Postcards From Last Summer (11 page)

T
ara Washington had attended dozens of Hamptons parties, with everything from live carousels to psychics providing entertainment. But tonight, Anusa Armando's fete topped everything.

“I have to say, I've never been to a party where you can get your fortune told, your hand molded in wax, and your feet rubbed.” Strolling around the “fairgrounds” of Anusa's party was Charlie's first foray into the Hamptons party scene, and he seemed highly amused by the circus atmosphere.

“That foot rub is actually a hot-stone massage,” Tara said, “and I don't think you're supposed to call the palmist a fortune teller. Not PC.”

“Really? Is that some sort of demotion?” Charlie reached out and pulled her closer, and she pressed into him, loving the feel of his hard body against hers. Ever since last night, since they'd been together, she and Charlie had moved to a new level in their relationship, sharing a closeness she'd never felt with a guy. It was as if they could finish each other's sentences and thoughts, and they'd each shrivel up and die if they were apart for long. Music up. Roll happy ending.

The only downside was that she wanted to be with him tonight and every night. She couldn't imagine sleeping down the hall from him now, far from the warmth of his body against hers, and how would they sit at the dinner table in her parents' home, Mom's eyes narrowing and Dad scratching his chin as their hands touched while passing the butter beans? She and Charlie had to find a way to get together again, soon, especially since Charlie and Wayne had to report back to their post in North Korea before the end of summer.

Charlie kissed her lightly on the lips, then wrapped his arms around her waist so that they could both look out over the lawn full of guests, small tents, torches, and tables.

“It's weird,” she said softly. “From here the ocean is just a big, black hole. Without that sliver of moon reflected on it, you'd never know it was there.” They found a sign pointing to the beach, leading to a wooden stairway that led down the cliffside.

“Maybe we should get our fortunes told,” Charlie said, peering back at the palmist's tent. “I'd like to know what's down the road for us. A cozy suburban house with a two-car garage and 2.3 kids?”

Tara laughed. She'd never talked about getting married before, not even joking around.

“You laugh?” He pressed a fist to his forehead. “I'm wounded. Devastated.”

“Don't overplay it,” Tara said. “I was just thinking that you've got to feel sorry for that .3 kid. Always getting slighted.”

Charlie groaned. “Could it be that I've met someone even geekier than my geek self?”

“I think my brother wins the geek crown for our family.” She went in front of him on the stairs, which turned out to be three stories of wooden steps leading down along the dunes. “I'm just . . . serious. Academic, no-nonsense single African American female seeking . . . nonacademic, nonsensical single male.”

“At least I fit the male part,” Charlie said. They walked down in silence for a minute, her high-heeled Manolo Blahniks clapping on the wood steps. “I noticed you didn't say single African American male, but isn't that a priority for you?”

“Not for me.” She paused, feeling the truth, knowing he recognized it. “But my parents are expecting something like that.”

“And here I thought your father just hated me because I'm Jewish.”

“Jewish?” That hadn't occurred to her; that he would think he was different, that there was reason to discriminate against him. The last step was mired in sand. She stepped off and her Manolos, the skinny-heeled ones with the straps decorated with cutout gold leaves, sank into the cool sand. “It's not that you're Jewish.” She sloshed through sand to a boulder and sat down to remove her shoes.

He jumped down the last steps, flinging his arms out as if he'd just stuck a landing for Olympic gold. “That I'm white? Actually, that I'm not black.”

“Bingo.”

“Aw, you're not like that, are you?” His voice sounded forlorn as he moved closer and leaned down to face her. “You don't treat me differently because of the color of my skin.”

“I don't,” she said, unable to say the words that lingered between them:
But they do. My parents see you as a white boy, an outsider. Nothing against you, Charlie, but the Washingtons are into preservation of family culture, and you just don't fit the profile.

“Shit.” His chin dimpled as he pressed his lips together tightly. “Well, that's just not fair. Because, the thing is, in here, I got more soul than half the brothers you know. Innate cool. Awareness. I could be black, I could totally pull it off, if I could just change my skin color.”

She laughed.

“Again with the mocking laugh? I'm serious.”

Pinching her lips together to stifle a smile, Tara recalled a book she'd read in junior high called
Black Like Me
, in which the author had consumed a dye to darken his skin and experience firsthand the way people of color were treated in the South. Charlie wasn't that crazy, was he? Because, much as she loved him, she loved who he was—an angst-ridden, white Jewish guy from the Bronx—not some derivation he could fashion himself into. “It's not just about skin tone, because, brother, you're darker than me.” She held her arm out against his, and with the black hair on his arm his skin appeared to be a shade darker than hers. “It's a way of life . . . a culture that we inherit.”

“I know that. I do! And it's probably not PC to say it, but I'm more black than your brother, and he was the first to point it out.”

“I know.” Tara dropped her face into her hands, not sure whether to laugh or cry. She shared Charlie's frustration; Lord knew she'd been railing against the confines of this cultural restriction all her life. “You're right. I've spent my whole life trying to live up to my parents' expectations of ‘black behavior.' Ironic, when I'm stuck in this skin that looks so white. It's a constant struggle; a no-win situation.”

He stopped pacing and sat across from her, leaning close to study her. “You've fought them all your life. How did you do it?”

“It wasn't really a fight. Just a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.”

He shook his head. “Don't throw me out with the reject blocks because of all this. It's so clear that you and I belong together. We fit, don't we?”

“We do.” That she knew in her heart. “We fit together well.”

Charlie squeezed one eye shut. “I see a big but coming.”

“The question is, can a good fit—a solid relationship—be strong enough to overcome the adversity of my parents, your parents, and a society that would always cast a curious, scornful eye at us and our children?”

“I like the way you say ‘our children,' ” he said, taking her by the hand. “But no more twenty questions. It's a gorgeous night and I'll always kick myself if we don't take advantage of that beautiful beach down there.”

With a deep breath, Tara rose to the salt air and lilting music of the party. Charlie was right; there would be time for twenty questions later. For now, they needed to enjoy this summer night ripe with music and friends and possibilities . . . endless possibilities.

“H
ow long? How much time do we have?” Darcy asked as steel drums shimmered in the warm night.

“I couldn't reach Elle on her cell phone,” Lindsay admitted, “so I don't know yet.”

When a roving belly dancer came to their group, Lindsay had pulled Darcy away to dump the bad news on her. Elle! Please. The girl was going to be the summer buzz-kill.

“But it's not like the summer is over, Darce. I mean, yeah, Elle is coming and she's going to stay at my place, but everything that happened between you guys was years ago.”

“Funny, when I think of her, it feels like yesterday.” Darcy could still recall the oddest details. The black, glassy sheen of the water. Elle's Keds with red and blue striped laces. The bottle of Perrier Darcy had clutched as she negotiated the rocks, trying not to spill the drink. And the hateful look on Elle's face, her lips wrenched so tight that Darcy thought Elle was going to spit on her from the jagged rocks. And maybe that was what Elle had been planning when her sneaker slipped, her balance shifted, and a searing panic overtook her malice for Darcy. Panic and a graceful plunge into water so deep it was black as obsidian. “I guess it's not so easy to forget, when you're accused of killing someone.”

“No one really accused you. Those fishermen saw everything.”

“Whatever,” Darcy said, recalling that her own parents hadn't really believed she was innocent. How many times had her mother said: “Thank God Elle survived!”? And her father's staid response: “Imagine the liability! I dread to think of the legal and civil suits.” Bud and Melanie Love were all about covering their asses, while Darcy sat over her Max Factor deluxe manicure kit in her room, feeling like a hollow, burnt-out shell of a person as she methodically removed polish, pushed back cuticles, and polished again. Tangerine Scream. Candy Apple Red. Flower Power! She tried one outrageous shade after another, but nothing could comfort or soothe, no Over the Rainbow or Cornflower Explosion could jar the bad feelings that laced through her heart.

That had shown her the scary reality; no one was watching over her, no one was taking care and looking out for Darcy. Oh, they could buy her nice things and bankroll private schools and trips. But when it came down to it, the only person looking out for Darcy was going to be Darcy herself. From Elle's screwup on the jetty had sprung Darcy's search for someone who really cared; someone to ally with. The gorgeous, energetic Kevin.

“Are you the designated driver?” Lindsay asked, her eyes on Kevin as he leaned forward and tipped a drink back against his lips. The orange liquid—a screwdriver, Darcy suspected—rushed into his mouth and down his chin, much of it dripping onto the grass between his sneakers. It was dark enough not to see the drops of drinks splattered on his jeans, but Darcy could make out a stain toward the bottom of his patterned silk shirt.

“It sure looks like I'm stuck driving again,” Darcy answered. “And Kevin insisted on bringing that hunk-of-junk van. I hate driving that thing. It's like wheeling in the Mystery Machine.” She wondered if other people at the party realized how sloshed her boyfriend was. Of course, when you were standing at the bar beside Lorne Michaels or laughing in a group with Calvin Klein, you tended not to pay attention to B-grade celebrities like the son of a local restaurant owner.

She looked down the great lawn, a wide expanse of grass overlooking the ocean, and wondered if Tara and Charlie had left already. Round, white-covered tables decorated the expanse, along with torches blazing on tall sticks. Anusa had put out a beautiful spread, as usual, but it was disconcerting that they hadn't even started serving dessert and already her boyfriend was listing and losing his footing.

Once again, Kevin wasn't able to put a cork on the drinking. It pissed her off, ruining her good time. He was either sloshed like this, or wired and weird like last night, when he wanted to chase her on the beach and then maul her in bed all night. “You know, sometimes I wonder if the Kevin and Darcy Bliss Package is worth all this.” Really, she'd had better offers, from lots of guys. What was it about Kevin that kept her hanging on, even when he embarrassed her and turned into a moronic slouch at parties like this? Just then he let out a loud laugh, giddy and bright. He did have an infectious sense of fun, but... “Am I a doormat?” she asked Lindsay.

“You?” Lindsay followed her gaze to Kevin. “No. Never. You're tough and demanding. Not that I don't wonder sometimes what you see in Kevin.”

“He's a good guy. Hot, and he makes me laugh a lot.” She thought of the old Kevin, the guy she'd fallen for years ago, and added, “When he's not wasted.”

“Which isn't a lot of the time anymore. It seems to me you've worked most of your life to snag him, and now that you have, you're getting an inside look. He's got a drinking problem, Darce.”

“I know that. But that's the alcohol, not Kevin.”

“Did you ever try separating the two?” Lindsay's eyes softened, brown moons in her heart-shaped face.

“He can control it,” Darcy said, though she wasn't sure that was true. “I mean, we all drink, like, to party. We've all had too much.”

Lindsay shrugged. “Not to pass judgment, but Kevin has taken partying way beyond. He doesn't seem to sober up anymore.”

“You're right,” Darcy admitted, relieved to let her friend in but alarmed that it was all true. “You're right, but I don't know what the answer is, because the alternative is a nightmare, too. Last night, when I asked him not to drink, he got so fired up, I think he was doing coke, too.”

“Yeah, Austin mentioned something about that. I think he saw Kevin doing some lines out by the pool.”

“And you didn't tell me?” Darcy snapped, then screwed up her face. It wasn't Lindsay's fault, and the last thing Darcy wanted to do was cry here, right in the middle of Hamptons party central.

A girl in a maroon and pink print sarong came by offering them a tray of different kinds of shooters in test tubes—blue, green, red, and orange liquors. Lindsay waved her off, then put a hand on Darcy's arm. “I'm sorry . . . about everything.” Something flashed in her eyes—a tear?—and then suddenly her face was crumpled in a sob.

“Lindsay?” Darcy turned to her, squeezing her arm. “What's the matter?”

“I didn't want to tell you. I mean, it's my fault, but . . .” She swiped at her eyes. “Why am I crying? It's not like I really care, but when I went to the beach today and tried to talk with Austin, he totally ignored me. Wouldn't even say hello.” Lindsay sniffed and swiped at new tears. “It was just so humiliating.”

“What an asshole.” Darcy grabbed a stack of napkins from a nearby table and let Lindsay dab at her face.
This is my fault,
Darcy thought as she rubbed her back between the shoulder blades. “I'm going to kill him. You should have called me.”

Lindsay's dark hair splayed around her face as she buried her eyes in the napkins. “I didn't want to talk about it, but . . . when you asked about being a doormat, well, that's me, isn't it? I just got stepped on, big-time.”

“That's not true.” Darcy felt a tug of guilt. Hadn't she been the one to set Austin up with Lindsay? And she'd thought they'd be okay together. Okay, maybe she realized Austin wasn't going to just drop to his knees and fall for a girl with a weight problem, but she'd relied on him to do the right thing, show Lindsay a good time and be a man about it. “You had a good time with him, right? The rest is his problem. You can't help it if he's a socially maladjusted psycho.”

“I should've known.” Lindsay's voice caught. “Should've been smarter . . .”

“Don't even say that.” Darcy turned her friend toward her and reached around her shoulders to hug her. Although Darcy was so bad at this sort of thing, she could feel Lindsay shaking slightly under her palms, so she rubbed her back a little.

“Woo-hoo! Girl-on-girl love.” Kevin growled. “I'd like to get in the middle of that. And I probably can, since one of those girls is mine.”

“In your dreams.” Darcy lifted her chin to glare at him, realizing a bad night was only going to get worse. “Get lost.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.” With some difficulty he extracted his keys from the pocket of his jeans and tossed them in the air. They flopped to the ground, and as he leaned down to retrieve them he stumbled. “Come on, Darce. There's a nice, quiet bar up the road with my name on it.”

“Give me the keys,” Darcy said firmly.

“In
your
dreams,” Kevin sputtered.

Darcy stepped away from her friend and squared off with Kevin. “I've had more than my quota of assholes tonight. Don't add to it, Kev.”

He straightened up, stumbled, dropped the keys again. “Then get your butt over here and let's go, Pop-Tart!”

Sucking in a furious breath between her teeth, Darcy leaned down quickly and swept up his key ring. “You're drunk, Kev. Don't make it worse by being a dick, too.” She dropped the keys into her tank top, tucking them in between her breasts. Linking her arm through Lindsay's, she tugged her toward the beach. “Let's get some fresh air.”

“Where ya going?” Kevin called after her. “Darcy! Get back here, 'cause I'm leaving.”

“Not without your keys,” Darcy said, cutting a path around a busy table where people were waiting in line to have their palms read.

“Shit!” Kevin said loudly behind them, talking to himself. “Did she just call me a dick? Am I a dick?”

“A little slow on the uptake,” Darcy muttered.

“I'm okay,” Lindsay said, raking her hair back with one hand. “You can drive him home if you want.”

“He can wait.” Right now Lindsay needed all the nurturing she could muster. “I figure he'll rant and rave awhile. He can go out to the parking lot and bang on the side of his van, but at least he can't get behind the wheel. By the time I'm ready to go, he'll have cooled down. Full of apologies.”

“Sorry enough to stop drinking?” Lindsay asked.

“That's another conversation for when he's sober.” Which wasn't often, these days. Although Darcy didn't look forward to having it out with Kevin about his drinking, she knew that conversation was coming; it was inevitable, and Kevin was going to have to pull himself together if they were going to make the Kevin and Darcy happily-ever-after scenario happen.

In the meantime, this party was shot to hell because of her pathetic boyfriend and Elle MacWEIRDson and some pretty-boy lifeguard who'd abused her best friend. But Darcy knew she had to stick by Lindsay for a while, put on a cutesy face, and make the most of Anusa's big bash. It was the least she could do for her friend.