“Of course.” Avery smiled as she awkwardly attempted to balance the squash against her cranberry-colored pebbled-leather Marc Jacobs bag. Even though she was still getting used to her mom dating— which Edie had never done when the triplets were growing up—she could see that Remington really cared for her.
The elevator slowly made its way up to the fourteenth floor. The door slid open and Remington gestured for Avery to step out first.
“Hello, darlings!” Edie opened the door to the Carlyles’ penthouse apartment as if on cue. Her earrings, made from tiny silver salt spoons, jangled loudly. She wore a belted white dress that looked like a bathrobe and a pair of red clogs that no one, not even Norwegian folk dancers, should ever wear. But because she was still a rail-thin size two and had large blue eyes and blond hair with only a few streaks of gray, even Avery had to admit her mom could kind of get away with ridiculous fashion choices.
“Oh, Remington.” Edie shook her head fondly when she caught sight of the squash, still cradled in Avery’s arms like an oddly shaped newborn. “You always know how to surprise me!” Edie tenderly took the squash from Avery and threw her arms around Remington.
Avery politely looked away, concentrating on the abstract red-and-white painting that had appeared in the foyer overnight. Avery squinted. Was that a Picasso? It was either the real thing, or something Remington had discovered by some no-name artist in Brooklyn.
She trailed a safe distance after her mother and Remington down the winding, polished floor of their cavernous penthouse and into the kitchen.
“Hey!” her sister, Baby, called. Baby’s wavy, unbrushed brown hair was pulled into a loose ponytail and she was hunched over the marble countertop of the island in the center of the kitchen, looking through pictures on her digital camera. Their brother, Owen, was rummaging through the refrigerator, his white-blond hair still damp from swim practice, wearing his threadbare gray Nantucket Pirates T-shirt. He was probably looking for a can of Red Bull. He drank at least three a day.
“Hey Ave!” Owen called cheerfully, holding up the silver and blue can in mock salute.
“Remington and I are going to make dinner!” Edie announced grandly. She flung open the walnut cabinets flanking the far wall and began pulling out brightly colored Le Creuset casserole dishes. “Some sort of harvest medley. I’ll figure it out.”
Avery sighed inwardly. Sometimes her mother’s off-the-cuff recipes tasted delicious, but more often than not, she treated cooking as just another artistic experiment.
“How about you let me handle it?” Remington asked. “I could do squash ravioli with sage,” he mused, pulling a variety of spices off the spice rack and furrowing his salt-and-pepper brows. He turned to the triplets. “It’s a special occasion—my daughter Layla is in town from Oberlin and is coming over for dinner,” he explained.
“We’re so excited for you all to meet her,” Edie said. She gazed at her children as if imagining her brood expanding. “And yes, why don’t you do the cooking, darling. Remington went to culinary school,” Edie explained proudly, resting her chin on Remington’s shoulder as she peered over the counter.
“Just a year or two ago. Once I stopped working full-time and Layla went to college, I decided to just spend some time exploring my passions. That’s also about the time I got involved with the Brooklyn Art Collective. But of course, now I have my one favorite passion!” Remington wrapped his beefy arms around Edie’s slim waist and gave her a long kiss on the lips.
Okay, we get the point.
Avery sat down at the kitchen island next to Baby. “Do you know what we’re doing for Thanksgiving?” She lowered her voice as she glanced from Baby’s deep coffee-colored eyes to Owen’s bright blue ones.
“I don’t know.” Owen shook his head. “Is he part of our plans?” he asked, an edge to his voice as he glanced sideways at Remington and Edie.
“No idea. But you can bet it’ll probably be the usual mix of randoms,” Baby said with an affectionate eye-roll. Back in Nantucket, Edie would always invite stray people who didn’t have anywhere else to go for the holidays. Last year, the dinner party guests had included a stern sea captain from Sweden named Oleg, a 93-year-old Boston society hostess who’d been uninvited to her own Thanksgiving after telling her entire extended family she was giving her estate to the Feral Cat Society, and a couple in their thirties who drove from state to state, occasionally setting up lawn chairs next to a sign that said TALK TO US!
“What are we talking about?” Edie floated past on her way to the Sub-Zero to put away the greenmarket produce she wasn’t going to cook.
“What are we doing for Thanksgiving?” Avery asked innocently. “Because if we’re not doing anything special, I think I might go keep Jack company. She’s going through a rough time with her family,” Avery explained.
“I could come if Jack needs strength in numbers,” Owen offered, grabbing a brownie from a plate on the counter and stuffing it in his mouth.
“Remington actually has a little announcement to make. Remington?” Edie called to the other end of the kitchen, where Remington was manning the six-burner stove.
“Ah, yes!” He wiped his hands on the back of his pants and walked over to the counter.
“As you know, your mom is very important to me. And you kids have all become important to me.” Remington awkwardly leaned over to try to ruffle Owen’s blond hair. Owen, who at six foot two was not exactly hair-ruffling height, ducked away. “So, I thought we could all go away together. You three, Edie and I, and Layla—it’ll be a great way for us to all get to know each other. I’ve booked us a few villas on Shelter Cay. I used to own the island. I sold the property years ago, but it’s still one of my favorite places.” Remington drifted back to the stove, as if he’d just announced they were going out to dinner.
“Your island?” Avery asked in confusion.
“Just a small one in the Bahamas. It was one of my first investments. But they still treat me well there.” Remington smiled.
“Isn’t that terrific?” Edie said, her eyes shining. “Of course, if you kids have anyone you want to bring—like maybe your friend Jack?—you’re welcome to. The more the merrier! Everyone should have fun on Thanksgiving,” Edie said definitively.
“Sure, thanks!” Avery said, excited. A tropical vacation and she could bring Jack? She pushed the plate of brownies away as if it was contaminated. She had so much to do! She needed a new bathing suit, and a few new Lilly Pulitzer dresses, and a self-tanner appointment at Bliss…. She quickly pulled her pink Filofax out of her bag.
“Great,” Owen muttered, practically stomping out of the kitchen.
“Wait!” Avery commanded, hurrying after him.
“Owen,” Baby said, sliding off her chair and following her brother and sister down the hallway like the loyal sibling she was.
“I can’t believe this!” Owen exclaimed once they were in his bedroom. Back when they were little, they used to have triplet meetings in their backyard tree house. They hadn’t had one in ages. Now, standing on Owen’s dirty laundry–covered floor, Avery felt both old and young. “He’s been dating mom for, like, a month,” Owen spat angrily.
“Calm down. They’re in love. You don’t need to be an asshole just because this year there won’t be any tofurkey to cook. Is that why you’re upset?” Baby teased. Ever since Owen was twelve, he’d taken it upon himself to be in charge of Thanksgiving dinner.
“No.” Clearly, Owen was not in the mood. “It’s just… who is this guy, telling us what we’re doing for Thanksgiving?” He plopped down on his flannel-sheeted bed and looked at his sisters, who both had their arms crossed and were staring down at him like mismatched bookends.
“So, let me get this straight. Would you prefer if Mom invited her Brooklyn artist friends and had us all spend the day doing performance art?” Baby asked.
“We probably won’t even see them once we get there, right?” Avery pointed out. “Anyway, it’s nice that they want us to invite frie
nds. You should bring Rhys,” she suggested, changing the subject.
In the most subtle of ways.
“I guess so. Look, I think I’m going to skip the ‘family’ dinner and head over to Hugh’s. He’s having some people over.” Owen went into the bathroom and closed the door. The triplet meeting was clearly over.
“Fine!” Baby said in a singsongy voice, not wanting to indulge Owen’s pouty mood.
“Fine,” Avery echoed. Owen was being seriously immature, but if he was going to hang out with the swim team guys, he’d have the perfect opportunity to invite Rhys on vacation. Avery could picture herself on a beach, in her Milly bikini, the salty air blowing through her hair as a bare-chested Rhys offered her a daiquiri with a dainty straw. “Fine,” she said again, but it was better than fine. It was perfect.
Here’s hoping Mr. Manners doesn’t have plans of his own.
b meets her match
Remington looked up from the green beans he was sautéing. “Baby, I hope you don’t mind, but I took a look at some of your photographs.”
Baby glanced up from her cell, where she’d just texted Sydney with an invite to the Bahamas. Next to Remington was the digital camera Baby had left on the table, filled with shots she had taken this weekend, for Rancor, the school’s art magazine. It was run by her best friend, Sydney Miller, a multi-pierced and tattooed girl who described her sexuality as “flexual.” Baby had always been sort of interested in photography, but had only been taking pictures with an artistic sensibility for the past couple of months.
“I like to look at art while I’m cooking. It inspires me,” Remington added. Weird banjo music filled the room, and he was shuffling from one earth-friendly woven hemp moccasin to the other.
“Oh,” Baby replied uncertainly as she retrieved the camera.
“I couldn’t help myself. You’ve got an amazing sense of perspective. Just like your mom,” Remington said thoughtfully, as he passed Baby a clove of garlic. “Mind chopping that?”
“Sure.” Baby took a knife and began slicing the white clove into teeny-tiny squares. Even though she’d just made a mental note to hide everything in the apartment from now on, Remington was nice, and actually pretty cool, as old men went. And Baby was just happy her mom was happy.
“You know, Baby, my daughter, Layla, is just a few years older than you. She’s a sophomore at Oberlin. Smarter than me, that’s for sure. A straight-A philosophy and math double major. I think you and she will really get along,” Remington mused proudly. He peered over her shoulder. “Good chopping!”
Baby smiled, pleased with the compliment. Just then, her cell beeped with a reply from Sydney.
You elitist bitch! Sorry but I have to spend Thanksgiving in Bedford with the senile grandma, so she can be disappointed in me before she dies. Thinking of what else I can pierce/tattoo before then. Have fun for me. I won’t.
Baby smiled at her friend’s allover randomness. Knowing Sydney, she probably would get a tattoo before Thanksgiving. She already had a star on her arm and a fish on her ankle.
Maybe she could consolidate and get a starfish on her ass.
“Your friend coming?” Remington asked, not even turning around. It was weird how he seemed to notice everything.
“No,” Baby mumbled, her excitement dwindling. Without Sydney, she was staring down a string of days hanging out alone. After all, Avery would be with Jack, trying on sundresses and drinking mojitos and whatever the hell else their newfound best friendship was based on, while Owen and Rhys would swim and run and parasail together. But, Baby thought, it’s the beach! Even if she just sat on the sand alone with a book, she’d be happy.
The doorbell rang, interrupting Baby’s thoughts. “I’ll get it,” she announced. Remington smiled gratefully, his hands covered with the gooey orange innards of the squash.
Baby ran to the front entranceway, swung open the door, and found herself face-to-face with a petite girl with crazy blond curls piled under an enormous purple wool knit hat. She wore an oversize gray American Apparel dress, black leggings, and a huge, furry brown sweater instead of a coat. She was carrying a large black guitar case covered with stickers from old-school girl bands like Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney and Le Tigre. She looked cool and like she didn’t give a fuck.
“Hello?” Baby asked suspiciously. Was this really Remington’s daughter? She didn’t look like a math-and-whatever double major at all. In fact, she looked a little bit like a girlier version of Sydney.
Ask and you shall receive….
“You must be Baby. Or are you Avery?” the girl asked in a lilting voice. She dropped her duffel on the floor, then pulled off her hat and shook her blondish-brown hair out of her face. “I know it’s so weird, but I feel like we need to hug. I’m Layla Wallis,” she said as she pulled Baby into an embrace. Layla smelled sort of like patchouli, and they were exactly the same height of five foot zero.
“Yeah, I’m Baby. Nice to meet you. My sister’s… somewhere.” Baby shrugged. She pointed curiously to the guitar. “You play?”
“Yeah, my boyfriend and I are in a band together. Do you?” Layla asked, an eager grin spreading across her face. Baby shook her head. Maybe she could learn, though. She wondered idly if Layla might be able to teach her.
“Layla!” Remington strode across the room, easily picking up his daughter and swinging her around.
“Is she here?” Edie’s voice carried from her studio. “Layla, darling, you’re more stunning in person than in pictures!” Edie cooed as she walked into the foyer. There was a smudge of green paint on her high forehead.
“So, how’s the math going?” Remington asked jovially, setting Layla down.
“Daaad,” Layla rolled her eyes, mock annoyed. “You know I’m not majoring in math. I changed to gender studies. Women’s studies was too limiting,” she explained to Baby. “Besides, I figured, why not get as useless a degree as possible to annoy my father?” Layla shrugged and looked over at Baby, as if they were sharing an inside joke. Baby smiled back, just glad to be included. Owen and Avery were still in their rooms, probably calling Rhys and Jack and planning their fun buddy-trip at this very second. But suddenly it seemed like Baby might have a buddy of her own.
“Anyway, Edie, thank you so much for having me. My father told me you were an artist; I’d love to see your work,” Layla said sincerely. Edie positively beamed.
“So, tell me honestly.” Layla whispered conspiratorially as she and Baby trailed their parents toward the kitchen. “What do you think of my dad?” An impish smile formed on her face.
“He seems cool.” Baby shrugged. Really, she was thinking Layla seemed cool. Sydney not being able to come no longer seemed like such a big deal.
“Even though he dresses like an eco-yuppie, he’s really great. If you could help me with the clothes, it’d be amazing.” Layla companionably linked arms with Baby’s. “I just know we’re going to have so much fun!”
Baby nodded and smiled. She and Layla already had the same taste in clothes and in music, and they shared a set of crazy-in-love parents. Add to that staying in the same room, and she knew that by the end of this trip, they’d be sharing secrets—they’d be sharing everything.
And she means everything.
r gets an assignment
“Fuck!” Owen exclaimed as the doorman opened the door and he stepped out into a downpour. He hadn’t bothered to bring an umbrella, and it wasn’t like he wanted to go back upstairs to get one. He huddled under the green awning, hoping that a cab would pass by, but Fifth Avenue was practically silent. The chance of getting a cab was about as good as him having a super time during the upcoming family bonding vacation. Hopefully, Rhys would be able to come and they could just hang out as far away as possible—like, preferably another island away—from Remington.
Owen balled his hands in his pockets and began to walk north, toward Hugh Moore’s house. Hugh was a teammate from the St. Jude’s swim team and had decided to throw an impromptu party when Coach annou
nced they had tomorrow off. Owen had planned on checking out the scene at Hugh’s after dinner, but once Remington announced his plan, he’d lost his appetite. It wasn’t like Remington was a bad guy. If he were the dad of one of his buddies, he’d be pretty cool. But everything just seemed a little sudden. After years of never dating, his mom was practically married to this guy.
He reached Hugh’s town house on Eightieth and Park. The limestone steps were flanked by two large lion sculptures. Owen patted one on the head as he jogged up the steps, and rang the bell.
“Hello, sir!” Hugh flung open both of the large black oak double doors. He wore a velvet jacket belted loosely around his frame, possibly in an attempt to look like Hugh Hefner. Hugh sometimes bragged that the Playboy founder was his namesake.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” Hugh noted, shaking his head. Hugh was a muscle-y blond junior whose home was the de facto St. Jude’s swim team party house, since his parents were practically always traveling in Europe. He ushered Owen down a large mirror-paneled hallway. “I’m trying to change up this gathering a little. Maybe give some of our guys something to do this weekend. Just follow my lead.”
“Sounds good, man.” Owen was glad to have something to think about besides his mom’s love life. “What’s the master plan this time?”
“Basically, our pansy teammates aren’t getting action. And it’s like, sometimes you have to bring the fucking mountain to them,” Hugh said cryptically as he flung open the glass-framed French doors to a large formal living room. Kids were lounging in the leather wingback chairs and stiff leather couches, Riedel highball glasses in hand. A projector screen flashed some weird movie against the wall, the images distorting the large Manet painting hanging over the fireplace.
“Look who’s here!” Hugh called to the motley group. He held out his own glass in a mock toast. Owen glanced around. Amongst the usual crew of varsity and JV swimmers were a couple of random girls he’d never seen before. “Ladies, for those of you who don’t know, this is Owen Carlyle. Owen, this is Sabine, Salome, Sabrina, and Simone. These lovely ladies agreed to come to our French film-fest. They’re all in Le Cinéma Français Society at L’École. It’s sort of like a cultural exchange program, with alcohol and nudity.” Hugh leered up at the wall. The image was grainy, but the characters on-screen were definitely naked.
Love the One You're With Page 2
