by Roz Bailey
Really, when you got down to it, what more could a person want?
4
Tara
If Tara had to hear one more word of debate from her mother regarding the merits of microblinds versus sheers she was going to rip the window dressing aside and jump out onto the sand.
“I don’t know . . .” Serena Washington stepped back from the window and lowered her reading glasses. The cat’s-eye rhinestone glasses fell to her chest, dangling on their chain as she reassessed the design crisis. “The microblinds are better for privacy, but then the sage drapes go so well with this armoire. Very seventeenth-century French provincial.”
But we’re in a twenty-first-century Southampton beach house, Tara wanted to tell her mother. The era of microwaves and VCRs. “Whatever you think,” she said dutifully.
“Though I worry that this armoire might be too big for this room.” Tara’s mother paced around the bed in Wayne’s room, her Dolce and Gabanna sandals leaving footprints in the deep carpeting. “I wouldn’t mind getting rid of the armoire altogether, but your brother is so attached to those video games and he’d pitch a fit if I got rid of them.”
Tara just nodded and stared down at the carpet, thinking how the family had always catered to Wayne while Tara and her older sister, Denise, were the ones moving the armoires and cleaning the blinds and vacuuming footprints of designer shoes out of the carpeting. In some ways she envied Denise, having a life in Baltimore, a house of her own where she could fill each room with five armoires and not worry. Denise had hit the jackpot, landing on freedom and a guy her parents approved of, an African American architect with a steady business and a rambling, warm, loving family in Baltimore.
Serena Washington had moved from the furnishings to the wall treatments when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Tara answered, running for her life down the stairs of the starkly geometric beach home.
“You have got to meet me tonight,” Darcy ordered, bossy as ever. “I’ll be at Coney’s.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Tara said, familiar with Darcy’s quest for Kevin McGowan. “But I’m incarcerated in spring-cleaning boot camp,” Tara said under her breath.
“Hire a maid service,” Darcy said.
“Have you learned nothing about my mother over all these summers?” Tara said. “Serena Washington has two maids, Tara and Denise, only Denise wised up and got the hell out of here.”
Darcy laughed. “You’re so funny. Meet me in half an hour.”
“What about Lindsay?” Tara asked. “Is she coming?”
“Big groan. I’ll explain when I see you,” Darcy said, then clicked off.
Promising to return the sage curtains to the store in Riverhead tomorrow, Tara managed to escape Design 101. Soon she was cruising down Southampton’s Main Street, a charming stretch strung with tiny white lights—small cafés, upscale boutiques, galleries, bed and breakfast inns, and outdoor markets that had a New England feel.
Waiting at a red light as a flock of pedestrians—all white—passed in their summer whites, Tara got to wondering why her parents, two educated, hardworking individuals, had chosen Southampton as their summer residence twelve years ago.
Tara was just nine when her parents bought the oceanfront house in the Hamptons, a sleek contemporary box on the beach that an architect had designed for his beloved wife, then put on the market when she left him for an artist she’d hooked up with at a cocktail party. Typical Hamptons story. Although Tara and her older siblings Wayne and Denise were not consulted about the purchase, Tara recalled the thrill of thinking her parents had purchased this house with its turquoise swimming pool and Jacuzzi tub, this land with its stubbly dunes and front-row view of the crashing ocean. That they owned a second house on the beach, well, surely this must mean they were rich and were simply feigning poverty when Tara pleaded for a television in her room and a VCR and a complete collection of Louisa May Alcott’s books.
It wasn’t long until Tara realized the Washingtons were not the average Hamptons summer residents. Though she was only nine she’d already developed a keen sense of the world around her, the awareness that African Americans were still a minority race but a significant part of New York City’s ethnically diverse population. In Brooklyn, people didn’t stare. I belong here, she used to tell herself as she walked down along a cobbled Park Slope sidewalk to the park with Denise or went down to the pizza place with a quarter for an Italian ice. Brooklyn was her home, and it welcomed her as readily as it embraced the Chinese, Latvian, and Pakistani children in her class.
But somehow, walking along the white picket-fenced gardens of their Hamptons neighbors, nine-year-old Tara didn’t feel the safety in telling herself she belonged here. When all the faces around her were white, the bone structure and gazes as generically smooth as vanilla pudding, her mantra lost its power, becoming just a sequence of words. Especially when the murmuring started.
Murmured questions and curious looks. The staring waitress behind the counter in the diner. Patrons in the hardware store whispering about “passing.” Ladies who chose not to look beyond the brim of their floppy hats while strolling past the colorful awnings of Main Street.
The probing eyes and dull whispers were unsettling, but never menacing or threatening. Whenever Tara had feared someone would swoop closer and prey upon them, her mother would lift her menu and announce, “Laurence, let’s order an appetizer for the family.” Or Serena Washington would pull a twisted brass concoction out of a bin in the hardware store with a hearty laugh and ask: “Now what in heaven’s name would you use this for?” Or she would pause at a shop window, wondering about the price of a suit and whether the color would be flattering for her skin tone.
Skin tone . . . the bane of Tara’s existence. Although she was African American, people often assumed that she was Caucasian because her skin was light, a creamy mocha shade. Their mistaken perception was a constant source of discomfort for her. Throughout her four years of private high school, she’d overheard murmurings from the other students, speculation over whether she was black or white, mixed race, Caribbean, or a descendant of Sally Hemmings.
Skin color was not discussed at home. Once, back in nursery school days, she had teased Wayne that she and Denise were better because their skin was lighter. They had even dumped out the bin of art supplies to search for crayons or markers that matched their skin tones—until Mama shut down the activity with a stern reminder that “we are all African American and we do not differentiate based on skin color.”
It was the same wherever she went, high school or college or summer camp; dark-skinned girls eyed her with suspicion, Latina girls snapped at her in Spanish, and during lecture halls she noticed other students staring at her curiously, as if a closer look at her hands or hair or feet would reveal the key to Tara Washington’s ethnic identity. It made Tara want to turn inward, to remind everyone that race was just one part of a person’s identity. As a teenager she’d felt freakish, until she glommed onto individuals who’d struggled to make their own way, their own identities. Princess Di, and Stephanie and Caroline of Monaco. Gypsy Rose Lee. Ellen DeGeneres. Elton John. Halle Berry. Sometimes she studied their bios, wishing for clues, searching for the key, the way to make it work.
Here in the Hamptons, Tara wondered if the fact that she hung out with white girls confused people all the more. But could she help it if her two best friends at the beach were Irish-Catholic and WASP wannabe?
Every year, as summer shimmered over the city, Tara wondered if this would be the last year she’d leave Park Slope to hook up with her Hamptons peeps. She had gone through a lot with Darcy and Lindsay, but sometimes, as she packed up for the summer, she felt like these girls were way too much work and fantasized about spending a quiet summer in the half-empty city, wandering in the coolness of museums and taking in matinees in dark cinemas.
Coney’s was hopping with patrons when Tara arrived, but it wasn’t hard to find Darcy. Like the sun, she was the
center of the bar, half the guys in the room caught in her gravitational pull. From head to toe, Darcy was model sleek—gold on blond highlights in waist-length hair, periwinkle blue eyes that sparkled with confidence, sheer white blouse that revealed the electric blue camisole underneath. Looking down at her own black tank and jean skirt, Tara felt like she was slumming.
Darcy greeted her with a lift of the chin. “Tara! Thank God.” She gave her a bony shoulder hug. “I was worried that you’d porked out, too.”
“Excuse me?” Tara squinted.
“Haven’t you seen Lindsay?” Darcy’s eyes closed to slivers. “I guess not. She’s enormous. She’d make Carnie Wilson look svelte.”
“I haven’t seen her,” she said haltingly, thinking that Darcy looked unattractive when she was being catty. “But I’m sorry to hear that.” Poor Lindsay. “So why isn’t she here?”
“Are you kidding me?” Darcy shot a glance over her shoulder at two guys who seemed to be waiting for an audience. “She wasn’t invited. I’m not going to be seen with a girlfriend like that. I mean, what’ll people think?”
“They’ll think you’re her friend,” Tara said pointedly. “Which I thought you were. What’s going on with you, Darcy?”
“Listen to me,” Darcy said, stepping up beside Tara so she didn’t have to shout over the music. “I’m just not comfortable hanging out with someone like that. It’s gross, okay?”
“She’s your friend!” Tara shot back. “Our friend, since we were little kids.”
“Well, those days are gone,” Darcy said, raking back a strand of blond hair with crimson nails. “So why don’t you move on, honey? Kevin is going to be here any minute, and if you mellow out and have a drink, we can have a few laughs, okay?”
But Tara was shaking her head fiercely. “I don’t think so. Right now, I’m not liking you so much, honey.”
Darcy cocked her head to the side, a strand of hair falling seductively over one eye. “Oh, don’t be that way. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. Want a margarita? A cosmo?”
But Tara backed away, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.” And with rage thrumming in her head, Tara pushed past Darcy, leaving the bar.
What an incredible bitch, Tara thought as she closed the door of her mother’s Mercedes and gripped the steering wheel. She still couldn’t believe Darcy was that shallow, that catty.
As she started the car, Tara felt doubly guilty for not calling Lindsay in these past two weeks. She’d wanted to, but she had been under her mother’s thumb, cleaning and redecorating. That would change this week, as soon as the guys got here from Korea, where Tara’s older brother was stationed in the armed forces. Although Tara didn’t feel a strong bond with her older brother Wayne, it would be a relief to have him finally arrive and put an end to the neurotic preparations. Besides, Wayne would provide enough distraction for Tara to get some of her life back.
Whatever was left of it.
Years ago they’d lost Elle in a near-tragic incident. Thank God Elle had survived, but when her parents whisked her away, never to return again, Tara felt as if Elle had taken a piece of them with her. And now this. Damn it, at the rate Darcy was cutting people off, there’d be nothing left of the Hamptons friends.
This was unacceptable. Time to take a stand.
Tara stopped at a pay phone and, surprised that she remembered it, dialed Lindsay’s number. “Hey, girl,” she said when Lindsay got on the line, “I’m headed over your way and I won’t take no for an answer. How about we catch a movie or something?”
That would show Darcy that she didn’t have the power to decimate Tara’s relationships. Granted, she could destroy her own, but while Darcy crashed and burned, her friends would be getting their groove on.
5
Darcy
They all love me.
Putting Tara’s angry exit out of her mind, Darcy focused on what she had going for her tonight. The guy thing. She moved her slender body between two guys lined up at the bar, feeling a subtle thrill as one of them slid his hand down her firm backside and the other teased a glance at the tan line along her cleavage. All the guys liked the way she looked and responded to her easy way of moving a conversation along. A feeling of power burned bright inside her at the realization that she could probably have her pick of any guy in Coney’s tonight. Any of these tan beach boys with six-pack abs would be happy to be her boyfriend.
But she was holding out for Kevin. And where the hell was he? His father, currently backing up the bartender, had told her he’d be here soon. She suspected that he was with his loser friends, Fish and David, but she didn’t want to ask Mr. McGowan too many questions, didn’t want to appear too desperate.
Licking the sugared rim of her red martini, she made her way down the bar in search of Kevin’s gold-tinged, spiky hair, the shaggy beach-boy look that had won him a place in her heart years ago, her fourteenth summer. Somehow, even back then, she’d known that Kevin was the one. Although she’d started sexual experimentation at an early age, kissing boys and letting them feel her up in the darkness of movie theaters or the cover of the dunes, she knew enough to save the best for Kevin.
She still remembered that night when she was just fourteen, the party at the McCorkle house, the perfume she wore, and the packets of condoms she’d tucked into her bag for the right opportunity with Kevin. He’d been playing quarters on the screened-in porch and the smell of beer was heavy on his lips as she caught him leaving the bathroom.
“There’s something up here I want to show you,” she’d told him, nodding her head toward the stairs. He’d followed her up, his mouth agape in curiosity as she led him into the master bedroom, once the sacred ground of Lindsay’s grandparents, the current bedroom of her mother.
“Are we supposed to be in here?” Kevin had asked, looking up at the crucifix on the wall.
Darcy pushed the door closed behind her. “I just wanted to show you this.” The snaps of her blouse opened with a row of pops, and Kevin stared down at her lacy bra.
“Wow,” he’d said, sampling the mound of one breast as if he’d discovered gold.
She’d moved into his arms and kissed him hard, rubbing against him to feel the hard lump under his jeans. She’d never done this, not all the way, but she figured it was about time she became a woman, and doing it with Kevin would serve the double purpose of getting rid of the virginity badge and wrapping him up as her boyfriend.
When he pressed into her, it seemed like it couldn’t happen. It hurt too much, the stinging pressure between her legs, and Darcy let out a yelp and pushed him away. They had to be doing something wrong for it to hurt this much.
“It’s okay,” he whispered into her ear as he looked down at their joined crotches and pressed, hard.
“Ow!” She squeezed back tears, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s smooth going from here,” he said. He started moving slowly then, in and out, in a rhythm that made Darcy wonder how many times he’d done this before. The thought of Kevin doing this with other girls brought on a pang of anger, but that quickly faded as he drove into her in easy rhythm, the gentle stroke of his body against hers reminding her that this was it—she and Kevin were finally together.
In the warmth that washed over her after that, she told him how she felt about him, how she’d always wanted to be his girlfriend. He’d seemed surprised that she’d given him her virginity, surprised that she was interested in him. When she mentioned being his girlfriend he told her he was “cool with that,” that he really liked her but couldn’t really get tied down right now.
Not the response she’d anticipated, but she figured it was a start.
Since that summer seven years ago they had dated off and on, always over the summer, always at the whim of Kevin and his male buddies who, as far as Darcy was concerned, spent way too much time smoking pot and waiting for killer waves to roll in. One summer Darcy gave him an ultimatum: be a good boyfriend or lose her forever. Kevi
n had failed, and Darcy had tried to move on. But she found herself back in Kevin’s arms, more specifically rocking in the back of his van, the first day of the very next summer. She knew her parents kept hoping she’d meet a more worthy man—a son of one of Dad’s investors, a Great Egg millionaire’s son, a Bennington boy with a strong moral code and a financially secure future. But that hadn’t happened, and though she’d dated other guys and had good sex with enough of them to form some basis of comparison, Kevin was the one she always returned to, the boy who brought that electrical charge into the room, the guy she wanted to be connected with, the only guy who could save her from her family, and from herself.
Taking a sip of her drink, she checked the landing, where three guys paused on their way to the bar.
Fish, David, and Kevin.
Darcy felt sparks fly as his eyes met hers. Trite, yes, but undeniably true. There was a potent chemistry between them. She was glad he’d made it, glad he’d recovered from this morning so that he could get out and party on this important night, the sendoff into summer.
He swaggered over, his jeans low on his hips, his Billabong T-shirt torn at the shoulder. “Darcy . . .” He leaned over her, his curly gold-tipped bangs in his eyes as he pressed his tongue to his lower lip. That adorable lick-smacking thing, as if he couldn’t wait to kiss her. “Hey, how’s it going?”
She shrugged, trying to appear casual. “Okay, I guess. Another Hamptons summer.”
“I hear you.” He leaned closer, teetering a bit, and she smelled the burnt smoke of weed on him. “You look fucking great,” he whispered with a sly smile.
She grinned, loving his giddiness. “I know. And you look a lot better than you did this morning.”
“Yeah.” He swiped his hands over his face, as if rubbing away the memory. “You were there, right?”
