Postcards From Last Summer (23 page)

“H
ave you seen it yet?” Lindsay asked.

The jangling cell phone had jarred Darcy from a catnap leaning against the bus window. Having been up late partying with Kevin, Darcy was unable to resist the steady thrum of the bus traveling west on the Long Island Expressway. She planned to take the Jitney all the way into Manhattan, where she'd head downtown to make an appearance at her father's trial.

“Seen what?” she asked, gravel voiced. She turned toward the window, feeling woozy and slow from sleep.

“That means you haven't.” Lindsay paused. “Okay . . . when you get to the city, stop at a newsstand and pick up the
Daily Apple
and call me back.”

“Why? What's in it?” Darcy rubbed her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara.

“Suffice it to say the Loves made it to the tabloids,” Lindsay said before hanging up.

Although Darcy hated teases, she suspected that this was a case in which seeing was believing. As the Jitney plodded through the Midtown Tunnel, she wondered what designer outfit would appear in the photo.

But when the newspaper opened to the titillating family photograph, it wasn't at all what Darcy had expected. Instead of showing Darcy in her Dior suit or Ralph Lauren plaid separates, sporting a Kate Spade bag and a new “Rachel-style” haircut from
Friends
, it was a bland, very bad shot of two naked, fleshy people in a hot tub. Darcy was about to toss the paper aside when she noticed the caption:
LOVE, CORPORATE STYLE
: Bud Love Demonstrates His Management Style with a “Close Aide.”

That flabby man was her father!

The woman beside him, with her naked boobies blacked out, had to be Dad's assistant, Stephanie.

She got Lindsay on the line and yelled into the phone, “Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“Don't kill the messenger. Ma found it, and I had to call you before you walked into the courtroom unarmed.”

“Well, thanks for that, I guess.” Darcy pitched the paper into a wire trash can and kept walking. “How could he be so stupid, fooling around with this trial going on? Doesn't he know people are watching, that his behavior has to be scrupulous?”

“The photo could have been taken years ago,” Lindsay pointed out.

“You're right.” Darcy had recognized the background of the photo, the herb garden and wrought-iron lantern of the Aspen ski villa, and Dad hadn't been there for months. His lawyers had kept him in the New York area, trying to avoid the perception that he was still spending corporate funds traveling lavishly.

Darcy wasn't surprised to find her mother absent from the courtroom that day. After weeks spent suffering through testimonies dry as mothballs in a balmy courtroom, Melanie Love wasn't going to endure the added scandal of being the cheated-on wife, and Darcy couldn't really blame her.

When Darcy's father filed into the courtroom with his lawyers, she rose to greet him . . . but didn't offer her cheek to kiss. And he didn't step close to take her hand but only barked “good morning” as he passed.

As if it were her fault he got caught fooling around with Stephanie the sycophant.

Sitting in the courtroom with her legs demurely crossed at the ankles—all the better to admire her Manolo Blahnik sandals—Darcy thought over the evidence the prosecution had presented: one interoffice memo after another expressing concern over unorthodox accounting practices. “And was the defendant, Buford Love, copied on this correspondence?” the prosecutor asked over and over again.

“Yes, he was.”

“Did Buford Love attend the meeting during which this fraudulent accounting was discussed?”

“Yes, he was there.”

“Did the defendant authorize this transfer of funds?”

“Yes, he did.”

Darcy wasn't a legal expert, but based on the testimony she'd heard she sensed that things were not going well for her father. Maybe he would actually have to go to prison for a while. Probably one of those “country club prisons” with tennis courts and nine holes of golf. Dad would be fine in a place like that . . . but what about Darcy and her mother? Without her father's salary, his savings and stock options and properties, how would they continue to live?

Darcy planned to stay the night in the Great Egg house to lend her mother moral support. She figured they could have a girls' night out, go for mussels at Frisco's on the Bay or just grab salads at A Way With Green in downtown Great Egg. Mom could thank her for getting the repairs done on the Hamptons house. They could assess Dad's situation together and make a plan for the worst-case scenarios. But when Darcy arrived that afternoon Mom was gone, disappeared without a note. When Darcy finally reached her on her cell, Melanie said she was upstate at a friend's house, taking a time out to reevaluate her priorities. During an awkward pause Darcy waited for something—an invitation to join her mother, curses for Dad, a word of advice—but silence buzzed on the line. Darcy wondered how she figured into her mother's future life, if she even figured at all.

“It doesn't look good for Dad, does it?” Darcy asked quietly.

“I've given up hanging my future on the outcome of his trial,” her mother said, as if she were dropping a name from the guest list of her annual garden party. “How's the renovation going? I'd like to get that house on the market soon.”

“Fine,” Darcy said, grabbing her purse and slamming the kitchen door of the Great Egg house behind her. She'd walk to the Great Egg train station and ride west to transfer trains in Jamaica—anything to escape this suburban hell.

By the time her mother hung up, she was already walking down Main Street, mounting the ramp to the Great Egg Long Island Railroad Station.

“H
ave a great weekend, everyone,” Tara told her fellow office workers, trying not to linger too long beside Josh Cohen, whose head was bent over Michael's desk as he tried to help the clerk figure out the online shipping program for a package that had to get to Washington, D.C. by Monday morning. Although the other staff members knew that she was seeing Josh, she tried not to lord it in front of them, especially since Josh had heard that Senator Wentworth didn't think it good office policy for workers to “fish off the company pier.”

“You're going.” Josh straightened, his dark eyes flashing with warmth. “Let me walk you down to the subway with that.”

Tara looked down at the garment bag hanging from her shoulder. “I'm okay. It's not heavy.”

“No problem. It's the only way I'll see sunlight before this eternal day from hell ends.” They'd had a power outage that day, a brownout caused by air conditioners sucking up electricity on the local grid, and it had doubled the workload in the office. Senior staffers had to stay late to make sure priority tasks were completed before the week's end.

“I've got this covered.” Michael waved them off. “As long as the power stays on. Otherwise, this package is going by pony express.”

Josh hoisted her bag onto his shoulder and led the way out of the office suite to the elevator. It was already after six on a summer Friday, and most of the tenants on their floor had emptied out.

“How's the school funding policy going?” Tara asked him.

Stepping onto the elevator, Josh squeezed his eyes shut. “Like a slug. I'll be here past midnight. God, I wish I could take this train with you.”

“You'll come out first thing tomorrow.” She turned away from him and looked up at the lights moving down over the floor numbers. “But it's not like we could be together tonight, anyway. I know my parents wouldn't approve.”

He slid an arm around her waist and tugged her close in the empty elevator. “And my parents would let us sleep together, as long as we got married by a rabbi before sundown.”

She laughed. “Get out!” She wasn't thinking marriage. Right now she couldn't get past the day-to-day details of their relationship, the fact that they'd become so close so quickly, spending most nights together. Resting her head on his shoulder briefly, she remembered how it felt waking up in his bed this morning, in Josh's small, tidy Hoboken apartment. With her mother out in the Hamptons, Tara had been able to manage not being at home most nights, and she enjoyed the sinfully delicious pleasures of staying up late with Josh, sleeping beside him, and brushing her teeth beside him in the morning. Amazing how a string of lunch dates could lead two people to live together, but here they were, girlfriend and boyfriend, sharing just about everything.

The elevator doors slid apart, and they separated and headed through the lobby, the heels of D & G mules clacking on the granite tile.

“So I'll call you as soon as I get out east,” Josh said.

“I'll pick you up at the Jitney stop, if you want,” she said, wondering if this would be the right weekend for Josh to meet her parents. After last summer's lukewarm reception of Charlie, she doubted they'd be thrilled to discover that their daughter was involved with another white man.

Falling for another white man.

She could already imagine her parents' reaction: that cold, alienated look in her mother's eyes, and her father would turn away to hide his disappointment.

Why did she keep falling for white guys, putting her family in this difficult situation? Sometimes Tara felt like a traitor to her own race. Other times, she felt like a fraud, an African American masquerading as a white person in the Anglo world.

It was always confusing, always fodder for guilt and discomfort.

When she'd brought it up with her friends last weekend, Elle and Lindsay had assured her she wasn't doing anything wrong.

“Isn't culture something we embrace because it helps define who we are?” Elle proposed. Having traveled the world, learned to speak Russian and Swahili, Elle had great respect for different cultures but didn't feel bound by cultural expectations. “If you choose to live differently from your forefathers, why do people take offense?”

Lindsay had reminded her that the clash and mesh of culture was the stuff of great literature. “It's an age-old conflict,” she insisted.

But Tara didn't enjoy conflict in her personal life; she craved peace and resolution . . . the balanced scales of justice.

“Why so glum?” Josh asked when they paused at the street-level subway entrance. “You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders.” He pulled her to the side of the entrance, out of the way of pedestrian traffic, and into his arms for a hug.

“I'm going to miss you,” she said, avoiding the real matter pressing on her thoughts.

“I'll be there before you know it,” he said. With a grin, he slipped the strap of her garment bag over her shoulder. “Save me a frosty piña colada with a straw and an umbrella.”

“You got it.” Holding her breath against the hot stench of the subway stairs, she headed toward her train, eager to get out of the sweltering city and head east to the land of sandy beaches, ever-mutable light, and crisp, salty breezes.

“T
he prosecution probably won't introduce the photos of your father and his friend,” Tara said when Darcy asked her about it that Friday night. With a father known to take high profile cases, Tara was considered the legal expert in the group. “The prosecutor might not want to appear petty and hurtful to the jury,” Tara added.

They were hanging at the bar at Coney's, Darcy happy to be there with her friends, able to watch her boyfriend behind the bar and send him positive vibes. If Dad's was a lost case, at least she had Kevin, and if she poured all her energy and faith in him, how could they fail?

“Do you think they need the photos?” Lindsay said as she transferred drinks onto a tray. “I mean, it doesn't help make the case, and they seem to have loads of evidence. Have you seen those boxes of files marked as evidence on TV?”

“Lindsay's right,” Darcy said. “The damage seems to be done. My father's moral character is shot to hell.” Surely the rest of his life would come tumbling down in due time. All the more reason to separate herself.

“Still . . .” Tara put a hand on Darcy's wrist. “In the end, it's all up to the jury. Our legal system is flawed, but I still think it's the fairest in the world.”

Darcy nodded, trying to swallow a sip of wine that had turned bitter in her mouth. Although it was clear that life as she knew it was over, she still struggled with the loss of her financial freedom. “Part of me still can't believe this is happening, but regardless of what happens with my father, I've got to move on. Today I realized I can't rely on my parents anymore. My father let me down on so many levels—didn't even pay my way through college—but what good would it do for me to sit around and blame him? I've got to move on.”

“That's so true, Darcy,” Lindsay said. “We all need to climb out from under the parents' wings and think about what we want.”

Tara squeezed her hand. “I'm proud of you, honey.”

“I can't really take credit. It's survival instinct. Besides, I've known what I wanted for years . . . and he's standing right down the bar.”

Her friends' heads swung left, to where Kevin stood in a heated discussion with his father, who scowled as he hung glasses upside down in the overhead rack.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a career,” Lindsay said. “Something you can accomplish on your own and a way to be financially independent.”

Darcy shook her head at Lindsay, who always had trouble getting the big picture. “You sound just like your mother. But don't worry, I've got the career thing waxed. When Kevin and I take over this place, we're going to make it a Hamptons institution. I figure I'll start off hostessing and Kevin can manage the place.”

Lindsay squinted at her. “You want to be a hostess?”

“Of my own place, sure.”

“Then why don't you start now? Get off that bar stool, learn the business and make some money in the process,” Lindsay suggested. “You could wait tables or bartend. This is what I've been telling you about, Darce. You need a job.”

“How hard can it be? A little conversation as I lead people to a table. Of course, it'll give me a good reason to spend a fortune on my wardrobe, and probably write it off, too. With my personality and the solid reputation of this place, Kevin and I are going to become big names in the Hamptons' scene. You'll see. In a few years, you'll be able to say, ‘I knew her when . . .' ”