Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Is it the one with the big neon salmon on the door?” Billie asked.

  “That’s it!” Jeremy slapped his thigh.

  “I think Colombia got some lovely oysters from there the other day, darling,” Billie said, nodding to her husband. “They were delicious. So fresh.”

  Jeremy beamed, but Eliza felt the burden of impending disaster. This was not going well. Eliza knew her parents were snobs’ snobs. They could figure out somebody’s place in the social hierarchy in a heartbeat, and Eliza could see they were writing Jeremy off.

  “Where do you go to college, dear?” Billie asked, continuing the interrogation as they sat down for dinner.

  “I go to State,” Jeremy said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “SUNY.”

  Ryder Thompson turned to his wife. “Isn’t that Woody Allen’s wife?” he joked.

  Eliza stepped in. This was too painful. “He means State University of New York, Dad. In Nassau. It’s not far from here.”

  “New York has a wonderful state university system,” Billie said graciously.

  Eliza squirmed in her seat. Jeremy was the first person in his family ever to go to college, and he was really proud of that. Don’t hate me, her eyes pleaded, wanting him to look up so he could see how much she was on his side, but Jeremy kept his head down for the rest of the evening.

  After coffee, the Thompsons took their leave, wishing Jeremy a courteous good night and reminding Eliza about her curfew.

  “So do you want to go for a ride somewhere? Maybe take a walk on the beach?” Eliza asked, standing up from the table. She wanted to apologize for her parents, but she was still holding on to the hope that Jeremy hadn’t noticed they were total snobs.

  “Nah,” Jeremy shook his head. “I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should get back.”

  Eliza’s face fell. They weren’t even going to hang out? It was her one night off from the club and she’d been looking forward to seeing him all week.

  Jeremy slung his coat jacket over his shoulder and walked toward the door. Eliza opened it for him and followed him to the porch.

  “What about dinner next week at Lunch—just the two of us?” Eliza asked. She hated how desperate she sounded.

  “Maybe.” He sighed. “Things are really busy at the office.”

  “Don’t go,” she said, her lips trembling. She lifted up her chin to be kissed, willing him to understand.

  Jeremy sighed and looked like he was about to walk away, but he bent his head down instead. They stood under the porch light kissing for what seemed to Eliza to be a sweet eternity.

  “I love you, you know,” she said, muffled into his shirt.

  “I know,” he said, reluctantly pulling away. “But I’ve got to get back into work early tomorrow, and I can’t miss the last train.” He climbed into his rusty pickup truck, the one remnant of his former occupation.

  Eliza watched him drive away and wondered when she would see him again. She hadn’t failed to notice that when she’d said, “I love you,” he hadn’t said it back.

  kryptonite is to superman as boys are to jacqui

  TO JACQUI’S CHAGRIN, THE SAT PREP CLASS SHE’D SIGNED up for was filled with overachieving rich kids who were striving for nothing less than a perfect showing—which made her scores on the first diagnostic test even more depressing. Jacqui had just stuffed her SAT books in the backseat of the Prius that evening when she saw Philippe ride up on a Vespa. He took off his helmet and shook out his hair. “Arrête!” he said when he saw Jacqui.

  She leaned against the door of the car and smiled. “What’s up?”

  He shrugged, smiling his devastating grin. “Pas beaucoup. Where are you going?”

  “Class,” she explained. “It’s Wednesday, remember?”

  Jacqui had told him about the class the other night, when he’d stumbled in around midnight and found her studying her SAT book. She told him about her SAT prep course, and he’d affectionately teased her about what a distraction she must be to all the dorks in the class. Philippe’s plan for his life was to win the Rolex tennis invitational, turn pro, follow the circuit, and generally have a great time bouncing from one sunny resort town to another. His entire ambition in life was to become a tennis bum.

  “Come play pool with me instead,” Philippe invited. “You can skip one class, no? He smiled roguishly, looking her up and down in an inviting manner.

  Jacqui bit her lip. Playing pool with Philippe sounded like so much more fun than sitting in a damp basement solving word problems. She’d hardly had a bit of excitement in weeks. To think that she, Jacqui, was actually the one who was shouldering most of the work with the kids. She was proud of that, since she did have a knack for it, but she missed having fun.

  Philippe took her hand, and they tiptoed to the main house. They made their way to the screening room, where a billiard table sat in the corner. One of the most amazing things about the Perrys’ house was that there was hardly ever anyone home to enjoy its wealth of amusements. The twins were always out at some party, Ryan kept to his room when he was home, and the many toys—the sixteen-foot projection screen, the ATVs parked next to the beachfront, the vintage PacMan and pinball machines—mostly went unused. Philippe racked the balls and Jacqui broke, sinking a solid yellow ball in a corner pocket.

  “So where’ve you been anyway?” she asked, rubbing chalk on her pool cue. Philippe had been MIA for a few days. She leaned over the table to assess her next shot. She flubbed an easy one, sending a ball to the opposite corner instead of the near pocket.

  “I had to go visit the French consulate and Anna needed me to help with something, so we spent a couple of days in New York,” he said, walking around the table and studying the angles for his shot.

  “Mmmm . . . Just the two of you?”

  Philippe shrugged and sank a striped ball. “Oui. Have you been to their townhouse in the city? It’s beautiful,” he said.

  Jacqui felt ridiculous for feeling a little jealous, but she did. She’d been so sure Philippe was interested in her—but even though they slept next to each other almost every night, he never even tried to make a move. Even though she’d promised herself not to be distracted by boys this summer, she hadn’t counted on not being a distraction herself.

  “I love New York,” Jacqui said dreamily. She’d never actually even been to the city, but the place loomed large in her imagination. The busy streets, the people, the little cafes, the nightclubs, the shopping. Jacqui loved Brazil, but she was looking forward to making her future in New York. “It’s the best city in the world.”

  Philippe grunted, leaning down for a shot.

  “I want to stay in New York next year,” she said wistfully.

  He looked up from the pool table. “Pourquoi?”

  She told him excitedly about her plans for Stuyvesant and hopefully NYU and how she hoped Anna would help get her a nanny position if she did a good job this summer.

  They played, matching each other ball for ball, until only the black eight-ball was left. It was in a precarious position, and Jacqui hunkered down, twisting her body so she could aim with the cue.

  “You have to keep one leg on the floor,” Philippe reminded her, as Jacqui’s mule heels dangled from the table.

  “I’m trying!” she laughed.

  “Like this,” Philippe said, coming up behind her and gently guiding her arms. She let him press on the stick and release it. The ball shot into the corner pocket.

  “So who won?” Jacqui asked, turning her head toward him. Philippe still had his arms around her.

  “Call it even,” he said, leaning down to smell her hair. He pressed against her back, and Jacqui felt the heat from his body. It was too much to resist. She melted into him, shuddering as he planted soft kisses down her neck. She closed her eyes and turned toward him. As if he’d read her mind, he gently lowered her to the table, bumping her head on the overhead light.

  “Oops!” she laughed, pulling him down on top of her. She felt his hands twine
through her hair as he kissed her neck and shoulders. She snaked her hands up behind his back.

  “Jacqui?”

  The lights in the screening room suddenly blazed on.

  Jacqui pushed Philippe off her, unintentionally kicking up the pool stick, which smacked him squarely on the forehead.

  “Ouch!”

  “What were you guys doing?” Zoë asked, holding a teddy bear. “Why are you on the pool table?”

  This was exactly why the No More Boys rule had been invented.

  nobody puts mara in the corner

  IT WAS ANOTHER BUSY NIGHT AT SEVENTH CIRCLE, AND Eliza was trying to keep up with the rush of impatient clubgoers storming the velvet rope. Kartik had advised her to let guests trickle in slowly, in small groups of two or three. That way there was always a long line at the door, which made the club look even more popular than it was.

  Eliza scanned the crowd, looking for Jeremy. She hoped he would stop by the club again, but so far, he hadn’t shown up. She hadn’t seen him since the disastrous dinner with her parents the week before. She’d left him a couple of messages on his cell phone and at work, where some schmuck had answered the phone and asked her to spell her name twice. But he’d never called her back.

  “Name?” she asked an older woman in a beige pantsuit who had wrestled her way to the front of the line.

  “Margot Whitman,” the lady answered sharply.

  Eliza ran a nail against the list, searching intently. Wilson (Owen), Wilson (Luke plus one), Williams (Venus & Serena), W, Women’s Wear Daily. “I’m sorry,” she concluded. “You’re not on the list,” she said flatly. Kartik had advised her that the guest list rule only applied to “civilians.” Models, or other fearsomely pretty girls, as well as celebrities and other VIPs could always get in, regardless of their guest list status. But as for regular people—which this woman clearly was—they could freeze in hell before they were allowed inside Seventh Circle.

  “I’m Alan’s mother,” the woman declared. “Is this some kind of joke? Can you get my good-for-nothing son out here to let me in? This is ridiculous. I’ve got clients waiting here.”

  “I’m sorry, do you want to try Alan on his cell phone to confirm? I can’t do anything,” Eliza apologized.

  The woman threw her arms up. “This is bull! I am his mother! Now let me inside!”

  Eliza held her ground. Alan’s voice echoed in her brain. The List is God. It could be my mother out there, but if she’s not on the list, tough luck. What if this woman was some kind of impostor? Although she did have Alan’s receding chin and bug eyes. But rules were rules, and for once, Eliza didn’t want to break them. It was too much fun to say no sometimes.

  “Sorry. I can’t help you,” Eliza decided. “Please step to the side. You’re not on the list. Next!”

  “Hey, E,” a familiar voice said, and a hand tapped her shoulder.

  Eliza’s heart leapt for a moment—Jeremy had arrived! But when she looked up, it was Ryan who was standing in front of the velvet rope. He was wearing his linen sweater that brought out the green in his eyes, and a pair of jeans. Totally not dress-code-worthy, but rules didn’t apply to guys who were as handsome as Ryan Perry.

  “Oh, Ryan, hey.” Eliza smiled, nodding to Rudolph to unhook the rope.

  “Crazy night, huh?” Ryan asked, motioning to the teeming, seething mass of people who stared angrily back since he was able to cut the line. Someone even threw a beer bottle, which smashed right in front of Eliza’s feet, and Rudolph immediately hustled the frustrated civilian away.

  “You have no idea,” Eliza said, shaking her head at the mess. “What is it about nightclubs that bring out the worst in people? The regular people insist they’re on the guest list, the guest list people demand VIP tables, the VIPs want . . . oh, God, well, they want everything. The other day I had to babysit Naomi Campbell’s fur coat. Apparently it needed a massage.” Eliza laughed.

  Ryan shrugged, grinning. “Ah, you can handle it.”

  Eliza handed him some free-drink tickets. “I guess.” She rolled her eyes. It was nice to see Ryan again. They’d hardly seen each other at all since they’d gotten back, maybe because of what had happened in Palm Beach. Damn Palm Beach. Eliza wished, not for the first time, that she’d never even gone there.

  “Eliza! Hey! Over here!”

  Eliza turned and saw Mara and Garrett push their way through the crowd. She felt another burst of happiness at seeing a familiar face and waved back, ushering them to the front of the line as well.

  Ryan turned around too, but his face clouded as soon as he saw Mara and Garrett. “I should go,” he told Eliza, bumping a fist on her shoulder. “I’m meeting Allison inside.”

  “Where you going, Perry?” Garrett called.

  Mara saw Ryan walk away without saying hello, and her heart ached. He looked so cute in that sweater. It was her favorite sweater. Last summer she’d borrowed it from him when they were on the beach and it got cold, and the sweater was so big, it reached down to her knees.

  For two weeks, Mara had brushed Garrett off with excuses, saying she had to stay and watch the kids, or she was tired, or that she was busy with something else. But yesterday, she’d finally caved. She’d bumped into Ryan and Allison walking on the beach and then come home to the racks of fabulous clothes. It seemed a shame not to let them see the light of a paparazzi bulb. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to do anyway? Wear the clothes and pose for pictures?

  “How are you?” Mara gushed, giving Eliza a dramatic double air-kiss. “Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been, um, good,” Eliza said, feeling guilty about Palm Beach all over again. “I’ve been here. You know where to find me.”

  “All right, but seriously, we need to hang out!” Mara said. “Anyway, do you think we could get a table? My heels are, like, killing me.”

  Last summer Mara had lived in either Reeboks or flip-flops. Eliza noticed she was wearing a pair of shockingly high Manolo Blahnik sandals with two bands of sparkling rhinestone straps at the toe and ankle. The same ones Eliza had wanted, except they’d been all out of her size. Where had she gotten those?

  Eliza led them through the double doors, past the bi-level dance floor, which glittered under the strobe lights. The music was deafening, and the crowd was a mix of underdressed women and overdressed guys. Eliza noticed a particularly amorous couple stretched out on one of the king-sized ottomans and wondered if she should throw a coat over them.

  “Garrett, my man,” Kartik said, as Eliza seated Mara and Garrett. “Good to see you.”

  Then he turned to Eliza. “Did you let in those eyesores in the back?” Kartik accused, jerking a thumb toward two nondescript men and their shellacked dates, who were eagerly looking around, taking pictures with their camera phones.

  Eliza shook her head. They must have made dinner reservations to get inside.

  “Turn the lights down around them, will you? They’re seriously killing the mood. And I want them gone before Mitzi gets here.”

  Eliza nodded. She asked the busboy to dim the lights, then walked back to where she’d sat Mara and Garrett, not realizing she’d put them uncomfortably close to Ryan and Allison’s table.

  “How about shopping tomorrow?” Mara asked, after they’d given their drink orders to the cocktail waitress, and the bartender promptly zoomed up the wall to retrieve a bottle of the expensive Finnish vodka that Garrett had ordered. “We get paid!”

  “Well, I don’t, but yeah, sure,” Eliza said, a little more tersely than she’d intended.

  Mara saw Ryan across the VIP room, leaning against the bar with Allison. The tall Nordic blonde was laughing at something Ryan was saying, and it was killing Mara how Ryan was smiling back at her, his dimples flashing.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Garrett said, handing her the mojito she’d ordered. After Eliza had made the tangy Cuban cocktails that first weekend, they had quickly become Mara’s favorite drink. The sugarcane and crushed mint leaves reminded her of the
last time she was really happy. Since arriving in the Hamptons, things had not exactly turned out as she’d hoped: Ryan was with another girl, Eliza was being weirdly distant, and she felt like a third wheel around Jacqui and Philippe. Even the kids didn’t seem to like her as much as they had last summer.

  “I was just thinking . . .” she said, watching as Ryan rubbed Allison’s shoulders. Ugh. She turned back to Garrett. “Let’s dance.”

  Garrett smiled. “You got it.” He stood up and offered her his hand. They snaked their way to the center of the dance floor, where the crowd was gyrating to Nelly’s “Hot in Herre.” The song was kind of last year, but it was still a club favorite.

  Mara began to swing her hips and feel the music throb against her body. She moved to the beat, dancing sexily around Garrett, letting her hands slide up and down his back, and pressing her legs against his. Garrett, unlike most guys his age, who kept their dancing to a one-two shuffle, could actually move—and he ground his pelvis into Mara’s hips in a sinuous, sexy rhythm. Mara lost herself to the sensation of the music, the alcohol, and the feel of his breath against her neck. She turned around, and Garrett pulled her toward him, pressing against her back. He licked the back of her neck, and she raked her fingernails up his thighs behind her.

  It was quite a performance—one that Ryan wouldn’t be able to miss, but that was sort of the point. Mara sneaked a glance in his direction, and was gratified to see that he’d stopped talking to Allison and was watching Mara with a scowl on his face. Mara tossed her hair back and pulled Garrett closer to her.

  “God, you’re hot,” Garrett said, whispering raggedly in her ear. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

  Mara smiled slyly. She liked Garrett. But more than that, she liked that being with Garrett made Ryan jealous. Maybe that way, Ryan would do something about it.

  * * *

  On the other side of the club, Alan grabbed Eliza’s elbow as she ushered Kit and a crew of Eastern European gazelles to his table. “My mom just reamed me out. She said she couldn’t get into the club earlier. What’s the deal?” Alan demanded of Eliza.