Southampton Spectacular Page 2

  “Okay,” Devon said. “Out.”

  They climbed out, still fearful of her legal hold over them. The threat of the DUI. But they muttered and complained and adopted slouching poses of defiance after the fact. “You can’t take my car,” the former driver said, trying to regain some semblance of authority.

  “You can pick it up at the police station,” Devon said, and before they could argue she had spun the car around on the gravel stones and pulled away, roaring into the black distance.

  “Piece of work,” one of them said, the admiration clear in his voice.

  The others said nothing. They trudged into the house, wondering how they would live this night down to each other later on, when the spell of the dark was gone.

  In the Suffolk County branch police station of Job’s Lane in Southampton that night, a young girl with dark brown hair and strong eyes presented herself to the officer at the front desk. The officer needed a moment to understand what the girl was asking for, perhaps because the request was strange. Or perhaps because the girl was striking. Not that a seasoned officer would ever be distracted by a girl of fourteen.

  But still.

  “I’m dropping off a car, and I need a ride home,” she said again, speaking very slowly.

  “Whose car is it?” the officer asked.

  “Some boys’,” she said, with an unconcerned toss of her hand.

  “How did you get it?”

  “They gave it to me.”

  The officer put his pen down and shook his head as if he had misheard. “What?”

  But the girl just looked back at him, implacable.

  The officer tried another approach. “Do you have a license?”

  “No. That’s why I need a ride home.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “In the car. But that’s illegal.”

  The officer put a hand on his head and began tapping with one finger, as though hoping to give this information time to settle more firmly into place. Finally he seemed to come to a decision. “I’m going to arrange for you to get a ride home,” he said, as though making the proposal himself.

  Devon gave him a smile, and the night turned a little bit brighter.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Effortless Luxury

  The Beach Club’s official name – the line printed at the top of the stationary at the cafeteria check-out and the beach-umbrella stand – was The Bathing Corporation of Southampton. This name could be found stenciled in blue, along with a small seahorse crest, on the white china in the cafeteria, on the large gray awning at the front entrance, and on the dense cotton shag of the inexhaustible supply of towels by the pool. But the name everyone used was simply the Beach Club, which better reflected the effortless luxury of the place. There were no adornments at the Beach Club. You walked up the short brick staircase at the front entrance off the road by Agawam Lake, passed under the little awning, and then came upon exactly what you expected: an immense, immaculate pool surrounded by deck chairs and umbrellas and chaises. There was a man sitting behind a desk on a raised platform at the entrance to the club, and as you passed by he lifted his head long enough to smile, confirm that you were a member, and return to his work. The front desk man never consulted a list, or frowned in a show of concentrated recall, or impeded your progress in any way. He would perhaps smile a shade more brightly if it had been three or four or ten years since you had last come to the club – because you hadn’t been able to get out of the city as often as you’d have liked, or because you’d been on a Bermuda kick lately – but the front desk man was unaffected by time. He knew you. He knew your spouse, and your children, and your nanny. Anyone he did not know was directed (or escorted), with no discussion at all, back down the stairs.

  If you decided to sit by the pool once you came in, you found that there were just enough chairs and chaises. Because there were young men in blue shorts and white polos who added and removed chairs and chaises as necessary, drawing on a reservoir of such things hidden behind a door with a seahorse crest. These helpers did not rush about like ball boys at Wimbledon, or stand ostentatiously at attention, waiting to pounce. They appeared as needed, and walked with easy purpose, and smiled and chatted with you if you made eye-contact. And then they vanished.

  The pool itself was kept absolutely free of leaves and potato-bugs by an older man who was seldom seen, because he would never have been so rude as to pass a trash-collection net through the water while members were swimming.

  To the left of the massive area enclosing the pool, there was a wide gap in the wall. If you headed through this gap and walked the twenty yards along the brick path, you came upon the lockers, which were organized into long, countless rows where the children liked to play games of chase and hide-and-seek that often ended in tears because the rows went on and on, and it was easy to lose your bearings; even an adult could suddenly feel alone and lost among the lockers.

  It seemed as though sinister things might go on here, in this unnatural quiet.

  When you had changed into your bathing suit, and if you had had enough of the pool, you headed up the large staircase to the mezzanine level, where the snack bar and the cafeteria were located, and where the view of the Atlantic was unobstructed. The snack bar served standard beach fare, burgers and fries and soda and ice cream, and was favored by the younger members. The cafeteria, on the other hand, looked simple enough when you walked inside, but there were details to be appreciated: the blueberry and corn muffins had been made that morning, and the turkey had been baked only an hour ago. The lobster and shrimp were straight from the local shop, and the fruit was fresh that day, every day. When you had finished piling your tray with too many things – slices of cheesecake and pecan pie, especially – you walked to the end of the dessert cases and then paused for just a moment in front of another desk man. This man knew your name without asking, of course, but he could also calculate, inside of three seconds, the exact total of your lunch bill. Yet there was no register, no exchange of cash or credit. He scanned the items on your tray, his eyes moving from one plate to the next with machine-like precision, and then, with a pencil, he took a quick note on his Bathing Corporation stationary. “Thank you,” he said, and then sent you on your way. There was never a line at the cafeteria.

  In any case, many of the younger members preferred to avoid the main cafeteria altogether. They chose instead to eat at the snack bar, where there was another, smaller overlook, or down on the beach itself, or on the shaded mezzanine above the pool, where they could avoid the scrutiny of their parents and could call down to their friends below. Sometimes they would call down to the pool lifeguard, who was an overqualified teenager plucked from the local high school swim team, and the only bored employee at the club. The children loved the pool lifeguard, and the pool lifeguard hated the children. They pestered him and called him names. They waited for him to fall asleep and then put ice cubes down his shorts. They pretended to drown, and then, when he did not respond, they threatened him with legal action at the hands of their lawyer fathers and mothers and cousins.

  Devon was sixteen now, and this was the summer when all the big things were going to happen. It was the year of her parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, which would be in August, and Devon was planning to throw them a party. With a slide show and a cake and plenty of charming, slightly-embarrassing-but-mostly-endearing stories she would tell about them. Maybe even some surprise speeches from old friends of theirs if she could make the arrangements in time.

  Except that everything would soon go haywire with her parents, starting with Frankie’s Big Ride. And ending, more or less, with the Flight Of The Condor.

  This was also the summer when Austin Riley would arrive and cause a stir. Not on purpose; at least not at first. But he was hard to miss. And then as soon as the mess with her father – with both of her parents, actually – seemed under control, Austin would start really trying to get Devon’s attention. Trying and succeeding, in a way
that was impossible to ignore.

  After that would come the truly crazy stuff.

  On the day when it all started, the day of Frankie’s Big Ride, Devon was sitting in a white canvas-back deck chair by the main pool, one finger holding a place in her book. She was trying not to laugh at Nina Westcott, who didn’t notice. Nina was pretending to doze while watching the new boy. This was Austin, though Devon didn't know his name yet. He was doing his morning laps. Next to Nina was Florin Bean, who had one arm over her face to block the sun. Florin was complaining happily about the heat; this was her way of announcing that summer had officially begun.

  “It’s not supposed to be this hot in June,” Florin said, peering out briefly from behind her arm. She squinted at Nina, who was lying on a towel with her head turned toward the pool, her blonde hair tucked neatly into a bun, her face covered with a large straw hat wrapped with a pink ribbon that matched her bikini. “Go jump in with him,” Florin said. “Three whole days of this sneaky business. You haven’t even talked to him yet.”

  Nina didn’t respond. She remained perfectly still. A moment later, as though moving on its own, one of her slender hands rose slowly from its place on the towel. The hand glided out and found Florin’s thigh. Rested there for a second. Delivered a pinch. Florin yelped and swatted at the hand, which sprang back like a snake and then returned smoothly to it’s resting spot by Nina’s side. From underneath the straw hat with the pink bow, a low whisper: “That’s what you get.”

  Florin blew air noisily from her cheeks and put her arm back over her face. “Maybe in late July it could be this hot,” she said, completing her thought. “We should go down to the ocean soon.”

  Nina hummed in agreement, but she didn’t move. They were bright, independent girls going into their junior years in high school, Nina and Florin at Groton, Devon at St. Paul’s, and all three of them already had their sights set on one Ivy League college or another. But they weren’t in school now, and summer days were different; they were not likely to get up unless Devon did so first. It had always been this way. Since they were seven years old.

  Devon turned her attention to the pool, where the new boy was still swimming his laps. He was cutting through the water with slow, powerful strokes. Devon wondered how long Nina would wait before moving in. None of them knew anything about this boy, but that in itself was fascinating. Going to Southampton was not like going to a movie theater; you didn’t have to wonder who would be sitting next to you at the pool, or who would be standing across the net from you at the Meadow Club. Devon and Nina would always be there, and so would James and Barnes, not to mention old Mr. Bindle and maybe-gay Mr. Mahlmann and dozens of others who seemed as permanent as wall carvings. Anyway, the idea that the new boy might be more interested in Devon than in Nina never crossed her mind. Nina was the undisputed master of flirting; Devon was happy simply to have yet another summer in Southampton, and to be surrounded by good friends. She didn’t worry about what life might have been like if she hadn’t been the daughter of Peter Hall, who loved his little airline business and managed to keep it profitable even when the big carriers were bleeding cash. Or what her personality might have been like without the steady, infinitely patient hand of her mother guiding her through her teenage years. Likewise, she didn’t know what she would have done with her summers if she hadn’t been able to come out to their house on First Neck Lane; if she hadn’t been swimming and eating here at the Beach Club every day; playing tennis at the Meadow Club every afternoon; going to the movies in town and the parties in the houses on Dune Road at night. There was no point in contemplating these things. She was aware that she was lucky, and she appreciated it, but she didn’t fret over the notion that things might one day suddenly start to change.

  And of course she had no way of knowing that today was the day.

  Even if she had known, what could she have done? All the pieces were in place. Frankie’s Big Ride, or something like it, was bound to have happened sooner or later. The things afterward, too. The sad things and the wonderful things. They were all just waiting there, simmering. Building up to the moment of release.

  But that release was not due to occur quite yet. In the Grand Scheme of Events (if such a thing exists), Frankie’s Big Ride was not scheduled to take off until 11:20 AM, and it was still only 10:30 in the morning. And the Flight Of The Condor wouldn’t be coming for several weeks. So there was still time for Devon to sit comfortably by the pool at the Beach Club. Time for her to enjoy her nearly perfect life. To listen to Florin complain, to feel the sun on her shoulders, and to watch the new boy swim. Still time for this life that would soon feel so very different.

  The Boys

  Florin sat up suddenly, swinging her head around as if someone had thrown water on her. “Jimmy Dunn!” she called, sounding annoyed and happy at the same time. “Put that child down, come over here, and get me an ice cream.” She licked her lips at the thought, then clarified: “Strawberry.”

  James Dunn, also sixteen years old, who did not like to be called Jimmy and had explained this to Florin nearly once a week for the last three summers, scoffed loudly without looking in her direction. He had dark, unkempt hair and shadowy eyes to match. He was holding a baby in one arm, and trying unsuccessfully to grab an eleven-year-old who was splashing around in the baby pool while still dressed in tennis whites. Both the baby and the eleven-year-old bore a family resemblance to James – especially in the strong, sharp jaw – but their eyes were clearer and brighter than his. James was not sleeping enough.

  “Ned, get out of the pool,” he said to the eleven-year-old. He spoke with the tight, controlled tone of someone who has had to ask too much, too often. “Go change,” he added.

  “Not going,” Ned answered cheerfully, and he went on kicking up water with his K-Swiss tennis shoes. The infants and toddlers in the baby pool were delighted, and yelling their approval. “See?” Ned said. “They like it.”

  James shook his head. “They’ll still think you’re funny if you’re splashing around with a bathing suit on. Frankie’s going to think it’s okay to soak his shoes.” He held the baby up higher, as if putting Frankie’s delicate sensibilities on display.

  Ned giggled. “Frankie’s ten months old,” he said, still splashing. “Frankie doesn’t think anything’s okay or not okay unless we’re talking about a cookie, which is the one thing he knows is good. And he doesn’t wear shoes unless mom’s trying to impress somebody.”

  James stayed silent at this. His mother and father were at the other side of the main pool, dozing, having both come home from the clubs sometime after two that morning. He shifted Frankie to his other arm and called to Florin without turning around. “How about you get yourself an ice cream,” he said, “and one for me, too. Chocolate on a cone.”

  Florin jumped up from her towel, looking as if this were exactly what she had been planning. “On its way,” she chirped, and hurried off up the stairs toward the snack bar.

  James’s hung-over parents stirred at the raised sound of their eldest son’s voice, and they made a show of hoisting themselves up onto their elbows. They didn’t look at each other. Mrs. Dunn adjusted her sunglasses on top of her head, and then she peered up at the pool lifeguard on his perch. The boy seemed to have been waiting for this sign. He wound his whistle lariat around one finger and began talking to Mrs. Dunn with an affected air of courtesy. “How are you this morning, Ma’am?”

  She leered at him. “I’m fine,” she said, trying to speak in a smooth drawl and instead producing a smoke-rattled growl. She rolled slowly over onto her side, away from her husband, while she coughed and cleared her throat. Then she looked up and tried to start the conversation again.

  Mr. Dunn, meanwhile, was looking at the woman just to his left, who, like the lifeguard, seemed to have been anticipating an exchange. She was lying close to him, but they didn’t say anything. They only lay there, looking at each other significantly.

  James turned away.

  Not t
wo feet from the Dunns, Otto Barnes burst from the pool as though being pursued by piranhas. He clambered up onto the edge just inches away from Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, and he shook himself like a dog. James’s parents glared at him without acknowledging each other, but Barnes was oblivious. He grinned broadly and went striding over to Devon and Nina.

  “Is it ice cream time?” he said, sounding surprised and excited. “Nina, what do you think? Why don’t you toddle off with Florin and bring me back something?”

  Nina spoke without taking the straw hat off her face. “Forget it.”

  Barnes pressed on. “What about a little something else, then?” he said. He waited for a second, then tried again. “How about an extra snack, if you know what I mean, something we can – ”

  “Excuse me,” Nina said sharply, lifting the straw hat just far enough to glare at him. “Could you step away from me, please? The new guy doesn’t know you’re so – ” She searched for the right phrase. “ – like this all the time. He might think I was into you. He might think we were flirting.” She rolled her head slightly, indicating the pool. “I’m on a mission here, haven’t you heard?”

  “That’s perfect,” Barnes said brightly, and put his hands up to show just how perfect it was. “I can be your make-him-jealous prop. We can be doing stuff, like in plain view of everybody, and then we can have some big fight, and then –”

  But Nina had put her hat back over her face, and now she was making shooing motions at him.

  Barnes turned a few degrees to the side, not missing a beat. “So, Devon,” he said, “what about if you and I – ”