Postcards From Last Summer (8 page)

“Y
ou're not eating any of that chocolate, are you?” Darcy called out into the dining room, where Lindsay was arranging lavender M&Ms and mini–chocolate bars Darcy had special-ordered from a local candy shop. The overnight mailing had cost more than the candy itself, but Darcy had just smiled at the alarmed clerk and flicked her shiny gold credit card onto the counter. Why these people got so freaked about money, she'd never understand.

“I only polished off the lavender ones,” Lindsay called back.

“What?” Darcy's head snapped up as Lindsay appeared in the kitchen doorway, hands behind her back.

“Don't be a pain in the ass. Besides, I'm saving myself for the shrimp cocktail, which is on my diet, Richard Simmons.” Lindsay fanned her hand through the air, revealing a crystal dish laden with pearly smooth lavender candies. “Voila! Nice, huh? The little candy bars are cute, too. Should we garnish with a few orchids?”

“Excellent idea, but float them in one of those little lavender bowls,” Darcy said, pointing toward the table stacked with soft pale purple candles, bowls, and plates. The lavender color theme had been inspired by a magazine piece she'd read the last time she had her toes done at the salon—“How to turn your get-together into an A-List Party.” Part of the appeal in the photos was that the party planners kept to a specific color theme, making the room look like a department store display or a Hollywood set. So Darcy had decided to take her favorite purple to a tropical level, to a bluish, silvery lavender, soothing and relaxing. It seemed appropriate for the “truce” party to be decked in calm, copacetic tones, and although her friends kept joking about it, this party was important to her. She wanted to make things up to her friends. She wanted to do something nice and show them a good time and prove that she was a solid friend after all.

“Uh . . . Darce?” Lindsay leaned over the open box of flowers and stared at the invoice tucked inside. “Did you really spend more than a thousand dollars on flowers?”

“Was that the total?” Darcy crumpled up the invoice and tossed it into the garbage. “Two points! No wonder the wonky florist kept asking me if it was for a wedding.”

“That's more than I make in a month.”

“Really? You gotta get that pizza man to step it up.”
Please, don't play the poverty card again
, she thought, turning away from her friend. Just when they were getting along so well, too. Lindsay had been a great help, shopping with her and dreaming up ideas. It was Lindsay who'd pointed out that people don't like food that's too hard to eat at a party. “Date food is not ribs or chicken wings that can get stuck in your teeth,” she'd said. So they'd opted for mini–hot dogs, miniburgers, shrimp cocktail, and a chopped salad that Lupe would serve in the elegant lilac bowls they'd found at the Southampton gift shop. Working as a team, they'd whipped up a fabulous fete; Darcy hoped Lindsay wasn't going to ruin it all now with a pity party for herself.

“Wait till you see the lanai,” Darcy said, trying to distract her friend. “Don't look now; I want it to be a surprise. But it's amazing. The florist sent his guys out to do it personally, and I swear it looks like a little bungalow on a Caribbean island. And the lavender was a perfect choice, so calm and romantic. While everyone else is draping their porches in tacky, flaming red, white, and blue, we'll be ultracool in ultraviolet.”

“From today's forecast, it looks like we got lucky. It's supposed to be clear and in the eighties.”

“Well, I forecast that we're all going to get lucky tonight,” Darcy said, peering at her friend over a bouquet of sweet-smelling orchids. “A very high probability of satisfaction.”

Lindsay's dark brows shot up. “A warm front blowing in?”

“So warm it's going to be downright hot.”

Why am I the one who has to fix everybody else's life?
Darcy thought as she flopped onto her bed and clicked off the phone. She'd just stepped out of the shower when Lindsay called in a blue funk, telling her she wouldn't come to the party because Bear had cancelled. Something about him being stuck in South Carolina.

“Just get your butt over here. I'll get you a date,” she'd told Lindsay, who'd argued for a few minutes, then finally agreed to put on a happy face and come to the party “for Tara.”

Now, all Darcy had to do was produce a relatively cute guy, within the hour.

She sat up, pumped moisturizer from the bottle on her nightstand, and smoothed it over her long legs, now tanned a honey amber. Kevin was going to get lucky tonight, if he kept his promise to stay conscious. Lately he'd been staggering or passing out before the end of the night, to the point that Darcy was beginning to feel less like a girlfriend and more like a sitter by the time two A.M. rolled around. She'd given him a little pep talk and he'd promised to stay awake and in the game tonight.

Kevin was under control, but who could she lure in for Lindsay?

The gardener's son was hot, but not so good with English.

There were a few bartenders at Coney's who always loved to leer at Darcy, but some of them were married, and last week when she let a couple guys do navel shooters, Kevin had turned bright red in jealous fury.

“The thing is, I'm having a party tonight, and I thought you might like to come.”

“Really? A party of two?”

She laughed. “More like six of us, but it's going to be fun. Why don't you come?”

“Are you going to be there? I'll come for you . . . or better yet,
with
you.”

“I've got a boyfriend.”

“I don't mind if he watches.”

“You are outrageous,” she said, though secretly she savored the fact that Austin wanted to be with her. It felt good, having that power over him. “So . . . do you want to come?”

“You know it.”

“To the party!”

He let out a low, growly laugh. “Yeah, okay. But you're not expecting me to dance or wear a tux or anything.”

“Just be nice to Lindsay.”

“I'm always nice,” he insisted. “Which one is Lindsay?”

Darcy bit her lower lip, wondering if he was thinking about Lindsay's weight. It was hard being friends with someone so out of control, but at least Lindsay had been making an effort this summer, and she'd trimmed down a little. “She's the brunette,” she said carefully.

“The buxom brunette.” There was a pause. “Yeah, okay. Want me to bring some beer?”

“I got that covered. Just bring your six-pack abs,” Darcy said as the image of Austin jogging down the beach flashed through her brain—curved biceps, broad shoulders, tight butt . . . If she didn't have Kevin, she'd be into him, at least for the summer. Everyone knew a lifeguard was not a long-term investment.

“You know, sometimes I think you just like me for my body,” he teased her.

She laughed, leaning down to rub moisturizer into the golden skin of her lean calf. “Yeah, I have that problem, too. Beauty is a bitch, isn't it?”

W
hy do I have trouble coping with parties?
I wondered as I sat back on the chaise and pulled down my crimson tunic top in a way that minimized my stomach and hips.

Is it me, or has my life been a succession of disappointing parties?
I thought of the many parties that had gone awry: the birthday with the velvet cake from the fancy bakery that had turned out to be a yucky brown spice cake when Ma had cut into it; my twelfth birthday when every gift I received was embarrassingly childish, adorned with roses or yellow duckies; the countless Sweet Sixteen parties I'd attended in Brooklyn, mostly catered affairs with deejays and packs of spoiled girls who plotted for boyfriends but didn't have the nerve to sit and talk with a guy; the family barbecue my seventh summer when my father had collapsed in pain to be rushed off to the hospital, where they pronounced him dead from cardiac arrest. One would think that after a traumatic event like that the McCorkles would come to their senses and abandon festive gatherings, but the events rallied on, the bigger and noisier the better.

All week I had helped Darcy with shopping and last-minute planning for the truce party. A week of planning and nervous stomach, and for what? So I could feel like a fifth wheel and pretend I was into Austin Ritter without ruining the party for Tara and Darcy?

All because Bear had ditched me.

As the guys polished off the rest of Lupe's cheesecake and argued about whether Army or Navy had the better football team, I took a deep sip of the purple drink Darcy had whipped up in the blender for all the girls; if I couldn't wash back the bland disappointment, maybe I could numb the pain by freezing it. Sort of like a grape daiquiri, sweet and strong. Drinks like this were probably
not
on my diet, but at the moment I was beyond caring. I'd spent a week's pay on this shirt to make the perfect outfit, my old denim shorts dressed up with a filmy, low-cut red tunic top embossed in sparkly gold filigree. It showed a little cleavage, and the red was so good for my coloring that even Ma had commented on how lovely I looked.

All for Bear, the bastard. How could he do this to me?

He'd said he would be here, and I'd spent the entire week planning the evening in my head, fantasizing about how we would laugh together, walk along the beach, play in the pool and hot tub . . . and probably more. I'd chosen the Caribbean Suite, where I'd lovingly plumped the pillows and discreetly moved the jar of condoms to the bathroom, not wanting to appear too pushy. If Bear wanted to stay and make out and cuddle in the big turquoise bed that reminded me of the warm waters of crystal-clear beach in a travel ad, that would be okay, too. Or, if he wanted more, then . . . okay. After much deliberation I had given myself permission to take it all the way in one of the bedroom suites, as long as Bear felt right about it.

But no . . . the deliberation was all in vain because I'd been stood up, dumped through a circuitous route, a message delivered by my mother, for God's sake, telling me that the guys were going to stay on for a few days in Hatteras. It hurt too much to think about without crying, even if Darcy had saved the day by recruiting Austin Ritter to be my date for the night.

Gorgeous Austin Ritter, perched at my feet on the poolside lounge chair. He wore khaki shorts and an emerald green golf shirt that stretched over his shoulders. The shorts were pleated and loose, but I knew he was built, with a tight butt, muscular thighs, and a flat stomach. I'd seen Austin's bronze-tanned buffo package every day on the beach.

All-American lifeguard. A real catch. But not what I'd been fishing for.

Sucking down another mouthful of Purple Passion, I allowed myself to wallow in supreme self-pity. It was the middle of my fattest summer on earth and I'd just been stood up by the love of my life. Didn't I deserve a little self-indulgence?

A moment of silence for the fat girl without a boyfriend.

I leaned back in the chair, staring sadly at the tiny peek of cleavage meant for Bear. What a waste.

“I'm feeling up for a walk on the beach, or even a swim,” Kevin was saying. “What do you think, Darce? It's a gorgeous night.” He was talking a mile a minute, so unlike the drowsy Kevin perpetually pickled in alcohol. Maybe Darcy's pep talk had done him some good.

“The beach sounds great.” Darcy bounced to her feet, the candlelight glimmering on the Swarovski crystals embedded in the bodice of her camisole top. Way too energetic for me, both of them. “Anyone coming?”

“I want to check out the hot tub,” Charlie said. “It's probably the one thing I'll miss the most when my furlough is up and I have to head back to cold, hard reality.”

“Hot tubs?” Tara squinted at him. “That's near and dear to your heart?”

“Strange, what you come to value when you're living on a military base in Korea. Hot tubs and McDonald's fries.”

Tara shrugged. “Well, I can understand the fries . . .”

He cocked his head to the side. “Come here, you.” And he pulled her to her feet and guided her toward the pool house.

Which left me staring awkwardly at my date, wondering how to tell him the party was over. When he caught me looking I quickly averted my eyes, but he didn't seem rattled or nervous as he took a swig from his bottle, emptying his beer.

“Want to give me a tour of the house?” he said, surprising me as he swung around and smiled enough to show one dimple. “Everybody's always talking about the Love Mansion.”

“Sure,” I said, trying to pull myself out of the low chair without knocking over a potted palm. Things were a little spinny from the purple drink, but I wasn't drunk. I felt completely aware, sharp and alert, and Austin had been so pleasant at dinner that I didn't want to offend him with the bum's rush.

“Welcome to the Love Mansion,” I said, gesturing toward the lanai door like Vanna White pointing to a letter. “It's sort of like Disney World. You need a monorail to get from one end to the other.”

He laughed, bolstering my confidence. I pressed on through the museumlike living room, the huge pantry behind the kitchen, the paneled library with shelves of real books that had never been read but were chosen because the color of their spines matched the decor. A large alcove off the dining room held a wet bar, a wine refrigerator and shelves decoratively stocked with liquor bottles lit by recessed spotlights pointed to illuminate colorful blue, amber, and red glass.

“And now we ascend the central staircase.” I swung my arms dramatically, cracking myself up. “Mrs. Love makes the staff dip each crystal teardrop of the chandelier in vinegar twice a day for that perfect prism effect, and she has the carpeting replaced every week because she can't bear that musty odor you get at the beach.”

Austin's eyebrows arched. “Really?”

“Just about.” As if I were conducting a tour for
House and Garden
, I showed him the upstairs bedroom suites, including the master with the stone waterfall shower—set up for Tara and Charlie—and Darcy's bathroom with four showerheads. One of the other guest bedrooms—a beachy room with bleached wood furniture and cool turquoise bedding and a woven straw rug—had been assigned to me tonight, but I wasn't really into Austin and I knew he'd only come to impress Darcy, so I moved past it quickly, dubbing it the “Caribbean Suite” as I tossed an arm in through the threshold and made no mention of the decorative bowl of condoms beside the bed. Condoms? Hadn't I moved the bowl into the armoire once I found out Bear had cancelled?

“Is something wrong?” Austin asked, peeking into the room over my shoulder.

“I just realized I almost forgot the third story,” I said, quickly striding down to the door at the end of the hall and nearly falling up the steep stairs. “Our tour culminates in the turret room on the third story of the house, designed as a study for entrepreneur Bud Love, who rarely finds time to use it as his work keeps him in Manhattan.” I paused in front of the semicircular window seat, now upholstered in apricot brushed satin. Many summers ago I'd sat at this window with Darcy and Tara and Elle, spying on the gardeners and housekeeping staff, plotting against the local shop owners who didn't appreciate unescorted kids roaming their stores, making lists of the clothes we wanted for school or boys we liked.

This had been our room, a clubhouse of sorts, until Darcy began to have issues with her parents and she didn't want to hang in the Love Mansion. On a whim, I bent down and opened a cabinet in the built-in shelves, hoping to find an old bottle of nail polish, a yo-yo or Eight Ball or list of prospective boyfriends like Don Johnson or Michael J. Fox.

But the fabric swatches and feather duster inside seemed alien, almost an insult to the girls who had once commandeered this room in the first stage of their master plan to take over the world.

“Did you lose something?” Austin seemed annoyed at the delay in the tour.

Had I? Had I lost my connection to Darcy? It bothered me that she'd allowed them to give this room a makeover, but then we hadn't used it in years. And did our friendship rely on preserving the past like a shrine? We were getting a little too old to hang on to the clubhouse. But still, I found it hard to let go, sentimental Irish girl that I am.

“It's nothing,” I told Austin as I closed the cabinet. I straightened my crimson red tunic top and led the way back down the hall, ready to continue the tour until I realized we'd seen the entire house. Oops. Amazing to run out of real estate in the Love Mansion.

I stretched my arms wide, Vanna gone wild. “And that concludes our tour of lifestyles of the rich and gorgeous,” I said, hamming it up. “Please proceed to clearly marked exits here, here, and here. Enjoy your stay here in Southampton, and tune in next week to see if you, too, can be a millionaire.”

I laughed out loud, amused with myself. Okay, I'd had a few glasses of that purple passion, but it was still funny—the game-show tour of Darcy's house. Wouldn't Mrs. Love freak over that.

“We can't let the party end so soon,” Austin said, walking slowly behind me.

I turned back, suddenly nervous as he paused in the threshold of the Caribbean Suite. “I don't think you showed me this room,” he said.

“Yeah. I did. Yup.”

He shook his head. “Come here.”

Was that a dare, or a trick? His eyes seemed dark—angry or sexy? Too difficult to decipher as I crossed the hall and faced him. “That's the Caribbean Shh-weet.”

He laughed, and suddenly his hands were on my waist, pulling me against him. His jeans were stiff, not the washed-out kind. Or was that stiffness something else?

“This is a great place,” he said as his fingertips did ticklish circles up my waist. I sucked in a breath to make my tummy thinner, but already he had worked his way to my breasts. The movement of his hips revealed that his jeans weren't the only thing stiff.

I couldn't believe my body still knew how to do this so well. Heat was rising through me, billowing up from my belly to my face. I felt myself blush but it didn't matter because suddenly he was kissing me, his lips pinching mine lightly, making me lift my head to him as he deftly slid his hands under my shirt and cupped my breasts.

I couldn't believe how good it felt.

It had been so long since I'd had sex, so long I'd stopped counting the days. Maybe two years. In freshman year Milo and I had played around, more like experimentation between friends than a relationship, but we had tried sex in a few different satisfying positions. Since then I'd been involved with a low-energy statistics major named Phil, but we'd stopped crunching numbers months ago, and by college standards a few months of celibacy was cause for canonization. Somehow, not being in love with Austin, not actually liking him, I didn't expect my body to respond to him so rapidly, so wholeheartedly.

It was too confusing!

I let out a giggle when he whirled me around into the suite and kicked the door closed behind us. I was still laughing as he lifted off my shirt, unstrapped my bra, and stripped it away, letting my breasts bounce, free and full.

The lifeguard definitely had speed on his side.

“Very nice,” he said, lowering his mouth to cover one nipple.

I yelped in pleasure as he sucked on one breast and squeezed the other with his fingers. Maybe Austin wasn't so bad, after all. Could I really like him?

I glanced down, then cupped his face gently, feeling the stubble on his jaw.

This gorgeous guy was getting me stoked. How could I not like him?

He laid another kiss on me and pushed me toward the bed, where we fell into the pool of turquoise sheets.

“Take these off,” he whispered, running a hand over my hips and down to the sensitive inner thigh.

I popped open the snap of my denim shorts and peeled them down, turning away from him to strip them off. I was sober enough to want to hop into bed and hide under the turquoise sheets before he could get a good, long look at me. Beside the bed I noticed the bowl of condoms again. Had Darcy moved them back in here? I blinked in wonder. Was this going to really happen? Was I going to have sex with Austin and take the chance that Bear would find out about it?

Would Bear find out?

Of course he would. No secret went untold in the Hamptons.

But so what? Why would it matter to Bear, the guy who'd stood me up? The guy who was such a good friend to me, but never really
really
my boyfriend.

Fuck Bear. Really. Maybe this would be the kick in the pants he needed.

Make him jealous.

“Whoa. Is that, like, a goody bowl of condoms?” Austin came up from behind and rubbed against me. His taut body pressed into me, accentuated by the thick, dense mass at my butt.