Beach Lane (27 page)

Anna Perry had told Mara she would send a car, but Mara hadn’t been expecting one quite so large and luxurious. Then again, everything that Anna Perry, the very young, very demanding second wife of Kevin Perry, one of New York’s most successful and feared litigators in New York City, did was patently over-the-top. Anna had wanted Mara in East Hampton immediately, and whatever Anna wanted, Anna usually got. She’d convinced their new neighbors, the Reynolds family, who were leaving Cape Cod for the Hamptons in their private plane, to give Mara a ride.

Heading back to the Hamptons on a private jet was the complete opposite of last August, when Mara had returned to Sturbridge on a battered Greyhound. It had been the summer of her life, and she’d made the best friends in the world—Eliza, an uptight Upper East Side golden girl, and Jacqui, a Brazilian bombshell so beautiful men routinely threw themselves at her feet. They’d all signed on for a summer of babysitting the Perry kids—to the tune of ten thousand dollars for the summer—but the friendship they formed was even more valuable. The three of them were as different as could be, but somewhere between the social climbing, the party crashing, and keeping all the kids in line, the three of them had formed a tight-knit bond.

There was another reason that last summer had been amazing: Ryan Perry. She’d fallen completely in love with Ryan, the older brother of the kids she was babysitting, and they’d finally gotten together the last week of the summer. When they said good-bye, Mara had told him that she would love to bring him home so he could meet her family and see where she lived. But when she got off the Greyhound at the grimy Sturbridge bus stop several hours later, it no longer seemed like a good idea.

Her stomach had sunk when Megan picked her up in their dented ’88 Ford Taurus. Mara was still wearing her Hamptons uniform: a lace-trimmed silk camisole, pre-faded cargo pants and high-heeled jewel-encrusted mules from Miss Trish of Capri. Her hair still smelled of Eliza’s French lavender shampoo, but the sight of the car and her sister brought reality home to her. Mara had
never been ashamed or embarrassed of where she came from, but after a summer in the Hamptons, she suddenly thought,
This isn’t good enough.
He came from a family that hired a personal chef, and she came from a family with a fifteen-year-old microwave.

She’d made a bunch of excuses to put off Ryan’s visit to Sturbridge, telling him she had to study for a test or had to write a paper. Finally, in November, she’d taken the train to Groton to visit him at his fancy private school. But she’d been awkward and out of place among his friends, and she’d broken up with him the next week, telling him what she’d been telling herself ever since she got back to Sturbridge: Last summer was fun and all, but it wasn’t real life. They weren’t meant to be.

But breaking up with Ryan Perry and forgetting about Ryan Perry were two different things altogether. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, and a secret part of her wished that he’d tried harder to change her mind. He’d been totally understanding about their breakup, but that was the problem: Ryan was almost too nice. If only he’d yelled, or cried, or fought for their relationship more. Maybe that was all she’d wanted—to hear that he really missed her, really needed her. But he hadn’t said anything, only, “If this is what you really want,” and she’d told him it was. So it was over, and she hadn’t heard from Ryan since.

She’d excused herself from babysitting for the Perrys in Palm Beach over winter break, fearing it would be too weird to see Ryan. But as winter turned to spring, Mara still couldn’t get Ryan out of her head, and she realized what a mistake breaking up with
him had been. She was still in love with him, and when Anna Perry had called to offer Mara her old job (along with a raise—twelve thousand dollars for the summer!), Mara had started planning the outfit she’d wear when she first saw Ryan and how they’d fall into each other’s arms and pretend the year apart had never happened. She’d played the scene in her head so many times, she’d really started to believe it would happen.

It rained all the way on the drive to Barnstable, a private airfield in Hyannis, and the car drove right up to the tarmac, where a white tent and a red carpet led to a sleek silver plane emblazoned with a gleaming
R
logo on the wing. A flight attendant in a crisp navy blue uniform took Mara’s bags—last year’s treasured LL Bean totes—and Mara was momentarily flustered to realize that the rest of the luggage cart held sleek nylon-and-canvas rollaway suitcases. Would she ever get it right?

A tall lady in an embroidered caftan and raffia slippers wearing the biggest diamond Mara had ever seen cheerfully waved her up the ramp. “Pity about the rain, isn’t it? They said it would shower—but this is almost a hurricane! I’m Chelsea Reynolds, welcome, welcome. There you go, watch the puddle on the last step. Anna told me we were picking up a friend, but she didn’t say it was
you
!”

Her?
Mara didn’t know what she meant by that, and was about to ask, but the minute she set foot inside the plane, she was enveloped in a bear hug.

“If it isn’t Miss Waters! The diva! Girlfriend, where’ve you
been all year?” Lucky Yap demanded, readjusting his own leopard-print dashiki. Lucky was one of the most important paparazzi working the society circuit. He was the unofficial arbiter of Hamptons fabulosity—if you were in, Lucky took your photo; if you were out, you might as well move to the Jersey shore.

“Lucky, hi!” Mara smiled, surrendering to his flurry of air-kisses.

Lucky handed her a glass of champagne and quickly introduced her to the rest of the passengers—a typical hoity-toity Hamptons crowd wearing similar variations on ethnic African tribal wear. Apparently, the Serengeti had relocated to the East End this year. There was a smattering of boldfaced names and their assorted hangers-on, from brand-name heiresses to well-preserved society swans to pretty public-relations assistants and the E! style experts they represented.

“Everyone knows Mara, right? My muse?” Lucky brayed. Last summer, Mara had helped Lucky out on a tricky assignment, and the popular photographer had made her a perennial presence in the society pages to show his appreciation.

“Of course!” a sweet-faced girl replied. “Didn’t we meet at the Polo last year?”

“Love that shirt. Is it Proenza?” one of the style experts asked, fingering the material on her pink polka-dot blouse. She’d matched it with a pair of slim white Bermuda shorts and cork-wedge espadrilles. After spending last summer with two fashion mavens—Jacqui and Eliza—Mara had picked up a few tips.
She was flattered by the compliment and didn’t have the heart to tell him it was a knockoff she’d bought at Forever 21 for fifteen bucks.

Lucky took a few shots of her, then leaned over to whisper conspiratorially with his seatmate. Mara couldn’t help but overhear buzzing as her name was linked to Ryan Perry’s.

The stewardess led her to the nearest available seat and Mara sipped happily from her champagne flute, soaking in the atmosphere, listening in on the gossip from the Cape Cod beach wedding they were all returning from. After a year in Sturbridge, where the most glamorous thing in town was the hokey piano bar attached to the Hyatt, she’d forgotten how well the other half lived.

“Oh! There’s Garrett!” a girl next to Mara whispered excitedly.

“Mr. Reynolds!” Lucky greeted. “Can we get a shot?”

Mara looked up to see a tall, shaggy-haired boy emerge from the cockpit. Immediately, all the girls in the group stood up a little straighter, trying to catch his eye. He was holding a champagne bottle aloft and grinning. He was rakishly, devilishly handsome, with a Jude Law-style flop of dark hair falling over his forehead. His button-down white Thomas Pink shirt lay rumpled and untucked from his black wool pants.

“You,” he said, walking down the aisle and heading straight for Mara.

He had deep, dark eyes, as dark as his hair, framed by the thickest set of lashes Mara had ever seen. “Come with me,” he
said, taking her by the hand before she could protest. As Garrett led her away, the group parted silently to let them through, and Mara received glances of barely contained jealousy from the girls, as well as an approving nod from Lucky. Mara felt singled out, special, and she couldn’t help but think,
Hamptons, here I come.

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about the author

MELISSA DE LA CRUZ
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of several books, including the Ashleys series, the Blue Bloods series, and
Angels on Sunset Boulevard
. She has worked as a fashion and beauty editor and has written for many publications, including the
New York Times
,
Marie Claire
,
Harper’s Bazaar
,
Glamour
,
Cosmopolitan
,
Allure
, the
San Francisco Chronicle
,
McSweeney’s
,
Teen Vogue
,
CosmoGirl!
, and
Seventeen
. She has also appeared as an expert on fashion, trends, and fame for CNN, E!, and FoxNews. She lives in Los Angeles, California, with her husband and daughter.