Southampton Spectacular

by M. C. Soutter

  But she might have been ready last night.

  Great. Here I am after 1.5 dates.

  So she said nothing more, and just kept shaking her head at her mother. At both of her parents, as though her father were pressing her for answers, too. Even though he had said nothing since the beginning of this conversation. Now he tapped the table with his fork, as if declaring that his daughter was due for a break. “What did you have for dinner?” he said, and Devon looked at him gratefully. Such a lovely, irrelevant question.

  She filled the rest of breakfast with talk of steak and salmon and appetizers and décor, and she pretended that there was nothing else worth mentioning. Her father nodded and prompted her with more questions on the mundane – what flavor ice cream had they bought, had it rained on them or had it held off until later, had they run into anyone they knew – and her mother sat back and said nothing.

  But Cynthia Hall still had that little smile on her face. A smile of love, but also of ambivalence. And somewhere, way underneath, of sadness. Because in the end she was simply a mother. Asking about her daughter’s life. Hoping to be a part of it for a little while longer.

  Hoping not to have to let her child go.

  2

  The next few days were happy, peaceful ones at the Hall house. Peter Hall’s physical progress was steady and satisfying; after only three days back from the hospital, he was moving everywhere on his own, including up and down the stairs. He was able to talk for longer periods without getting worn out. And he and Cynthia began taking walks together in the back yard, strolling with an umbrella between them on that first rainy day, moving among the garden and behind the pool and beside the tennis court. They were short walks, ten or fifteen minutes at a stretch, but they took them often. Peter was clearly enjoying the challenge of his rehabilitation, the sensation of working his system back into fighting shape, feeling his legs remember how to move.

  Devon watched them walking together, talking and laughing over unknown things – probably over her, if she was going to be honest with herself – and she recommitted to the idea that she would never, ever bring up the non compos mentis letter again. Not for any reason. Because if her mother’s first reaction had been any indication, no good could possibly come of it.

  So Devon would never know. And she could live with that.

  The rain on that first day after the Agawam date was a small blessing, she decided. Because she could stay indoors and be with her father when he wasn’t out walking, and there was time to let the heat of the night before wash off her. She could breathe and think and be calm. Or almost calm, until Austin called late in the afternoon.

  She knew somehow that it would be him, even before she picked up the phone.

  “I missed you today,” he said, after she had said hello.

  “We didn’t have anything planned,” she said, and suddenly she found herself frustrated at this lackadaisical approach. Why hadn’t they had anything planned? Who cared if it was raining? They could have been at the club right now, or on the beach, walking or swimming in the rain. She could picture it, and it seemed perfect. She had never walked on the beach in the rain, but now she couldn’t imagine why not.

  “I was there,” he said. “The daily laps, you know. The rain doesn’t matter that much.”

  Even worse. He had been there. Basically all alone, except for maybe the pool lifeguard, who would have been taking shelter from the rain inside the office anyway. She could have watched him. Or jumped in and swam with him. Or anything. “I wasn’t going to be there today anyway,” she said. “Even if it was sunny. I’ve been too busy making dioramas, writing book reports, weaving a rug.”

  “Mmm. It’s supposed to be sunny again tomorrow. Still going to be hitting the arts and crafts, or will you be coming out?”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “I’ll be in the pool, as usual. I’ll look for you before. And afterward.”

  “I might be busy.”

  “I’ll hunt you down. Isn’t it time for me to meet your parents? Like in a situation where one of them isn’t bleeding?” There was a pause on the line, and then he said, “Sorry.” Another pause. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m a little giddy talking to you, but that’s no excuse.”

  “No problem.” She waited another moment to let the air clear. “They’ll be at the club tomorrow.”

  “So you will be there?”

  She smiled. “Definitely.”

  “I’m glad. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “You saw me less than 24 hours ago.”

  Shameless baiting, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “That’s way too much time,” he said.

  “You’ve been busy working on your talent show routine, I assume?”

  He laughed quietly. “I’ve been busy, but not on any routine.”

  She shook her head. “I swear. What does that mean?”

  “I like you a lot.”

  And she was distracted again. She smiled and cupped her hand over her mouth, as though he might be able to tell through the phone line how much she liked him.

  3

  The next day was sunny, as Austin had promised it would be. And it was a blur of goodness, as Devon had hoped and expected it would be. She went to the club early, as usual – maybe a bit earlier than usual, just in case, telling her parents she would meet them there, instead of having them drive her – and he had not yet arrived. Which was wonderful, because that meant she was already set up, already lying on a chaise with a book in hand when he did arrive. She had the luxury of watching him walk toward her, and even as he walked, taking those slow, hypnotic steps of his that were as heavy and deliberate as ever, she was able to watch him and know that he was coming to her; know that he was going to stop and put his hands on the arms of the chaise and lean over and kiss her, and he did. And then he bent two inches lower and planted a kiss on her neck, and then one just below her neck, and then one just below that, at which point she became vaguely self-conscious about which members might already be at the club and watching them… but there Austin stopped. He flipped his sandals and his shirt off all at once, turned without a word, and dove into the pool.

  As he swam away Devon let the chills run their course up and down her body, as if the chaise she was lying on had suddenly been electrified. She brought her book back up slowly so that she could take some time to watch him swim. Now each stroke he took seemed particularly good, particularly strong, and she could imagine, she could know that as he swam he was not only thinking about swimming or school or working for Mr. Berducido, but that he was also thinking about her.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the book.

  Her friends arrived shortly afterward, and then her parents, and before long the Beach Club was in full swing. She sat and pretended to read her book and tried to figure out when she should bring Austin over to say hi to her parents. Probably right after lunch. Not during lunch, because that could turn into a too-long visit, and she would end up herding Austin away from them like a bodyguard protecting a famous client, which would make everyone uncomfortable.

  Suddenly Austin was out of the pool, even though it was far too early for him to be out. He had only been swimming laps for twenty minutes, which was nothing for him; he was usually in there for an hour, two, two and a half. She watched him come walking toward her, and now she was aware that her friends had stopped talking. Nina and Florin had paused in their conversations, and Barnes, who had been helping James look after little Frankie, picked the baby up for a minute so that he and James could watch the scene uninterrupted.

  Just in case the scene became a scene.

  Devon wondered why he was out. She hoped he was coming to talk to her about something, though she couldn’t imagine what would be so important that he couldn’t wait until after his laps were done. Now he was stepping over Florin’s towel, between hers and Nina’s bag, and now much closer, so close that she thought he might trip over the end
of the chaise and land on her. But instead he stopped, leaned over carefully, and gave her a long, slow kiss. The cheerful, brightly insouciant “Hi, there” she had been planning to give him for the benefit of her friends – to show them that she was fond of him, very fond, but not overly fond, not fond in any way that would invite scrutiny or interest – caught in her throat, and she discovered that she was holding tightly onto one of the armrests of the chaise she was lying in. Holding it as if she might otherwise go rolling onto the ground accidentally, like a child who has not yet learned to sleep in a bed without side rails. Austin finished kissing her and stood up straight again, sighed, and smiled broadly at her.

  “There,” he said. “Thank you. I was having some trouble breathing in there, but now I’m okay. Distracted for some reason. See you in a while.” He turned and walked back carefully the way he had come, acknowledging Nina and Florin and James and Barnes – and little Frankie, whom he nudged affectionately in the belly – as he passed them, and each of them, with the exception of Frankie, said, “Hey” back to him in a way that said, very clearly to Devon’s ears: “Hey, good to see you, Austin. We’re just going to wait until you jump back in the pool, and then we’re going to make fun of Devon for, oh, maybe three or four hours, and then you can have her back. Enjoy the rest of your swim.”

  He jumped back into the pool and resumed his laps, and Devon’s friends turned to her. Each of them was grinning from ear to ear.

  Barnes was first. He turned to ten-month-old Frankie with a grave expression, as if about to scold him, or to explain a serious matter of dirty diaper etiquette. “That,” Barnes said slowly, staring Frankie dead in the face, “was awesome. Do you understand?”

  Frankie studied Barnes carefully. Then he said, “Boh!”

  “Right!” Barnes said, as if Frankie had not only agreed, but had added his own essential opinion to the discussion. Barnes turned to Nina and Florin. “Do you realize how awesome that was? Do you know what he just did?”

  Florin and Nina were still grinning at Devon. Neither of them seemed interested in what Barnes was saying, but Barnes was undeterred. He turned to Devon. “He just marked you. Like an alpha wolf. Like a bull walrus.”

  Devon only smiled at him. She was prepared to endure ribbing of all kinds for a while, and this was simply Barnes’s style.

  “No one in this club is allowed to go anywhere near you right now,” Barnes went on. He took a step backward, as if making sure he wasn’t standing too close. “Nobody. That was an overt, public display of affection. Our man just threw down.” He looked at Frankie again. “Austin just threw down, Frankie boy. If anyone tries to talk to auntie Devon, they’re looking for a fight.”

  “It was just a kiss,” Florin said, though she was still smiling gleefully at Devon. “A very nice kiss, but just a kiss all the same.”

  Barnes shook his head. “No, my friend. That was a declaration. A warning. No one is safe, not even us. If James or I talked to Devon too close up right now, if we got inside that radius – ” Barnes paused for dramatic effect. “ – then Austin would have to take us down.”

  “Whatever,” Nina said. She seemed to be growing annoyed, as if she could handle only so much discussion of Austin and Devon’s growing relationship.

  Barnes looked insulted. He stared at Nina indignantly, as though she were trying to deny that dark clouds begat rain. “These are the rules,” he said. “I’m not just making this stuff up. It’s not even up to him anymore. He would have to fight us.” He looked to James for support. “Wouldn’t he?”

  James took a moment to consider, and then he nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true,” he said, and shrugged as if he were being forced to explain that some men were simply predisposed, in a genetic sense, to commit staggering acts of violence. “He wouldn’t have a choice.”

  “Like with that gang of neo-Nazis he beat the crap out of at the carnival a few days ago,” Barnes added.

  “It wasn’t a gang,” Devon said, “and there weren’t any neo – ”

  “It’s not Austin’s fault if a huge swarm of Nazi sympathizers try to kidnap and sodomize his girlfriend,” Barnes went on, “because a man can’t let that kind of thing stand.”

  “He can’t let it stand,” James said, shaking his head.

  “Boh!” said Frankie.

  Nina and Florin were still ignoring them. But they had things to say, too. Florin raised her eyebrows. “Good second date, then?”

  Devon nodded, but she didn’t add anything.

  Nina and Florin were silent. They studied her. And then they both decided not to ask anything else. Because Barnes and James would have a field day either way – another field day, in addition to the one they were already having – and the girls would be able to ask Devon as much as they wanted soon enough. In a more discrete setting.

  So instead they settled for the regular stuff. The kidding stuff. Nina said, “Does this mean he’s going to ask you to the Dartmouth freshman prom?”

  “I doubt there’s any such thing,” Devon said, taking her medicine dutifully. “But if there is one, then sure. I’d like to go.”

  “What about Niagara Falls? Quick trip up to the falls? Honeymoon suite?”

  “Probably not.”

  Florin joined in. “How about a promise ring? Or a purity ring?”

  Nina rolled her eyes at this, and she answered for Devon. “Doubtful.”

  “But you’ll be going to the talent show together, right?” Florin said.

  Devon paused. “Maybe,” she said, with a little smile. “I’m not sure, but I think he might be doing something for it.”

  “Austin might be?” Barnes said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “He better not try to follow Florin and the amazing Jasper,” Barnes warned.

  “That’s true,” Florin said, turning serious. “It’s suicide to try to perform after Jasper. No matter what you do, it’s bound to be a letdown.”

  “Honestly?” Nina said, turning to her. “Again?”

  Florin looked hurt. “The talent show would be nothing without my sweet boy,” she said. “Anyway, he loves doing it.”

  Nina sighed. “Anyone else doing something? Barnes? James?”

  “I could do a little dance with Frankie,” Barnes said. “But I worry there’d be crowd-control problems. My fans and so on.”

  “Idiot,” Nina said, turning away. “James?”

  James shook his head. “No, but maybe Ned.”

  They all turned to him, and Devon grinned. Partly because she was glad the conversation had officially shifted away from her and Austin, but mostly because it was good to hear that Ned might be returning to public life. He had been in hiding since Frankie’s Big Ride. Which was understandable. He had almost killed his little brother and, by extension, Devon’s father. He was not feeling good about himself. “That would be good,” Devon said. “We miss him.”

  James turned to her and nodded with a little smile on his face, as though they were discussing a long-lost friend. He looked as if he was going to try to explain something, but then he shook his head and smiled again.

  “Just wait,” he said.

  Ned’s Night

  1

  Southampton was a place that could make you forget. You could forget, as you walked among the clubs and the cars and the mansions and the perfectly manicured lawns and hedges, that all of these things required money to exist, and that someone had to earn this money. The problem was that Southampton, like many places of luxury, was filled with people who seemed wholly incapable of generating any money at all. Many of the older children, for instance, were significant liabilities in the traditional accounting sense; they had grown up so surrounded and padded by deep, down-filled cushions of cash that they filled their days with nothing at all. They sprawled. They cavorted. They devised imaginative ways to show anyone who cared to watch that they were skilled only at losing money.

  Often the parents were no better. Sometimes the money in a given family was s
o old that there was no one left who could truly carry the torch of productivity. The spoiled scions had become the parents of the next generation, and the new heads of family were only echoes, shells of the economic dynamos who had generated the fortunes now being slowly whittled away.

  A visitor to the Meadow Club or the Beach Club, then, could become not only forgetful, but confused. Confused at so much luxury mixed with so little intelligence and discipline. Because to see these people lounge about, to see them playing and drinking and using up the days with such abandon, was to wonder why everyone didn’t simply move to Southampton. Coming here, after all, didn’t seem to require any particular ambition. Or drive. Or talent.

  But someone was making all that money.

  And yes: every once in a while, after clearing away all the obvious types – the bankers and the real estate moguls and the outlet-store-chain owners – it was possible to find someone worth considering. The architect who designed the AT&T building on Madison. The woman who conceived four of the last five North American apparel marketing campaigns for Nike. The vascular surgeon who, using a technique he invented on the spot, helped sew Mrs. Tripp’s legs back together after she was pinned under a collapsed scaffold on 72nd street.

  These were people who were creating. Making. Doing.

  Theo R. Mahlmann had been coming to Southampton for over two decades, but he had grown up poor. A self-taught Minnesota boy for the first thirteen years of his life, he began to plan his escape early on. He tested his way into a good public exam high school and then moved quickly onto an arts scholarship at Brown. Next, a paid fellowship at RISD for his masters in design. Immediately after RISD he moved to New York, where he started a turn-key event-design business of his own using three maxed-out credit cards and the single big-ticket contact he had held onto from his years at Brown. He had his name legally changed to Theodore Robert Mahlmann (from Bruce Steinberg), and now he had a pretty blond wife and three beautiful blond children, two girls and a boy, all of whom enjoyed the privilege of Southampton summer life thanks to Theo’s gift for design and his eye for extravagance at weddings and parties and boutique openings all over New York. At work in the city he was Theo, or Robert, or, with certain very close associates, Big Teddy. But in Southampton he was known as maybe-gay Mr. Mahlmann.