Beach Lane Collection

by Melissa de la Cruz

  Anna’s behavior was also becoming more erratic—the other day she’d asked Jacqui if she could tag along when Jacqui was going out after work to meet Mara and Eliza at Tavern. She had tried to talk Anna out of it, but Anna had insisted. Eliza and Mara exchanged alarmed looks when they saw Anna, but Jacqui merely shrugged. Their former and Jacqui’s present employer had quickly downed four shots of Jägermeister and spent the evening draped over the twenty-two-year-old DJ. “Your mom is hot!” several guys told Jacqui. “She’s not my mom; she’s my—oh, never mind,” Jacqui had said.

  The next morning, Anna, still reeling from the effects of a brutal hangover, had asked Jacqui when they were going to do that again.

  Never, Jacqui had thought. Anna’s partying like a teenager sure didn’t seem like the actions of a woman desperate to save her marriage.

  But what if instead of making them figure out if they were still in love with each other, Jacqui could make them believe that they had never fallen out of love? After all, even though they hated each other’s guts right now, like Dennis Quaid and Natasha Richardson in the movie, Anna and Kevin belonged together. Anna was the only woman who thought Kevin’s law puns were funny (he liked to say that he had a “sunny deposition”), and Kevin was the only man who thought Anna looked hot in a billowing African muumuu.

  Jacqui knew that Anna was still in love with her husband—her demand for a divorce had just been a way to make him notice her, and even though Kevin was a workaholic, he did love his wife; he just never tried to show it. So what if she, Jacqui, orchestrated a courtship of sorts—doing nice things for each of them in secret, which they would assume the other person had done for them?

  Where would she start? First, she needed a recruit. She couldn’t do this alone.

  * * *

  “So, you want me to help you send Anna romantic gifts but pretend they’re from Kevin even though they’re not?” Shannon asked when the two of them were in the laundry room sorting through the children’s dirty clothing. “I mean, I know divorce is a sad thing and all, but I guess I don’t understand why you’d want to be so involved.”

  Jacqui bit her lip. Could she really trust Shannon? She had no choice, really. She took a deep breath and told the younger girl the whole story—about the apartment in New York, the NYU rejection, how she needed the Perrys to stay together so she could finish her fifth year of high school and stay in New York.

  “But remember, you can’t tell Madison, okay? Anna doesn’t want the kids to know,” Jacqui warned. She knew how close Shannon and Madison had become. The two girls were glued together at the hip, and Madison was really blossoming under the friendship, looking up to Shannon like the big sister she’d never had.

  “I guess I won’t,” Shannon said reluctantly, feeling bad about keeping something from a friend. She tossed a folded T-shirt into the laundry basket. “I’ll help you, but.”

  “But?”

  Shannon broke into a wide grin. “But you have to promise me you’ll invite me to stay with you in the city at your apartment sometime. I live in Jersey, and it’s sooo boring. My parents would never let me stay in the city, but if I told them I had a friend . . .”

  Jacqui contemplated Shannon’s proposal. She could see where this was leading—Shannon turning Jacqui’s sweet studio into a New York City crash pad of her own—inviting friends over, sneaking in beer, forcing Jaqui to host a bunch of fifteen-year-old brats in her private abode. In the end, it would be a small price to pay for living in the city, and Shannon couldn’t come over every weekend, could she?

  “All right. It’s a deal.” She nodded grimly.

  “Cool. And remember, I need to sleep in the bed. No pullout couch for me. My back problem, you know.”

  * * *

  The next day, Anna Perry discovered that someone had sent her an iPod programmed with all of her favorite Matchbox Twenty love songs. (“Matchbox Twenty?” Shannon had asked, wrinkling her nose in distaste when Jacqui had told her what to put on the MP3 player. “Ew!” “Just do it!” Jacqui had laughed.)

  Anna and Kevin had not said a word to each other since he had served her papers. Kevin was still bunkered back in the city. Jacqui knew that Anna had tried calling him on his cell and at the office, but he never returned her calls. Perhaps the black iPod nano would give her a sign that he was having second thoughts. Of course, gifts wouldn’t be enough in the long run. Jacqui knew she would have to engage Kevin in some way to make Anna believe he wanted her back, through a more personal approach, like actually asking her out on a date.

  But for now, Jacqui noticed Anna was in a good mood all afternoon, humming “Accidentally in Love” as she went about the house. Score one for the plan. She ushered the kids into the Range Rover.

  “Where are we going today?” Zoë squealed. After the excitement of yesterday’s impromptu trip to Great Adventure, the kids expected something as fun every day.

  “Just the beach. Sorry.” Jacqui smiled. “Zoë, is this your book?” she asked, picking up a copy of V. C. Andrews’s Flowers in the Attic. “You’re reading this?”

  Zoë nodded.

  It was a book for twelve-year-olds, and Zoë was eight. Two summers ago, the kid hadn’t even been able to recognize letters. But now she was reading at an advanced level! Okay, so maybe Zoë shouldn’t be reading that book (blond incestuous twins?)—but hey, at least she was reading! It looked like the “summer off” plan was working. With Kevin out of the house, the daily battles had ceased, and the environment was peaceful for once. William had decided to be an amateur geologist and was collecting stones and seashells on the beach and doing research on their provenance. Free from a fully regimented schedule, Cody had stopped having his “accidents” and was finally properly toilet-trained. Madison had even (grudgingly) started eating again. She looked red-cheeked and happy.

  Even Jacqui was benefiting from the new relaxed approach to the summer. If her plan didn’t work, at least she’d return to Brazil in September with a killer tan.

  blue-collar blues

  TALK ABOUT A SIGHT FOR sore eyes. Eliza untied her apron and stuffed it in the laundry basket underneath the counter, smiling as she saw Jeremy walk inside the door. Her spirits lifted the minute their eyes met. He looked so adorable in his blue uniform work shirt with STONE CONTRACTING scripted on the front pocket. His jeans were dusty and muddy, but Eliza thought she had never seen him look cuter.

  “Can I help you?” she asked flirtatiously.

  Jeremy pretended to scan the menu underneath the glass counter. “I’m not sure. I’m looking for an Eliza Thompson? You might know her—about so high,” he said, motioning under his chin. “The prettiest girl in the Hamptons, kind of high-maintenance?” He leaned over the counter. “Do you know what time she gets off work?”

  Eliza threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss.

  “So, do you want to eat here?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t get out of this place fast enough.”

  * * *

  They drove to the nearest sushi restaurant, and over shrimp tempura rolls, Eliza unburdened her tale of woe. Jeremy knew that she’d lost her job working for Sydney’s showroom but not that Paige had fired her. She’d kept that detail out of it, not wanting to bring up memories of his old “friend.”

  “I can’t even walk, my knee hurts, and I think I’m breaking out from all the stress!” she said, dipping a piece of sushi into the wasabi-spiked soy sauce. “And I almost burnt my fingers when I tried to get the corncobs out of the oven!”

  Jeremy was silent as he picked at his chicken teriyaki. It had been Eliza’s idea to get Japanese, and it was obvious he didn’t share her enthusiasm for the cuisine.

  She continued her tirade, complaining about customers who didn’t tip, waitresses who stole her stations, and an abusive and mocking kitchen staff. Jeremy grunted in response but didn’t interrupt her self-pitying monologue.

  Finally, he threw his napkin on the table. “So what?”

  “Wh
at do you mean, so what?” Eliza asked, taken aback by his harsh tone.

  He shrugged and took a swig of his Sapporo. “People work, Eliza. I know it’s hard to imagine, but some people have to work hard to get where they are; they don’t just inherit it. I’ve worked hard all my life. . . . I started out as a gardener, a groundskeeper, and I worked all through high school and college and every summer. And even now, even though I have my own landscape company, it’s not easy. Nothing’s easy. You just need to get used to it.”

  Eliza started to protest, but he didn’t let her get a word in.

  “Some people think money’s just handed to them; they don’t realize how much hard work really goes toward earning it. You’ve got to get your hands dirty, you know? It’s not just about cruising through life. It really makes me sick how entitled some of my clients act,” he said, furiously taking another swig from his beer glass.

  “I mean, I know you’re not used to it. But it’s like, my friend Paige—she and I used to cut lawns together, and we had to get in the dirt and pull weeds, and we made, like, minimum wage, but she was always there, and she never complained.”

  “Oh, really. So you want me to be more like Paige, is that it?” she asked snippily, trying not to show him how much he’d hurt her with his unsympathetic comments. And to bring Paige into it as well—that really stung.

  “Well, not everyone can be like Paige—”

  “Of course not. Paige is perfect,” Eliza said bitterly.

  When the check came, Eliza grabbed it.

  “Hey, c’mon, I got you,” Jeremy argued.

  “No, no. I don’t take any handouts,” she snapped. It had been her decision to eat at Mount Fuji, even though the bill was equal to her full day’s pay, which meant she’d basically worked eight hours for a few sushi rolls. “I don’t expect a free ride.”

  They drove back to Eliza’s house in silence, and when he dropped her off at her driveway, she slammed the door so hard it shook on its hinges.

  trouble in paradise

  THE DISHES IN THE SINK had been undisturbed for a whole week, sitting in tepid water, crusty and dirty. As Mara rinsed them off and began to stack them in the dishwasher, she wondered why Ryan never even bothered to try to make the place neater. All of his boxes were still unpacked in the living room, and the dozens of empty beer cans, dirty paper cups, cigarette butts, and empty vodka and gin bottles from the assorted parties added to the general detritus. He’d promised to clean up after each get-together, and Mara would have cleaned up herself except she had to be at work so early and she arrived home so late, there never seemed to be enough time to try to get the place in order.

  She had to face it: Ryan was a terrific slob without a live-in maid.

  Mara pulled the vacuum cleaner out of the utility closet and began to sweep, picking up pieces of paper and throwing all the empties into a big black trash bag. A small nagging voice in her head wondered if they had rushed into this too soon. Sure, they’d been together all year, but they’d hardly been in the same city for more than a few days. The transition from long distance to close quarters was a rocky one.

  Ryan was so used to having people pick up after him. There was a reason why his room at home was always clean and his bed there was always made—it was called hired help. He didn’t even notice that they were practically living in a trash dump. The other day she’d found a half-eaten bag of potato chips underneath the bed, along with an empty pizza box and a bong.

  Not that she could talk—she wasn’t the neatest person in the world—but at least she tried to put things away in their proper place. And what did he do all day? He was always surfing—either on the water or on the Internet. He could have at least begun to unpack.

  Plus, all of Tinker’s talk about what she and Ryan did at Dartmouth was really starting to grate on Mara. The other day, Tinker had come over to hang out, and every other sentence that had come out of her mouth began, “Me and Ryan used to . . .” The litany was endless: Ski trips. Keg stands. Greek Week. Rush parties.

  Still, Dartmouth was where she wanted to be—especially because that was where Ryan was. She tried to put her doubts out of her head. She couldn’t hold his messiness against him. He couldn’t help it that he was used to living in a household with a staff of nine. It was the way he’d been raised. She had seen his room at the frat and shuddered to think what kind of mold had seeped into the beer-soaked walls. But for some reason, she had assumed that when they lived together, he would clean up his act. She had obviously assumed incorrectly.

  She couldn’t even be that mad at him, because whenever she pointed out how gross the boat was, he was always so cheerful and apologetic about it. Not that it ever amounted to actual cleaning on his part.

  Mara pressed the lever and switched off the vacuum. The room didn’t look any tidier. She sighed. It was the most she could do for now, since she had to meet Jacqui and Eliza at the premiere of the new feel-good Cameron Diaz movie in an hour.

  * * *

  She arrived a few minutes late and found Eliza waiting by herself in front of the theater. The red carpet was empty, since the stars had yet to arrive. A small group of photographers stood around chatting. A few of them took casual shots of Mara and Eliza to fill the time. Nothing reduced a person to celebutante status faster than the sight of a real celebrity. As soon as tousle-headed Cameron arrived, the photographers forgot all about Mara and Eliza. Not that either minded. They had both gone through the PR rinse cycle and had come out of it a little worse for wear.

  “Where’s Jeremy?” Mara asked.

  Eliza shrugged, and Mara didn’t push. It wasn’t as if Ryan was there with her either. It turned out Jacqui was the only one who brought a date. She arrived holding hands with Duffy, the tall blond one with the Heath Ledger smile.

  “What’s the story?” Eliza whispered when Duffy excused himself to collect the complimentary popcorn and snacks.

  “He’s nice,” Jacqui allowed, smiling.

  “So is he the one?” Mara teased. “What about the other two?”

  Jacqui shrugged. She’d asked Duffy on impulse since she had seen him first—bumping into him at the tennis courts that afternoon. Not that she was neglecting the other two—she was supposed to go parasailing with Grant tomorrow, and Ben had asked her to accompany him to a reggae festival in Quogue later that week.

  If the three boys knew they were all dating the same girl, they never mentioned it to her, and for now, Jacqui gave no indication of her actions. Each boy had declared it was best not to let the other two find out about the relationship, and there had been many close calls already—she and Duffy sneaking out of the Jacuzzi just as Grant walked out to the patio, hiding in Ben’s closet when Duffy suddenly walked in asking for a light, she and Grant getting his sailboat stuck among some rocks off the bay one afternoon and hoping they’d be rescued by the Coast Guard before Ben and Duffy figured out they were missing.

  The last thing Jacqui wanted was for her good time to go bad. She’d promised herself she would come clean once she figured out which one of the boys she really wanted to be with. The problem stemmed from the fact that whenever she was with each of them individually, she was convinced he was the one. Duffy made her laugh, Grant was hands-down the best kisser, and Ben, the most romantic of the three, wrote her love songs on his guitar.

  “I’m just having fun,” Jacqui insisted. “It’s harmless.”

  Mara shook her head as the lights dimmed. She already had enough trouble with one boyfriend; she couldn’t even begin to imagine juggling the affections of three. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” she told her friend.

  and then she moved on to quarters. . . .

  THE REYNOLDS CASTLE WAS SHAKING with the sound of a blistering bass line, and the whole house was packed with people gathered for what had now become the weekly “DormDebauchery debauchery.” Jacqui was picking her way through the crowd, looking for one of the guys, when she chanced upon the person she would have thought least likely to
attend one of these parties.

  In the middle of the room, where a Ping-Pong table was littered with empty paper cups, was Anna Perry, intensely taking part in a no-holds-barred Beirut tournament. The guys had explained the rules of the game to Jacqui—but all she understood was that whenever the ball bounced, it meant the participants drank.

  “Anna?” Jacqui asked, aghast, just as Anna slammed a Ping-Pong ball on the table and watched it hop around, finally landing in a cup. Jacqui shouldn’t have been surprised, considering last weekend she’d bumped into Anna at the VIP lounge at the Star Room.

  Anna jumped when she saw Jacqui. “Oh! Hi!”

  “What are you doing here?” Jacqui asked. With a bunch of teenagers? was the unspoken part of the question.

  “Give me a sec,” Anna called to the gathering, stepping away from the table, her pint of beer in its plastic cup in hand.

  They walked over to a quieter corner, next to one of Chelsea Reynolds’s prized Aztec sun calendars that the boys were using for target practice.

  Jacqui noticed that there was something different about her boss—for one thing, Anna was wearing her hair long and loose in waves, like a lot of girls were doing now, including Jacqui. And her clothes! Gone were the embellished, structured, proper Michael Kors and Carolina Herrera ensembles. Anna was wearing a tight Skull and Bones polo shirt over a denim mini. The label was the most popular one in the Hamptons that summer—a line of preppy staples emblazoned with a Jolly Roger–like skull-and-bones logo. Anna Perry looked like she was thirty-three going on sixteen. . . . It was a little disturbing.

  “What’s going on?”