by Roz Bailey
As I tossed the towel onto the vanity, a postcard that I kept forgetting to mail slipped to the floor.
Dear Elle:
Having a great time with the boys on the flip side! Kidding. How’s London in the summer? Are you freaking them out at Cambridge with your secret genius? Darcy’s a bitch this year—no friend of mine—but then you always saw that coming. God, I wish you were here.
xxxoo, Lindsay
The postcard photo was this year’s crop of Southampton lifeguards, looking buff in their red suits and bronze tans. Just a little something for Elle to drool over. I propped the postcard against the lamp, vowing to mail it tomorrow. In fact, maybe I’d write Elle a long letter or call her. That would piss Darcy off, big-time, if, of course, she ever found out. Which she wouldn’t. Because I was never speaking to her again.
As I finger-combed my hair I skimmed the collage of postcards tacked onto the wall over my bed, postcards from far-reaching locales like Thailand and Algiers, Paris and Vancouver and the Great Wall of China. Although the DuBois family had lived in some exotic places in the past eight years, Elle wasn’t into it. I knew she missed having a home, missed her grandmother who never left the Hamptons, missed me.
Tucked among the postcards were snapshots that I took with a camera that last summer Elle was a part of our group. There we were, perched on a red-and-white striped blanket on Bikini Beach, Elle and Tara still looking boyish and flat-chested while Darcy and I smiled proudly over our expanding A-cups. Other photos showed us struggling with dripping ice cream cones on Southampton’s main street, arm in arm in front of the windmill, and leaning off plaster horses on the Montauk carousel the night Elle got the golden ring. Elle’s bright red ringlets curled around a face far too adorable for her own good. How many times had I studied these photos carefully, looking for some hint of sadness in Elle’s green eyes, some forecast of the disturbance that would rock her world and cause her parents to spirit her away from the Hamptons and out of the States?
“You were always so skinny,” I said to the Elle in the photos.
Unfortunately, her photo didn’t return the compliment.
By the time I got downstairs, Milo had arrived, met my mother, and been recruited to set the table. “And here I thought this was my night off!” he joked as he dropped place mats around the table. Since Milo Barry was one of those people wired with natural energy, it was probably best to keep him busy. High-strung and goofy, he’d gotten me through a handful of all-nighters during finals week at school on his caffeine-free charm.
“I’ll help you,” I said, grabbing the silverware bin from the kitchen. “How many are we?”
“Seven!” Ma called from the kitchen. “Stephen and his friends are going to join us.”
“Hold on to your hat.” I handed Milo a stack of napkins. “The surfer dudes can be a real workout.”
“Linds, after six straight nights of parking cars for people who don’t even look me in the eye, I can take on the dudes.”
“You know, your work schedule would actually be very surfa-ble,” I said. “Why don’t you come down to Bikini Beach one morning and I’ll give you some lessons? If the surf is right, you’ll be standing the first day.”
“No can do.” He folded his arms with a sigh. “I just got a job working at the Bridgehampton bakery in the mornings. Six to two.”
I flicked his shoulder. “You’re insane! When are you going to sleep?”
“Between shifts. It’s very good money.”
I groaned, knowing I’d been putting off job hunting, half hoping the whole dilemma would just go away. “So when am I going to see you this summer? Is this your last free night?”
“We’ll work something out,” he said. “Or else you can come down to the bakery. I’ll sneak you a cinnamon roll.”
“Like I need it,” I said as Ma carried in a crock of steaming goulash.
“Sounds like you’re going to be working your fingers to the bone, Milo,” Ma said.
“Please!” Milo adjusted his glasses—very cool rectangular frames, a new acquisition this year. “I’m just happy to have escaped Brooklyn for the summer. Last year I had to play slave to my father on job sites, and believe me, it’s no fun running around fetching hammers and nails and sweeping sawdust when it’s ninety degrees and humid as Hades.” I hadn’t met Milo’s father, but got the picture when Milo called him Brooklyn’s answer to Archie Bunker.
“See, Lindsay? He’s happy to be in the Hamptons, something we take for granted. And did I mention that I ran into Mr. Marino yesterday and he’s looking for someone to work the counter at Old Towne Pizza? I told him you were looking for employment and I’d have you stop in right away.”
“Pizza?” I felt a wave of disappointment at the thought of hot ovens and baking dough. “Don’t you think I’m a little overqualified for that?”After my work experience at school, I’d been hoping to work with people, not food. Even a gig as a counselor at a sweaty day camp would beat that.
“It’s honest work,” Ma said, the gleam in her soft brown eyes warning me not to argue with the creed that had seen the McCorkle family through hard times over the years. Honest work, and lots of it.
“I’ll go see him tomorrow.” I knew there was no arguing with my mother—one of the downsides of being a McCorkle.
Steve and his friends filed in, and I silently willed the other guys to the opposite side of the table so I could sit between Milo and Bear, who was cool and crisp in khaki shorts and an orange and blue Hawaiian shirt. Tonight he had that sweet, limey smell that lingers around guys just out of the shower—probably just deodorant, but better than any cologne, in my book. I tucked in my chair, melting as our bare knees brushed under the table. Cheap thrill, I know, but I’d take it.
As the noodles and goulash were passed, I made quick introductions. “The blond guys are Skeeter and Johnny Fogarty. Johnny’s the one with the moon-shaped scar over one eye.”
Johnny tipped his head to the side, showing off the scar. “Got that from a shark attack,” he said.
“You did not!” I snapped. Although the Fogarty twins were pushing thirty, they’d never grown out of the Lost Boy thing. Hard to believe they were holding down jobs, but then the family business had been handed to them—a chain of Christmas stores, where business conveniently slowed during the surf season. Perfect surf mojo.
“The big ugly one is my brother Steve”—Steve reached over to give me a noogie, but I ducked—“and that’s Bear.”
“Where does the name Bear come from?” Milo asked, focusing on my crush.
“My real name’s Barrett,” Bear admitted, all dimples and flashing blue eyes. “Which means ‘mighty as a bear.’ ”
“He says that,” Steve said, “but the truth is, he still sleeps with a stuffed animal named Huggy Bear.”
“Get a life!” Bear snarled, which made me wonder if it was true; was there really a worn stuffed animal in the van parked at the edge of Bikini Beach?
As we ate, the guys talked surf. Everyone was jazzed because, after years of lugging packages for a delivery service, Steve was going to put his engineering degree to use at a real job with a company that specialized in sports equipment. A real job, with an office and a salary and paid travel expenses.
“You should get Victory to start a line of surfboards,” Bear told Steve.
“I’d love to do it, man,” Steve said. “First, I need to dig in, get the lay of the land.”
“And we could help you try them out,” Bear went on. “Test them for endurance . . .”
“Bang ’em on rocks,” John said, his gray eyes popping against his sunburned skin.
“That’d be cool,” Skeeter agreed. “I spent a fortune on that board I lost down in the Keys. That hurt.”
Johnny laughed. “You were crying, man.”
“Ginny was crying.” Ginny was Johnny’s wife. “She was calculating how much it cost. I was just pissed.”
“Now, we’ll have no cursing at the table,” Ma warned, glarin
g at Johnny until he apologized and hung his head over his stew. Go Ma—the only woman who could tame Steve’s motley group. My brother and his crew respected my mother. If only Steve could muster a scintilla of respect for his little sister.
“Gidget,” Steve started on me, “you might want to reel in the blond pop-tart. We saw her rip through Southampton at warp speed this afternoon,” he said, waving his fork. “She’s gonna take out half of the antiques shops on Winthrop Lane.”
I shrugged. “If you’re referring to Darcy, we are no longer on speaking terms.”
“What’s that?” Ma’s dark eyes went wide. “Did you two have a fight?”
“You might say that.” I filled Milo and my mother in on the morning’s incident at the beach, which the other guys had witnessed. “I don’t think Darcy wanted to hear what I had to say. She’s in denial about Kevin’s addictions. Honestly, right now I have no desire to be around her.” Except for the cool car and lux house, of course.
“And here I thought this summer would be my chance to meet the notorious Darcy Love,” Milo teased.
“Believe me,” Steve said, “you’re not missing anything.”
“Stephen . . .” There was warning in Ma’s eyes as she added pepper to the goulash. “I don’t know what her parents were thinking, handing a young person a car like that,” she said. “There’s something wrong with that. Poor Darcy will never have a chance to learn true responsibility.”
“Yeah, poor Darcy,” Steve mused, “crying all the way to the ATM.”
“Ma, the money’s not the problem,” I said, feeling this developing into a McCorkle debate. “It’s her sense of entitlement.” That and the fact that she’d nearly compared me to a beached whale. “Darcy has become this insensitive, selfish, beautiful monster. I feel like I don’t know her anymore.” I pushed the noodles around on my plate. “I’m not sure I want to know her, and that’s a very bad feeling.”
“Well, you can put that feeling on hold and think about what Darcy’s been through,” Ma said sternly. “The Loves may have more money than God, but that girl has been neglected since she was ten, raised by a housekeeper now and again. All that money couldn’t buy her the love and nurturing she needed. The girl has no family, she never has, and if you ask me it’s a crying shame.”
“Who needs a family when you’ve got a million bucks?” Steve asked.
I felt some sick need to defend my friend, but fortunately Ma intervened as she passed the rolls down the table. “No need to be flippant, Stephen. Now put your napkin on your lap and pass the carrots, please.”
And though the topic of dinner conversation moved on, I was stuck with an unbidden image of thirteen-year-old Darcy, her blond hair stringy and sticking to her tear-stained face as she waited at the police precinct for parents who never arrived. Finally, when the police released her to my mother’s care, even more tears had welled up in Darcy’s periwinkle blue eyes as she sobbed a thank-you and collapsed in Ma’s arms. That was my first glimpse of the importance of family . . . and the despair of having no one.
3
Darcy
“Anybody here?” The sun was low in the sky as Darcy hugged the container of take-out sushi to her chest, hoping that one of the cleaning ladies or the day maid, Nessie, might still be around.
She hated coming home alone. Next time she was going to drive Kevin straight over and dump him on the overstuffed sofa. Even passed out, he’d be more reassuring than the hollow darkness.
Damn Kevin. Damn Nessie, too.
When there was no answer she braced herself and stepped into the grand foyer, hardwood floors gleaming up at her, the new tapestry print runner zigzagging up the stairs looking more welcoming than last year’s cream Berber carpeting. Mother had swept through here with Miguel, her design consultant, last month and ordered a few decorating changes, but no amount of renovation or redesign could bring the life that was lacking to this house—people.
Darcy hated being alone in the house in particular. She was often the only one living here, and some nights, when she was alone in bed and listening to the scrape of tree branches against the side of the house, she felt like the last person on earth.
Lowering the thermostat, she wished Kevin had come home with her. Even if he wanted to sleep, it would have been better just having him in the house, but somehow he didn’t get that. No one understood how lonely Darcy’s perfect life was inside this architectural gem.
The Love Mansion was the envy of anyone who dared to trespass down the private Mockingbird Lane. Darcy saw them sometimes from her bedroom window—faces looming in the open windows of Mercedes and Audis, twentysomethings in big, bruising SUVs soaking up eyefuls of the lush, luxurious estate. But Darcy wanted to yell at them that it wasn’t all it seemed. Despite the family name, this gorgeous house had never become the warm, familial home she’d dreamed of when her parents had purchased it from a famous actress. Dad rarely spent more than a weekend here. He was CEO of a giant corporation, and his job always demanded his presence in the office, in the boardroom, in the convention center. On the rare weekend when he did make it out to the Hamptons, Bud Love spent his time barking on the phone by the pool or golfing with business associates. And while Darcy’s mother, Melanie Love, had plenty of time on her hands, she’d always found it difficult to extract herself from the social whirl of their home in Great Neck, the Garden Society, and the girls at the country club and, of late, the young tennis pro at the club who Darcy suspected was fooling around with her mother. Disgusting. Not that Mother hadn’t kept herself in good shape, but really, what did a young, okay guy like Jean-Michelle see in her mother, a woman as chiseled as a cathedral spire and cool as cucumber gazpacho?
No, the Love Mansion had never fulfilled its name. Couldn’t feel the love in this place. “It’s all crap!” she once shouted down from her window to a bald man with the nerve to drive by in a Porsche convertible. “It’s crap!” He’d turned that dick-mobile around pretty fast.
“Hello?” Darcy called out again, but Nessie was long gone. Damn. Although Ness had done a good job cooking and corralling Darcy and her friends for many years, Darcy didn’t really need her anymore. Twenty-one and going into her last year of college, she didn’t need a nanny. And now, each afternoon, Nessie seemed eager to get back to her own family in Riverhead, Long Island, much to Darcy’s regret. She didn’t blame Nessie, and she didn’t know how to ask her if she could occasionally stick around to keep her company, to make some normal household noises and ward off the evening shadows.
If only she could have a big, noisy houseful of people, the way it was at the McCorkle house. Darcy used to love staying over with Lindsay, listening to Granny McCorkle’s stories and sitting at the dinner table with all the cousins. She’d been planning to wrangle a few invitations out of Lindsay this summer, but those prospects were shot now that Lindsay had said all those mean things about Kevin. Besides, Darcy didn’t think she’d want to be seen hanging around with someone that chunky. Darcy couldn’t understand how her friend could let herself go that way. For chrissakes, why didn’t she just stop eating?
Darcy wandered down the hall, stopping to stare into the darkness that loomed there. The living room, or parlor, as Mother called it, was way too grand for anyone to ever relax or want to spend any amount of time there. A large stained-glass piece set into the center window always reminded Darcy of a medieval chapel, and the silk upholstered furniture, including authenticated pieces from one of those King Poopy-pants dynasties, made the room feel like a museum. Darcy paused in the doorway, wondering for a moment if she’d ever in fact sat in that room.
She padded barefoot over the Chinese rug and chose the red silk chair, sitting like a queen on her throne. The chair creaked, and a faintly musty scent mixed with the mango-coconut smell of her suntan lotion. Wouldn’t Mother freak to know she was getting Coppertone on the antiques.
Whatever.
Popping open the container, she bit into a slice of California roll, not worrying abo
ut the grains of rice that fell to the floor. That’s what the cleaning people were for, right? Gotta give Nessie and the girls something to do.
The cozier den in the back of the house, with its brown suede chairs, entertainment center, and gray stone fireplace, was more her style. She snapped open a Diet Pepsi, turned on the VCR, and sank into a chair to devour sushi and catch up on the soaps she’d missed that day. The characters of daytime dramas were Darcy’s year-round friends, and they never failed to appear with a new scandal or heartbreak, a thorny, submerged problem that made the issues swirling beneath the surface of Darcy’s life seem simple and harmless. Soaps broke through the hollow aloneness. So what if her mother was sleeping with a tennis pro? Affairs were a daily occurrence in soaps. And all the accusations swirling around Dad’s investment firm were petty grievances compared to the serial murders, switched-at-birth babies, and vindictive lovers of the daytime soaps.
Watching as two lovers shared a kiss on a moonlit balcony, Darcy glimpsed her own future, and it was good. No more putting up a happy front and knocking around in empty houses. No more being alone. No more Darcy . . . just Darcy and Kevin. The McGowans. Mrs. Kevin McGowan . . . God, that sounded good. Together, Darcy and Kevin were going to make a life right here on America’s Riviera, where Kevin’s father already owned Coney’s on the Beach, a buzzing hotspot, a small gold mine. She and Kevin would have money, lux houses and sleek cars, great bodies, and lots of good sex.
