“Better than the snickerdoodles?” Jacinta asked. I cast a curious glance at her. One thing didn’t seem to have much to do with the other.
“I don’t know. . . the snickerdoodles were pretty great,” Delilah said.
“Would you call them ‘scrumptious’?” Jacinta inquired. This cracked Delilah up for some reason. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was a truly unnecessary addition to this little social gathering—a real third wheel.
“Oh, but you haven’t seen the upstairs yet, love!” Jacinta suddenly cried, and Delilah clapped excitedly. Delilah held her hand out to Jacinta, and Jacinta’s eyes widened. When she took the proffered hand, you could fairly see the electricity crackle up her rail-thin arm. Together, she and Delilah floated in some invisible soap bubble out of the green room, down the long hall and into the foyer, where they ascended the stairs as if by magic. I couldn’t have been less a part of their world if I’d actually left the house and gone home—something I was strongly considering.
Upstairs, we went through the rainbow of rooms and bathrooms in reverse order—indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, and finally red.
“This is my favorite part of the entire house,” Jacinta said proudly, pointing to what looked like a closet door.
“Is it a walk-in?” I asked, trying to re-insert myself into the conversation. Both girls looked at me with surprise, as if they’d completely forgotten I was there.
In response, Jacinta flung open the door to reveal a set of display shelves, dramatically lit from above. On the shelves was a series of similar-looking handbags in a rainbow of colors. They didn’t look too impressive to me, but Delilah seemed bowled over. She stared at the bags, her blue eyes filling with tears.
“They’re—they’re so beautiful,” she said softly, her voice catching a little. “They’re all Birkins, aren’t they?”
Jacinta nodded.
This was unprecedented. I’d never seen Delilah cry, ever. I’d never even seen her get teary-eyed. And suddenly it occurred to me that I was an intruder in a private moment I hadn’t been meant to see, and though I couldn’t imagine why or how it had all come to this—Delilah Fairweather crying over handbags in the bedroom of some blogger—it was time for me to go.
“I’m going to go put the macaroni and cheese back in the oven,” I said. “If you get hungry for lunch, come over.” I turned around and left them there, not waiting for a reaction, since I was pretty certain one wasn’t forthcoming anyway.
I walked back across the lawn in the shining afternoon sun and cleared the table on the deck. I stored the mac and cheese and salad in the fridge and grabbed my cell phone, intending to call Skags. Instead, I found myself dialing Jeff Byron.
“How’s it going?” he asked cheerfully.
“Too weird to explain,” I said honestly. “Want to come over and watch a movie?”
“Screw the sunshine,” he said.
He was over in fifteen minutes.
Jeff stayed through dinner, and I served him the meal I’d intended to give my original guests. While he scarfed down two bowls of mac and cheese, I told him all about Jacinta and Delilah.
“That’s so bizarre,” he said. “And by the way, adding bacon to this was a genius move.”
“Thanks,” I said. “So what do you think? I mean, does Delilah usually cry at handbags?”
He laughed. “Delilah doesn’t usually cry at anything. That girl’s life is perfect.”
“It was so weird,” I said with a sigh, spearing a piece of watermelon with my fork.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said through a mouthful of mac and cheese.
“Yeah?”
“Those chicks are totally making out right now,” he said, cracking himself up.
“Gross!” I said, throwing a balled-up napkin at him. He laughed harder and tossed it back at me. I threw some watermelon at him, and he returned with a volley of arugula. We were about to launch into a full-scale food fight when my mother swept into the room.
“Hello, darlings,” Mom said brightly in the super-fake voice she only uses in front of important strangers. “Jeffrey, lovely to see you again.”
“Hi, Mrs. Rye,” he said.
“Hi, Mom,” I giggled.
She looked at the small mess we’d made and opened her mouth to say something, then shut it and smiled tightly.
“I’ve had a very long day,” she said. “Naomi, take care that all the lights get turned off, yes? I’m going to bed.”
She disappeared upstairs, and pretty soon Jeff and I were back in the home theater in the basement. We stayed down there long after the movie ended.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It’s weird how plans change.
Before I got to New York for the summer, I figured it’d be the usual routine each day—wake up when my mother yelled at me, eat some of her amazing food, dive into some books, break for lunch, hit the books again, and have dinner at home alone while she went out to some social function or another. Of course, there would inevitably be times when she’d drag me against my will to the Horticulture Society benefit or some boring polo event, and on certain days I’d actually feel like trekking to the beach for a bit, but generally my life in the Hamptons would follow a very familiar pattern.
Then Jacinta Trimalchio entered my life, and everything changed.
Because of what happened on the Ferris wheel at her party, I had a boyfriend for the first time in my life. We didn’t use that word or anything, but it’s basically what Jeff Byron instantly became to me.
We hung out all the time, watching movies—or pretending to, anyway—going to the beach, hiking, and trying the lobster rolls at every beach shack and fancy restaurant for miles around. Jeff said he wanted to learn how to cook, so I taught him how to make his favorite things: mac and cheese, pizza, spaghetti with meatballs, and even pad Thai. He took me waterskiing, which was mildly terrifying but also incredibly fun. We talked about politics and history and lay around listening to NPR podcasts, our fingers intertwined. Once my mother walked in on us quizzing each other on SAT words in the living room in the middle of the night.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” she said wearily. “As long as you’re awake, shouldn’t you be at a bonfire on the beach or—or something fun, dears?”
“This is pretty fun,” Jeff said.
“You two are perfect for each other,” Mom said, sighing. She turned around and went back to bed.
I liked almost everything about Jeff except for the fact that my mother approved so wholeheartedly.
During the hours when I wasn’t with Jeff, I was with Jacinta—and, usually, Delilah. They were always throwing little tea parties and slightly-more-adult-beverage parties over at Jacinta’s house in the afternoons. Ainsley Devereaux would come over and divide her time between kissing up to Jacinta and fawning over Delilah. The Fitzwilliams sisters would show up, and a pair of girl cousins whose family owned the New York Times, and other girls whose names I had trouble remembering. They seemed interchangeable to me—they all had horses, and long shiny hair, and bright white teeth, and plans to go to Harvard or Yale or Princeton or wherever their fathers and grandfathers had gone. A few of them carried that type of bag Jacinta had stockpiled upstairs—the Birkin, Delilah had called it.
Once we all sat on the deck drinking mojitos and trading sex stories. Obviously, I didn’t have much to contribute, even though I was gaining more experience with Jeff on that particular front. And Jacinta kept herself busy freshening everyone’s drinks, so she didn’t speak up much, either. When Ainsley mischievously asked Delilah how it was with Teddy, Delilah rolled her eyes.