whole committee was a ploy to make these Ivy League graduates feel like they’d done something with their lives besides spawn blond children with good teeth. She was ready to play the part, and walked onto Topper’s deck in her best Seabrook imposter outfit.

  George had been very kind during Katie’s third week, and had taken her to a store called Calypso St. Barth’s in town that sold high-end Indian paisley-style blouses. He told her when socializing with the club women, she’d feel more comfortable wearing similar dressy-meets-dressed-down clothes.

  “It will go smoother for you. Trust me,” he’d said and kissed her forehead at the counter, feeling victorious. He’d purchased four silk caftans, two bright cashmere shawls for chilly Hamptons nights, and one pair of silver sandals. “I want you to feel comfortable. Just as you’d want me in a rugged type of Patagonia jacket out West and not some seersucker blazer from my club looking like the Eastern nerd I am.”

  He’d squeezed her arm softly to reassure her. And though he kept figuring out ways to keep that paper napkin COME EAST, NO STRINGS aura in conversations and actions, Katie couldn’t shake the feeling that George wasn’t as laid-back as he let on.

  She knew laid-back people didn’t notice clothes. And they didn’t go into a specific store to buy exact clothes so that someone looks the part. A few other times, when he’d asked her to confirm three or four times that she wouldn’t be coming to the club, she’d wondered if there was another woman there. Or, if he had been concerned that she wouldn’t fit into some lunch group he had.

  When she’d called Ashley in San Francisco for her opinion, she had countered, “Remember, George is a man who likes making sure the plan works. He’s showing kindness, and taking care of you and your needs. Looking great is a need in the Hamptons. He’s subtly helping you ease in, fit in. He’s sexy in his knowing ways. Don’t come up with little nitpicky arguments to fuck this up for no reason.”

  The two women already sitting in uncomfortable wrought-iron chairs smiled at Katie as if they’d just sucked on a huge slice of lemon. They radiated that orgasm-free lifestyle so unique and universal among Seabrook women. Both women matched in white shorts, Jack Rodgers sandals (circa 1971 Jackie Onassis in Capri) and a collared tight polo shirt. The super-fit Anne “Cricket” Fitzgerald had a short brunette bob, held back by a tortoiseshell hair band that she’d been using for fifteen years now. She was bone-thin and resembled a praying mantis. Very disciplined and military in her timing schedules, Cricket starting guzzling down cheap club Chardonnay starting at 2:00 p.m. each day during her child’s tennis lessons, running off the alcohol with a seven-mile sprint every morning down Beachwood Lane.

  On the right sat Bitsy Fainwright (named because she had “itsy-bitsy” toes as a baby and the moniker stuck forty-two years later). Bitsy didn’t talk much, she more often reacted to conversations by smoothing down her 1950s bouffant-style ponytail that made her look twenty years older than she was.

  “Let me serve you a refreshment,” Topper said, as she poured Katie a too-sweet lemonade powdered drink. Both the glasses and pitcher had faded yellow daisies on them, and were a little cracked inside the plastic, looking very Sears 1963.

  “The cottage is a little bit in need of an update. We keep meaning to redo it,” Topper went on aimlessly to no one in particular. “But I’ve been so busy working on the books for the local children . . . well, we are grateful for the club Patio Party help because we desp
erately need volunteers like you, Katie. We have a committee, several chairs of that committee, different planning groups of that committee, the society photographers coming, the invites out.”

  “Those invites . . . the back and forth over which color, design, Jesus!” exclaimed Cricket, topping up her white wine to the rim for the third time in fifteen minutes. Topper patted her wrist to remind her of her plan to cool it with the Chardonnay during daylight hours.

  “And do the children whose families can’t afford to buy books come to the party with their parents?” Katie asked, just to poke these women a little where it counted.

  Topper sniffed in for a very long while at Katie’s pointed question. “Well,” she answered, pursing her lips in a fuck you lady way. Katie noticed everything these women said to her ended in a question, connoting, Don’t you know that, you moron? “You know, it’s really just our crowd at the Patio Party?”

  Bitsy nodded silently in agreement.

  “But we do show some photos of the less fortunate families who come in the library, on Wednesdays when the mother-and-child center brings the little darlings to read,” Topper explained. She huffed a little. “I guess we could invite a few Hispanic families to parade around a little. Or is it just all those Brazilians out here? They don’t speak Spanish in Brazil, right? It’s Portuguese?”

  “Just curious,” Katie persisted. “Who are we helping exactly? Which families, where do they live?” Katie had the sudden urge to run and tell Luke every phony detail about these people. He would then try to top her with a story of his own about some camp mom he’d encountered. She trusted Poppy’s assertions: the old guard values of the club stood for preserving the town and helping those less fortunate. But some members were simply playing the part and planning parties for the society flashbulbs.