Postcards From Last Summer (14 page)

“I
gotta hand it to you, Elle. When you blow into town, you really do it with a bang,” I told my long-lost friend that night as we draped ourselves over the single beds in my attic room. The windows had been thrown wide open, and outside, moths bounced against the screens, crickets sang, and a breeze stirred the mixed scent of salt and flowers and cool night air that I had come to associate with the Hamptons house.

When Darcy had come running from the parking fields, frantic after finding Kevin's van rocking in the parking lot, I had been relieved to switch gears and have everyone's attention move from my situation with Austin (and my lack of a situation with Bear) to Darcy's debacle with Kevin, brought on by Elle.

“It didn't mean anything,” Elle insisted now as she rolled over and pulled her knees to her chin. Curled up like that, she was so tiny, even elfin, an image helped by the emerald stud in her nose and the shiny rings winding up from the lobe of one ear. Her red-streaked hair was now wrapped in a coil and secured by chopsticks, and her green eyes were wide, glazed with something I wanted to call remorse. Or maybe I was just projecting.

“It meant a lot to Darcy,” I pointed out. “All these years she's been pursuing Kevin? Don't tell me you've forgotten all that.”

Elle rested one cheek on her knees and tried to hold back a catty grin. “Well . . . maybe I remembered.”

“This summer she snagged him, finally, and you pop into town and ruin all that in, what? Like, ten minutes?” I tucked a pillow under my chin. “I gotta say, it's not going to make for the smoothest homecoming. Alienate Darcy and you're not going to be so popular in the Hamptons.”

“I don't care about popularity. I don't need other people to like me.”

And that has always been one of your biggest problems,
I thought,
and one of the reasons you don't get along with Darcy.
In very different ways, Darcy and Elle were blazing their own trails, trying to make their own social rules, and failing on different levels. While Elle pursued a scattered pixie image with a bohemian flavor and Darcy favored a more cosmopolitan, prep-school style, both girls had a bad habit of bulldozing ahead, taking out anyone or anything in their path, leaving itinerant peacemakers like me to chase behind them, smooth things over, pick up the pieces. Countless times I had been the one offering the McCorkle house as “neutral ground” for a meeting place; I'd been the one coercing each girl to show up at the beach, come to the movies, go along for slices of pizza, join on for a bike ride to the next town. In some ways I didn't mind being the facilitator as it placed me in a central and essential role, which I felt well suited for.

But this time I suspected the rift exceeded my peacemaking skills. By messing with Prince Kevin, the crown jewel in Darcy's potential kingdom, Elle had committed the unforgivable, staging a coup in matters of the heart and financial security.

“The thing is, you put yourself between Darcy and her ultimate goal, the Kevin and Darcy Bliss Package.”

“A pathetic goal, if you ask me. Have you taken a good look at that boy lately? His liver must be pickled in beer.”

“I'll give you that, but he's still Darcy's choice. And by having sex with him, you've declared war.”

“Really?” Elle flopped back on the bed, lifted her hips, and pushed herself into a yoga bridge. “Well, to quote Michael Jackson, I'm a lover, not a fighter. She can have her precious Kevin back. I'm done with him.”

“I'll bet you are,” I said aloud, seeing through Elle's ruse. This wasn't about casual sex with an old acquaintance, and it had nothing to do with Elle wanting Kevin in any way. “Did it work? Did it feel good?”

Elle propped herself on one elbow, trying to gauge my question. “Well, for a guy who was half in the bag, he wasn't too bad. He does this little swirly motion with his fingers that drives you wild, and—”

“I'm not talking about the sex, Elle. Did it feel good to take a swing at Darcy? Broadside her when she least suspected it?”

Elle's eyes opened wide, ovals of mossy green that stood out in a field of black eyeliner. “Holy crap, you're good.” She fell back onto the floor and laughed. “You've gotten really good at this.”

“Between you and Darcy, I get lots of practice.” Unfortunately, the two people involved didn't seem to have a clue about their own motives, and the rest of the summer was going to be difficult, split between my two warring best friends.

“Well, if you must know . . .” Elle crossed her knees into a lotus position. “It felt fucking great. All those years she put me down, tried to manipulate me . . . even up to that day on the jetty when she drove me so crazy I almost didn't mind slipping into the ocean. She always pushed my buttons and for once, tonight, it felt good to push hers.”

“I'll bet it did. But it's going to make it that much harder to get what you want.”

“Get what I want?” Elle cocked her head, tugging on the rings in one ear. “What's that about?”

“You were right about one thing: you don't need to be popular. You don't need mass approval.”

“Yup. I couldn't care less what anyone else thinks.”

“Except Darcy.” I popped up onto my elbows, knowing I was on target. “She's the one you've got to win over. You need Darcy's approval.”

“That's a crock!” Elle picked up a pillow and flung it toward my bed.

Fending it off, I knew I'd hit a nerve.

“How could you even think something so stupid?” Elle insisted. “Take that ridiculous idea and just, like, fling it out the window or flush it down the toilet or something.”

But I just shook my head. “You'll see.” Elle and Darcy were smart enough; with any luck, one day they would both figure it out.

“T
he most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen was over the hills in Thailand.” Charlie spoke quietly, holding their attention so rapt that so far no one had even tasted the pear torte that Tara and her mother had passed out. “Orange, purple, and red. I had the sensation of being on a different planet, millions of miles closer to the sun.”

Tara smiled, loving this man. She wanted to slip her slender sandal off and rub his foot under the table, but she still wouldn't chance contact in her parents' home. Tonight, it was progress enough that her parents seemed interested in what Charlie had to say, accepting of his experiences overseas.

“Sounds like you've made the most of your travels with the military, Charlie.” Her father lifted his fork and cut into the torte.

“And Thailand sounds like a fascinating country,” Serena Washington said. “Did you ever go there, Wayne?”

Tara wanted to groan. Somehow her mother always managed to swing attention back to Wayne, the favored son.

“Mama, I figure I'm doing enough travel just getting myself over to Korea. Besides, I like to dink around on my days off. That computer system they've got on base, it's prehistoric. Better now that I've worked it over, but there's always files to update and viruses to kill. You wouldn't believe the stuff people download without thinking. And then they bellyache when their files are corrupt.” Wayne stabbed at a piece of torte with his fork. “I got my hands full over there.”

Just then the phone rang, and when Dad started to answer, Mama shook her head. “Let it go, Larry. If it's important they'll leave a message.”

But Dad pressed his napkin to his lips, dropped it to the table, and crossed the room. “Very few people have the number here, Reenie. It must be important.”

Dad's deep voice sounded from the kitchen, and Tara dared a secret smile for Charlie. Dinner had gone well tonight; Mama and Dad seemed to be accepting Charlie for who he was, gaining little glimmers of insight into his life.

“The torte is delicious, Mrs. Washington,” Charlie said. “Not too sweet.”

Mama smiled, but it was back to the church-social smile. “Thank you, Charlie. I always hate that cloying sweetness of some desserts. Lemon is the key.”

Dad crossed through the dining room and started opening the built-in armoire in the adjoining living room.

“What is it, dear?” Mom seemed concerned.

“Breaking news upstate.” He clicked the remote, surfing to find a news channel. “Alleged beating of a black man in custody. Apparently there's a videotape. I'll need to head up there tonight.”

“But it's the start of your vacation! Can't someone else take the case?”

Wayne and Tara exchanged a quick look of “not again . . .” They'd witnessed this argument plenty of times before.

“Anyone want the last torte?” Wayne asked, knowing that no one would even answer. He stabbed it from the platter as Serena left the table to stand in front of the television and express her concerns to their father.

Tara twisted in her chair as the news channel switched to a reporter on the scene in Apple Junction, a small town in upstate New York where the incident had taken place. Her stomach began to ache as the reporter spoke quickly, emphasizing words like “brutalized” and “abuse” and “actual footage.” Apparently, this was a juicy story.

Turning back to the table, Tara pushed her dessert away and listened as some of the details of the story spilled out. The suspect, an African American named Clarence Dumont, was wanted for armed bank robbery. He had been shooting at police officers when taken into custody. One of his bullets had struck an officer, who was currently being treated in a critical care unit.

“The man's got to be defended,” her father argued, his voice slightly muted.

“I understand that, but there are other partners in the firm. You just started your vacation. Here it is August and you haven't even spent a full week here at the beach.”

“I don't think Mr. Dumont can wait while we sit on the beach and take a vacation, Reenie.” And with that, her father was down the hall, packing his things to head back to Manhattan.

When she heard her mother's car pull into the driveway some time later, having dropped Daddy off for the last train back to Manhattan, Tara braced herself against the kitchen counter, wondering if she could dart off to her room and escape a confrontation with her mother before Serena made it up the stairs. The dishwasher was loaded, the counters all wiped down so Mom wouldn't have anything to complain about there, but from past experience Tara knew the extent of her mother's disappointment when Dad blew off vacation or a special occasion to work a case. Mom was not going to be perky, and considering her own issues with the nature of Dad's work, Tara just wanted to escape.

“I'm beat,” Tara called down as her mother climbed the stairs. “Off to bed.”

“Tara, it's not even eight o'clock.”

Caught, she froze.

“Are you feeling sick?”

“I'm okay. Maybe I'll read in bed.”

“What's the matter, honey?” Serena paused on the landing and touched her daughter's shoulder gently.

Maybe it was Mama's sweet tone, or the fact that her mother had actually touched her for the first time in years, but the gentleness pushed Tara to open up. “I just hate it when Dad takes on these high-profile cases without having the facts. Dad's turning into a civil-rights ambulance chaser, always defending the black brothers even if those defendants are in the wrong. It's an embarrassment.”

“You're talking about your father's vocation.” Her mother's eyes flashed with indignation, and Tara could see that she'd made a mistake confiding her true feelings. “Your father defends who we are.”

“No, ma'am. He defends criminals. Those people aren't you and I.”

“He is out there trying to protect the rights of African American men and women, and you of all people, with your sights set on law school, should understand the importance of that mission.”

Tara stepped back against the pillar of the spiral staircase and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear. “I know it's important, Mama. I just wish it didn't have to be my father looking like a cartoon character . . . a buffoon. Do you know they did a comedy sketch about him on
Saturday Night Live
during the Hunnicutt case? Did you see it?”

Serena turned away, her heels clicking on the kitchen floor as she tucked the car keys into their compartment in the drawer. “I heard.”

“And you're not embarrassed?”

“I support your father because this is what he has chosen to do, and it is the right thing, Tara. He believes in his work; we both do. If we don't constantly reinforce our civil rights, people will backslide, and I'd hate for you to ever know the way it used to be with racism and discrimination.”

Oh, I've known discrimination,
Tara thought, recalling how her aunties pushed her to take bigger portions and get rid of that “white-girl's ass,” how darker-skinned girls at school steered clear of her because they thought she was either white or of mixed race; how her own parents didn't want to acknowledge that Charlie might be a possible boyfriend because he was the wrong race for an upstanding African American family like the Washingtons.

“I'm going to have a cup of coffee, decaf of course.” Serena turned on the tap and started filling the glass carafe. “Would you like some? Maybe we can interest your brother and Charlie in a game of Scrabble.”

“No, thanks.” Normally Tara would jump at the chance to mix Charlie into the family social milieu, but not tonight.

Tonight she was going to turn on the television in her room, lose herself in a mindless sitcom, and imagine what it would be like to be born in a wacky family that wasn't all wrapped up in thorny issues of race.