Postcards From Last Summer (22 page)

A
gull shrieked, rousing Tara from her catnap in the sun. She stretched, savoring her day off. Tomorrow morning she'd take the early train back to Manhattan, to her new job in the offices of Senator Sterling Wentworth. So far her job entailed fairly menial tasks like making copies, answering phones and e-mail from his constituency, but one of his aides was going on vacation next month, which would allow Tara some input on the senator's e-mail newsletter and policy writing. Not bad for a recent college graduate.

So much had changed since the last time she'd been on this beach, a sunny day just before last season's hurricane when she'd splashed in the surf with Charlie. After he'd returned to Korea their relationship had fizzled too quickly. She'd found it difficult to connect with him through the mail—his writing was so corny—and every time he called her on the phone she felt trapped, as if caught in the bubble of last summer, unable to break out. The truth was, she was changing, growing every day, exploring new options, and being with Charlie closed those options. Maybe she'd feel different if he were here beside her, but he'd been transferred to Fort Benning, Georgia, and Tara's New York roots ran deep.

As a wave smashed onto the shore below them and sent a mist of cool spray their way, she remembered how they'd once played on this beach together. Thank God Darcy and Elle had ended their feud, at least for the time being. Elle seemed to be embracing Lindsay's friend Milo, though her twenty-questions game was a little invasive. Elle just didn't know when she was stepping over the line.

“People still have issues with gay men,” Milo confided in Elle. They were still building a sand sculpture—a buxom mermaid, from Tara's perspective—which meant Tara couldn't have been dozing too long. “One of my friends had his apartment robbed, and the burglars actually stuffed his copies of the
Gay Free Press
into the toilet.”

“Fucking burglars,” Elle said. “They must have been Republicans.”

“I heard that,” Tara said, propping herself up on one elbow, “and you're in big trouble, Elle.” To everyone's surprise, Tara had declared herself a young conservative and had landed a job as a clerical assistant in the Manhattan office of a staunch Republican senator.

“Oh, go back to sleep, Tara,” Elle said, hopping to her feet with two buckets. “I didn't make any libelous statements about Senator Poopy-pants.”

“You know,” Tara propped herself up on her elbows, “go on and tease me, but I went after that job because I really believe in everything Senator Sterling Wentworth stands for.”

“Ix-nay on the olitics-pay,” Elle said. “I'm apolitical.” She headed down the sloping beach to get more water, Milo following with another empty bucket.

“Elle's gotten better, but she's still lacking in empathy,” Tara told Lindsay, who sat up and dug through her net beach bag.

Lindsay's brown eyes were thoughtful. “Is she stepping on your toes again?”

“It's just her blithe attitude toward everything. Like Senator Wentworth. My job is important to me, and I had to fight for it. I prepared well for the interview, and even then I'm not sure I would have gotten it if one of the senator's staffers didn't make a huge blunder.”

“Really?” Lindsay paused, her lip gloss in midair. “I didn't hear about this. What happened?”

“It was one of the guys sitting in on the panel interview—James Melvin is his name. He joked that I had a learning disability because I checked the wrong box on the form. I thought it was just a dorky joke, until he slid the application across the table and pointed out that I'd checked the African American box.”

Lindsay winced. “Ooh . . . egg on his face.”

“You'd think so, but he never apologized, even after I advised him that I am, in fact, an African American with a light shade of skin.”

“How awful for you. How'd he weasel out of that one?”

“He just mumbled something unintelligible and went on with the interview.” Tara sighed, remembering the feral look on Melvin's face, his beady eyes soulless and cold. “Later, when I heard that I got the job, I was a little worried that they felt pressured to hire me. Maybe they thought I'd use Mr. Melvin's blunder as grounds for a lawsuit. But I've gotten over that now. I'm just going to give them my best, prove that I'm up to the job, and focus on the important matters.”

“Like Josh?”

“Like civil rights and the senator's proposal for welfare reform.” Since Tara's relationship with Josh Cohen was in its early stages, she was reluctant to bring him around her friends.

“But when are we going to meet Josh?” Lindsay asked. “Doesn't he have a summer place out here?”

“His parents are in Hampton Bays, but we weren't able to hook up this weekend.”

“So who made the first move?” Lindsay asked, cracking open a bottle of water.

“Definitely Josh.” Tara laughed. “He asked me to join him for lunch the day I started work. We went to Burger Heaven and split the bill, but we've been lunching together ever since, catching movies and free concerts at night. It's been an intense two weeks. Already he's calling me his girlfriend.”

“Then we have to meet him. How about this week? I've got to bang on some human resource doors, and we promised Darcy we'd stop in at the trial and keep her company.”

Tara shook her head. “Leave it to Darcy to treat a corporate fraud trial as the social event of the season.”

“Would it be too weird to invite him to lunch with us?” Lindsay laughed and her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, that would be pushing it.”

“Way too weird.” Especially considering Tara's mixed feelings about her attraction for Josh. Was this pattern of falling for white men rooted in some psychological need . . . or was it just a matter of circumstance? She knew Lindsay would be sympathetic, but she also didn't want her friend overanalyzing things until Tara had a better grasp of the situation. “Why don't you stop by the senator's office to pick me up for lunch,” Tara suggested. “I'll introduce you to everyone, including Josh.”

“Okay,” Lindsay said, “and I won't bite. I promise.”

“I
know you miss the housekeepers and the gardeners and all, but we could never do this when they were around.” Kevin strutted out to the end of the diving board, beads of water sparkling on his bare skin. “This is fucking great!”

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Darcy watched as he dove into the pool, his lean body an arrow into the water. Perfect form. With new muscle tone and voracious energy, the reformed, clean and sober Kevin was delicious eye candy. She loved to feel the muscles of his shoulders as he leaned over her, pumping into her as he'd done that morning in bed, and whenever he passed by she could barely resist touching his tight butt.

“Why don't you come in?” he called. “The water feels great.”

“Maybe later.” The polish on her nails was chipped and two nails had broken in the process of sweeping the front porch and pool area, then wiping down all the lounge chairs and tables. It was disgusting, dirty work, and right now she was doing her best to triage her manicure, filing and removing polish.

Kevin was correct about the housekeeping staff; she missed them desperately. Funny that you never realized how filthy a house could become until people stopped cleaning.

While Kevin swam laps, she filed her nails down to presentable crescent shapes and thought of the challenge Kevin had presented last night. “Before this summer is out, we are going to do it every which way, in every single room of this house.”

She'd laughed, backing into the turquoise room with gaming instinct. “It's a pretty big house. Maybe it's more than you can handle.”

“Do you doubt me, woman?” he'd growled, tumbling her onto the turquoise bed and trailing kisses down her neck to the crease between her breasts. The rooms were dusty and laced with cobwebs, but in Kevin's arms the creepiness dissipated and she felt alive and loved.

In terms of sex Kevin had become amazing since he'd gone through rehab. In the past she'd been annoyed when he couldn't finish the job or when he passed out before things even got started, but now he was on top of his game, playing her body as if she were a priceless musical instrument. Darcy felt the muscles between her legs tighten at the sight of his nude body streaking through the water. He seemed to want her all the time, and she was ready and willing.

A few minutes later he emerged with a splash near her feet.

“That felt great.” He climbed out of the pool, water cascading down his body to the cement.

“If we're having everyone over later, we're going to need some food to serve,” she said. “Got any ideas?”

“I'll fire up that rotisserie grill in the kitchen. Maybe I'll let you taste my specialty. Skewered chicken and vegetables.”

“Really? Is it good?”

“Tastes just like chicken.” He came to her side and bent over her for a kiss.

“Eee! That's cold! You're dripping on me!” she squealed, but nipped at his lower lip seductively.

“Cold?” He straightened, touching his tongue to his bottom lip defiantly. “How about the hot tub?” He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

She rose from the lounge chair, padding upon the decorative tiles beside him. They would always look so good together, she thought, catching the reflection of their perfect nude bodies in the French doors. She could see it—their photos in newspapers, the subject of society columns when they became the premier Hamptons couple, Darcy and Kevin, the darlings of the celebrity crowd. Everyone loved a beautiful couple and a popular place to hang out, and once Coney's was under their care, Darcy and Kevin would provide both.

She slid into the hot tub, her breasts buoyant and slick in the bubbling water. Kevin dropped into the water beside her and sighed with contentment. “I'm in a really good place now, Darce.” He moved closer, and in the effervescent water she felt his fingers slide up along her thigh. “Thanks to you. I know I wronged you in the past, honey, and I'm sorry for that. I'm really sorry. I hope to make it up to you now.”

Leaning back, she breathed in the chlorine-scented air and gazed beyond the patio to the hedges, the rose garden, the towering cypress trees that bordered the winding driveway. Though so many things about this summer really sucked, Kevin had come through as her savior. “You'll have plenty of chances to be nice to me,” she said, reaching for him. “Over and over again.”

T
wo weeks into the summer, and it's as if he never existed,
I thought as I paddled into the lineup. Skeeter and Johnny were horsing around and a few other guys were popping up on their boards, but the days of surfing beside Bear, of talking in the lineup or taking a break on the beach were a distant memory, like an old videotape frozen in the worst scene.

Our lineup was missing two guys. Bear was living in Hawaii and Steve was so busy with his new job, he would only make it out for a few weekends and a week of vacation. And though I tried to throw myself into my job search, I couldn't stop thinking about Bear. He was the missing link in my summer.

The first two weeks of June set everyone in a routine that I suspected would replay all summer. Milo and Elle extracted themselves from other job commitments and got to work on the Love Mansion, where Darcy was happy to have them move in and keep her company. Darcy commuted into Manhattan three or four days a week to attend her father's trial, show daughterly support, and strike a pose for the cameras outside the courtroom. Tara stayed in Manhattan for her job working for the senator during the week but spent every weekend in the Hamptons. And I surfed whenever the weather allowed during the day and spent five nights a week waiting tables at Coney's.

Although I had worked as a waitress in a small Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn, that experience hadn't quite prepared me for the challenge of Coney's. It was one thing to keep my station covered, checking in on tables without appearing overbearing. Opening wine bottles in front of graying men with hard jaws and critical eyes was intimidating for me, especially coming from a family of the beer and whiskey sour persuasion. There was the ever-constant refilling of the water glasses, as well as the bread baskets, from which rolls disappeared so quickly I was convinced women were stuffing them into their purses to gnaw on for breakfast the next morning. Tables that ordered ribs or crabs or crab claws needed hot steamed towels, and Coney's Banana Flambé had to be ignited tableside with a flourish, a sideshow that I always dreaded.

And yet, I persisted—flaming bananas be damned—and I enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment at the end of each night and the tips, which varied from a measly two dollars in pennies from college guys to crisp fifty-dollar bills from the high rollers. So what if it wasn't my dream job? So far it had paid for a new surfboard, and it would tide me over while I waited for all those H.R. people to call.

Although my friends and I had always steered clear of Timothy McGowan and his legendary “shenanigans,” as Ma called it, I had certainly gotten an eyeful working at Coney's. The man enjoyed being treated as royalty, dining in his private booth every night, making the staff wait on him without ever tipping. He always had to be informed when a celebrity came in so he could stop by their table and shmooze, and he thought nothing of bursting into song as he strolled through the bar, like some drunken troubadour.

No wonder Kevin had trouble getting along with the old man. Aside from Mr. McGowan's daily snarl sessions criticizing the way Kevin handled the bar, the older man was now on a campaign to get his son to start drinking again. “You've got to loosen up and enjoy life,” Mr. McGowan told his son. Code words for “get wasted.”

A devil in disguise, Mr. McGowan served complimentary rounds to customers Kevin had cut off and berated his son in front of customers. Once I saw Mr. McGowan shadow Kevin in high drama, a finger to his lips and a bottle of whiskey behind his back. The old man sneaked up behind his son and actually poured a shot of whiskey into Kevin's coffee when he wasn't looking. Sly as a fox and quite the showman, Timothy McGowan somehow came off as cute while trying to entice his son back to drinking.

“I know you're still pursuing the Kevin and Darcy Bliss Package,” I whispered in Darcy's ear one night when she occupied her usual bar stool, lending her elegance and support while waiting for Kevin to get off from work, “but in case you haven't noticed, there's a toxic battle going on between father and son. Your future father-in-law is a narcissistic alcoholic who's determined to drag his son with him down into the depths of a whiskey vat.”

“And that's your professional opinion?” Darcy's smile grew tighter. “I've had my run-ins with Mr. McGowan already. I know the man can be a royal pain in the ass, but I don't think he'd do anything to knowingly hurt Kevin.”

“Yes, but he probably thinks he's doing the right thing. As he puts it, ‘How can a man succeed in the bar business if he doesn't sample his own goods now and again?' ”

“He's a problem, I know he is,” Darcy said, shaking her head sadly. “I keep asking Kevin when he thinks the old man will step out of the business, but Kevin's got too much on his mind right now to worry about the future. ‘One day at a time,' he keeps telling me. He needs to think that way to keep going. But personally, I can't wait for the day when the old man steps out of the business so that Kevin and I can take over.”

I nodded, a little surprised at Darcy's imperialist desires. “Does Kevin know about this? That you're planning to take over the business?” Lately he seemed focused on getting out of it, determined to separate himself from the sordid business of getting people buzzed.

“Let's just say Kevin's on board.”

 

When I brought up the conflict between the McGowan men one day over lunch at home, Ma wasn't at all surprised. “That Timothy McGowan has always been a big boozer, ever since he was a young man. He and his friends had their very own rat pack going—a bunch of liquored-up, gambling ladies' men who would perform a song or two into the wee hours of the morning. That's how Coney's got its start, opened as a cabaret all those years ago. Timothy was a fine tenor, a very sweet voice till the smoking choked him all up.”

“A tenor? The man barely speaks above a growl.” I had heard stories about the Hamptons rat pack—the Raccoon Pack, some people called them—but didn't realize it had all started with Kevin's father. “No wonder Coney's is such an institution. I knew it couldn't be the food.” I sliced a hard-boiled egg and set it aside for myself, leaving the rest for Ma to gunk up with mayo and sweet pickles.

“Your father and I caught a performance there one night, back when they still performed. Your grandparents didn't approve, of course. They believed performers belonged onstage, restaurants were meant to serve food, and never the two shall mix. But your dad and I found the show quite enjoyable. Timothy McGowan did make a fine host, and when he was bartending the liquor flowed like water, though that was back in the days before the host law and consciousness of the dangers of driving drunk.”

“Well, from what I've seen around the bar, Mr. McGowan doesn't seem too happy that his son isn't forming his own rat pack,” I said. “I wouldn't be surprised if Darcy isn't taking him back to rehab before the summer ends.”

Ma shook her head, screwing the lid back on the pickles. “Poor Darcy's got her hands full, what with being tangled with the McGowan clan and her father on trial. Last I read, it wasn't looking so good for Bud Love. Sad how a man can build a huge business and see it all come tumbling down, leaving his family nothing.”

“Poor Darcy's too lazy to get herself a job,” I muttered. “I keep telling her she's going to need the money. With the way things are going, she's not going to be living off her father much longer. But she doesn't get it.”

“Denial,” my mother said. “You studied that, didn't you, dear?”

I let out a breath, refusing to cut Darcy any slack.

“And how's our Elle fitting in this year?” Ma asked, changing the subject.

“Better than ever. She and Milo seem to enjoy working together. So far I think they've got the roof so that it doesn't leak.”

“Maybe they can have a look at our porch door, the one that always sticks,” Mary Grace said. “And I haven't seen much of Tara.”

“She works for a senator in Manhattan, so she's only here on weekends.”

“And the boy she brought around last year? So lovely and polite . . .”

“Charlie?” I winced. “That's over. But she's seeing someone from work. I met him in the city. Seems nice.”

Mary Grace smiled. “I did like Charlie, but you girls are too young to be getting serious, and I have to say, it riled your brother to see Tara with that young soldier.”

“Steve?” I squinted. She knew he'd liked Tara years ago, but it was a goofy puppy love thing. “That's all over, Ma. He and Tara are just friends, barely that.”

“That's what I thought, until I spied him turning green with jealousy.”