Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

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  For Papa and Mommy. For Chito. For Aina, Steve, and Nico. Because being with my family is the best vacation there is.

  For Kim DeMarco and David Carthas, the coolest people in the Hamptons.

  For my husband, Mike, with whom every day is a day at the beach.

  There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy, and the tired.

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

  “It’s all about the Benjamins, baby.”

  —P. Diddy, No Way Out

  SUMMER AU PAIRS NEEDED IMMEDIATELY

  For four energetic children

  between 3 and 10 years old.

  Join a NYC family for the

  best summer of your life in

  East Hampton, July 4–Labor Day.

  Pay: $10,000.00

  Driver’s license a must.

  Familiarity with the Hamptons a plus.

  Send resumes and head shots to

  HamptonsAuPairs@yahoo.com

  port authority, take one: eliza experiences public transportation

  ELIZA THOMPSON HAD NEVER BEEN SO UNCOMFORTABLE in her entire life. She was sitting in the back of a Greyhound bus, sandwiched between the particularly fragrant bathroom and an overfriendly seatmate who was using Eliza’s shoulder as a headrest. The old bag in the Stars and Stripes T-shirt had little bubbles of spit forming on her lips. Eliza took a moment to pity herself. Seriously, how hard could it have been for her parents to spring for a ticket on Jet Blue?

  The nightmare had begun a year ago, when some people started looking into her dad’s “accounting practices” at the bank and dug up some “misdirected funds.” Several details had been leaked—the papers had a field day with the thousand-dollar umbrella stand on his expense reports. The lawyer bills added up quickly, and soon even the maintenance on their five-bedroom, five-bath co-op was just too much.

  The Thompsons sold their “cottage” in Amagansett—which was actually the size of an airplane hangar—to pay their mounting legal expenses. Next they sold their beachfront condo in Palm Beach. And then one afternoon Eliza came home from Spence, her elite all-girls private school (which counted none other than Gwynnie Paltrow as an alum), to find her maid packing her bedroom into boxes. The next thing she knew, she was living in a crappy two-bedroom in Buffalo and enrolled at Herbert Hoover High, while her parents shared a ten-year-old Honda Civic. Forget AP classes. Forget early admission to Princeton. Forget that year abroad in Paris.

  Her parents had told everyone they were simply going to go recover from it all “upstate in the country,” though no one had any idea how far upstate they had really gone. To Manhattanites, there’s as big a difference between the Catskills and Buffalo as there is between Chanel Couture and Old Navy.

  But thank God for rich brats. The call from Kevin Perry had come just yesterday—he was looking for a summer au pair and could Eliza make it to the Hamptons by sunset? Kevin Perry’s law firm had been instrumental in keeping her dad out of the Big House, so he was one of the only people that really knew about their situation. The au pair job was her one-way ticket out of godforsaken Buffalo; so what if she had to work for old friends of her family? At least she wouldn’t have to show up for work at the Buffalo Galleria on Monday. The girl who used to have personal shoppers at Bergdorfs had come this close to waiting on pimply classmates determined to squeeze themselves into two-sizes-too-small, cheap-ass polyester spandex. She shuddered at the thought.

  The woman next to her grunted and exhaled. Eliza discreetly spritzed the air with her signature tuberose perfume to camouflage the offensive stank. She fiddled with her right earring, a diamond that was part of the pair Charlie Borshok had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Eliza wasn’t sentimental, but she still wore them despite breaking up with him more than six months ago. She’d done it in self-defense, really: how do you explain Buffalo and bankruptcy to the sole heir of a multi-million-dollar pharmaceutical fortune? She’d loved Charlie as much as she knew how, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him or anyone else about exactly how much they’d lost. It was almost like if she said it out loud, it would make it true. So Eliza was determined to make sure no one ever found out. She didn’t know how she was going to cover it up exactly, but she was sure she’d come up with something. She always did, after all.

  Take today, for example. So, fine, she was on the Manhattan-bound Greyhound, but she’d already found a way to get out of taking the Jitney to the Hamptons. She was relying on Kit to take her, just like he’d always done before. Sure, she could spend four hours in a glorified bus (and hello, the Jitney was a bus even with its exclusive name)—but why should she when Kit drove his sweet little Mercedes CLK convertible out of the city every Summer Friday just like clockwork? All she needed to do was hitch a ride. She and Kit had grown up across the hall from each other—they were practically siblings. Good old Kit. She was looking forward to seeing him again—she was looking forward to seeing everyone who was anyone again.

  * * *

  The bus pulled into the yawning chasm of the Port Authority and discharged its passengers under a grimy concrete slab. Eliza shouldered her Vuitton carryall (the only one her mom let her keep from her formerly extensive collection) and walked as fast as she could to get away from the awful place.

  She looked around at the sprawling bus station, wrinkling her nose at the blinding fluorescent lights, the holiday rush of the crowd on their way to the 34th Street piers for the fireworks, the pockets of pasty-faced tourists holding American flags and scanning LIRR timetables. Was this how the other half lived? Pushing and pulling and running and catching trains? Ugh. She’d never had to take public transportation in her life. She’d almost missed the bus that morning before she realized it might actually have the temerity to leave without her.

  Life had always waited for and waited on Eliza. She never even wore a wristwatch. Why bother? The party never started till she arrived. Eliza was dimpled, gorgeous and blond, blessed with the kind of cover girl looks that paradise resort brochures were made of. All she needed to complete the picture was a dark tan and a gold lavaliere necklace. The tan would happen—she’d hit Flying Point and slather on the Ombrelle, and, well, the lavaliere was tacky anyway.

  She wandered for a while in a bit of a daze, looking for exit signs, annoyed at all the plebian commotion. A harried soccer mom with a fully loaded stroller elbowed her aside, throwing her onto a brunette girl who was standing in the middle of the station, holding a map.

  “Oh, gee, I’m so sorry,” the girl said, helping Eliza back to her feet.

  Eliza scowled but mumbled a reluctant, “It’s okay,” even though it hadn’t been the girl’s fault that she had fallen.

  “Excuse me—do you know where the . . .?” the girl asked, but Eliza had already dashed off to the nearest exit.

  On 42nd Street, horns honked in futile protest at the usual gridlock. A long, serpentine line for the few yellow cabs snaked down the block, but Eliza felt exultant. She was back in New York! Her city! She savored the smog-filled air. She hoped idly that she would make it in time. She didn’t really have a backup plan in mind. But the one thing she loved about Kit was how predictable he was.

  She walked a block away from the taxi line and put two fingers in her mouth to blow an earsplitting whistle.

  A cab mater
ialized in front of her turquoise Jack Rogers flip-flops. Eliza smiled and stowed her bags in the trunk.

  “Park Avenue and Sixty-third, please,” she told the driver. God, it was good to be home.

  port authority, take two: mara is definitely not a new yorker

  MARA WATERS CONSULTED THE GRUBBY PIECE OF PAPER in her hand. Mr. Perry had said something about the Hampton Jitney, but as she looked around the Port Authority complex, she couldn’t find signs for it anywhere. She was getting anxious. She didn’t want to be late for her first day.

  She still couldn’t believe she was in New York! It was so exciting to see all the flickering neon lights, the mobs of people, and to experience the brisk, rubberneck pace—and that was just the bus station! In Sturbridge the bus station was a lone bench on a forlorn corner. You’d think they’d spruce up the place a bit to herald the occasion of someone actually leaving that dead-end town, but no.

  When the phone call came the day before, she just couldn’t believe her luck. There she was, dressed up as the Old School Marm at Ye Olde School House at Olde Sturbridge Village, sweating underneath an itchy powdered wig and shepherding complacent midwestern tourists through the nineteenth century, when the news came. She’d gotten the job as an au pair! In the Hamptons! For ten thousand dollars for two months! More money than she could even imagine. At the very least, enough to pay for her college contribution and maybe have enough left over for the sweet little Toyota Camry she had her eye on from Jim’s uncle’s used car dealership.

  Of course, Jim hadn’t been too pleased she was leaving him for the summer. Actually that was the understatement of the year. Jim had been p-i-s-s-e-d. It had all happened so quickly that Mara hadn’t even had a chance to tell him she’d applied for the job, and Jim wasn’t the kind of guy who liked Mara making plans without him, or plans that didn’t include him, or, really, any plans at all that he hadn’t approved of beforehand. This whole Hamptons thing had blindsided him. It, like, totally ruined his plans for the Fourth of July! He was going to show off his souped-up El Dorado at the local auto show. Who was going to help him polish the hood now that Mara was abandoning him?

  She and Jim had been inseparable since freshman year. More than a few people had told her she was too good for him, but they were mostly related to her, so what were they supposed to say? Mara felt a twinge of guilt for leaving but brushed it away. She had other things to take care of at the moment. She walking up tentatively to a uniformed officer behind a ticket booth and rapped on the glass window.

  “Yeah?” he asked curtly, annoyed at being interrupted.

  “Hi there, sir. Could you please tell me where the Hampton Jitney is?”

  “You wan’ da Longuylandrail?”

  “No, um, it’s called the Jitney?”

  “Jipney?”

  “It’s a bus? To the Hamptons?”

  “New Joisey transit ovah theh.” He shook his head. “You wan’ da Hampton, take LIRR on Eight Ave.”

  A passenger waiting on line overheard and chirped, “You won’t find the Jitney here; it’s on Third Avenue.”

  “But really, you’re better off taking the train. Less traffic,” piped a lady holding several shopping bags behind him.

  “Forget the train. Jitney’s worth it.”

  “I don’t know why anyone bothers to go to the Hamptons anyway.” The lady sniffed in exasperation. “It’s just inundated with all those horrid summer people. Woodstock is so much nicer.”

  “I don’t know about that. You can’t get decent sushi anywhere in the Catskills,” the first guy disagreed.

  The two began a colorful argument about the relative merits of the Hamptons versus the Hudson Valley, completely ignoring Mara.

  “Third—Third Avenue, did you say?” Mara asked.

  “Huh? Oh yeah, just take the one-nine over to Times Square, then take the shuttle over to Forty-third and walk two blocks up toward Lex; it’s on the south side.”

  It was all Greek to her. She nodded dumbly, feeling more like a hick than ever.

  “But I’m telling you, dear, the train’s much better!” yelled the lady with the bags.

  Mara left the line and had opened the crumpled e-mail again to make sure she had read the directions correctly when she was caught off balance by a girl who tumbled into her, narrowly missing falling flat on her face.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, helping the pretty, long-haired blonde to her feet. Mara noticed a tennis racket slung over the girl’s shoulder and was about to ask her about the Jitney, but when she looked up, the girl was gone.

  Squaring her shoulders, she decided a taxi was probably her best bet and joined the packed line in front of the station to wait for a cab. Mara looked around her happily. She was so thrilled to be away, it didn’t matter how long it took to get where she was going.

  jfk baggage claim: jacqui picks up more than her luggage

  KEEP LOOKING, A LITTLE BIT TO YOUR LEFT, UH-HUH, these are real, all the way down, yeah, baybee, you like what you see? I know you do, pervert, three, two, one. . . .

  BINGO.

  The thirty-something guy with the slicked-back hair, faded jeans and sockless mocassins touched Jacarei Velasco on her arm. It was a soft tap—a mere flutter, really; he didn’t pat her arm as much as hint at the start of a caress.

  “Manuela?”

  That she didn’t expect.

  “Qué?” she asked, raising her wraparound shades to assess him further. Bronze tan. Oversized Rolex. Aviator sunglasses. The shoes were obviously hand-made. He’d do.

  “Sorry, I thought we’d met somewhere before, Miami Beach maybe?” he said, smiling so that the faint wrinkles around his bright blue eyes crinkled charmingly. He shrugged and turned away. Well, if that wasn’t the oldest line in the book. But she wasn’t about to let him get away that easily. “Maybe we have,” she called.

  The guy turned. “The Delano bar? Last year?”

  Jacqui shook her head, smiling.

  “Ah, well. Rupert Thorne,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “Those yours?” he asked, spying a matching pair of shiny black patent luggage on the ramp.

  Jacqui nodded. “I’m Jacqui Velasco.”

  * * *

  He motioned deftly to a uniformed driver to pick them up.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “The, ah, ’Amptons?”

  “Exactly where I’m headed.” He nodded approvingly. “City’s no good in the summer. Fry an egg on that concrete. Not to mention the smell.” He grimaced.

  “Are you from New York?” Jacqui asked, amused by his complaints.

  “Originally. We’ve got a place up in Sag. But I’ve got the cross-country commute. I’m still on Malibu time.”

  She smiled, letting him yap while her mind was elsewhere. She wondered where this was headed. In São Paolo she was so accustomed to being hit on by older men that figuring out how much she could get away with was a favorite pastime. As a salesgirl at Daslu, the most fashionable store in Brazil, she had zipped the country’s richest women into handmade Parisian ball gowns. She was no mere wage slave, either, more like a glorified stylist, as the store only employed girls from roughly the same social class as its customers. Jacqui’s family wasn’t rich, but her grandmother sent her to a prestigious convent school in the city, where Jacqui was a middling student. At Daslu she was adept at conducting ongoing flirtations with many of her patrons’ husbands. Keep them entertained while the missus spent most of his paycheck on Versace leather pants and she picked up that sweet commission. It was all part of doing business.

  And it came naturally to Jacqui: Ever since she’d started filling out her C-cup bikini top, men had noticed her. Their eyes lingered on her chest, her hips, her long black hair, and Jacqui had come to believe that being beautiful was the only thing she was really good at. It was certainly the only thing anyone ever paid attention to.

  But her life changed when she met Luca. Sweet, earnest Luca. The American boy she met in Rio during Carnival. Luca, with his g
oofy grin and his omnipresent backpack. He was the first guy she ever met who didn’t hit on her immediately. Like many revelers, she was masked at the time, but unlike most of her friends, who were staggering on the cobblestone streets trying to hold their liquor, Jacqui had been content to stand on the sidelines. After all, every year was the same wild frenzy. She didn’t know then, but she was dying for a change. She found it when Luca, an American high school senior, asked her for directions and then walked away, even when Jacqui gave him her warmest smile. They’d only exchanged a few words, but when he turned to leave, something in Jacqui wanted to follow him. And she’d certainly never felt like that before.

  Unlike the overly obnoxious wolf-whistling boys from her hometown or the salacious older men from the city, Luca didn’t even seem attracted to her at first—which certainly piqued her interest. Jacqui had no false illusions about her looks. Her black hair fell in long, inky waves down her sun-kissed shoulders, and as for her body, let’s just say Giselle would have wept. The only reason Jacqui wasn’t a model was because she’d tried it once and it bored her. The endless standing around, the vacuous conversation, the asinine flattery. She had better things to do with her time than play photographer’s mannequin.

  Luca was spending his spring break backpacking through South America—hiking in Machu Picchu and the Aztec trail—and seemed totally unimpressed by Jacqui’s glamour. He listened to Jacqui like he really cared what she thought, and she was quickly charmed by his lazy smile and enormous backpack. They spent a wonderful two weeks together—hitting the samba clubs, downing liters of cachaça, climbing the peak of the Corcovado, sunbathing in Ipanema. He had even convinced her to go camping with him in Tijuca one weekend. They had snuggled in his sleeping bag, kissing under the night sky.

  Luca had told her the sexiest thing about her was her brain. Their first night together, Jacqui couldn’t go to sleep. She kept smiling to herself, not believing her luck. She tossed and turned, clutching at her stomach, feeling happy and frightened at the same time. So this was what love was like.