Excerpt 4

Growing up, LINDSAY McCORKLE was your typical girl next door, hard-working, smart, good sense of humor. On any given Saturday she had a standing date with Ben & Jerry, one spoon, and a psych textbook. But her life changed each Memorial Day, when the trip to her grandparents’ Southampton beach house thrust her into a world of wealth, decadence and heartbreak, a world where love came and went faster than the shifting tides.

Now pushing thirty and trying to make her way as a writer, Lindsay has tried to capture those summers in her first novel, although the first book-signing party isn’t at all what she expected...

An August afternoon in Southampton, 2006

Why am I here?

I press my hands to my cheeks, feeling very much like the psycho-man in that Edvard Munch painting “the Scream.” Really, what am I doing here in the middle of these acutely fashion-conscious people in designer heels and Botox-enhanced faces and skinny camisole tops with skinnier straps over their airbrushed tans? Handsome young waiters circulate through the crowd dispensing trays of lemon drops and smiles. This is the Hamptons I spent my childhood competing with: the other side of the dunes, where the rich kids crash their parents’ Jags and down fifths of Dewar’s on the beach as they lament over piddly problems.

Certainly not what my grandparents envisioned when they settled here, my grandfather serving as town doc to the local shopkeepers and hunters, farmers, clammers and fishermen. What would Grammy think of this MacMansion overlooking the sea, its neat green-and-white striped awnings and etched glass windows shrieking “look at me!”? How Grandad would crow over the expanse of green lawn, the “unnatural” appearance of grass in an ocean setting, the conspicuous consumption of it all. And Ma...she’d really sink her teeth into all this juicy “hoopla” over her daughter. My mother would have been quite at ease here, but I am freaking quietly inside.

What am I doing here?

I am sitting at a table stacked with dozens of copies of my book, ready for purchase and autograph. The lemon-yellow cover tugs at my heartstrings, as I’ve poured myself into this book and hate to see it so on display, so vulnerable and neglected.  Titled GREETINGS FROM BIKINI BEACH, the cover features a simple black bikini, an image I have always loved until this moment when I look down and see it taking the shape of a face, the bikini bottom smiling back at me.

God help me, it’s alive.

“Where’s the guest of honor?” a cranky female voice demands. “I’m looking for the guest of honor!”

Oh, God, that’s me, but she sounds  so imperious I don’t dare look up from the book I am signing for Carole, with an e. But Mrs. Cranky pushes ahead, shouldering the woman out of her way with a linen suit so crisp it could cut the brie on the cheese platter.

“Are you Lindsay McCorkle, the guest of honor?” She spies me over the wide lenses of her sunglasses. “I just had to introduce myself - Esther Lefkowitz, lifetime Hamptons resident. When I heard about your book I knew you’d want to meet me since I know everyone and everything in the Hamptons.”

“How wonderful for you,” I say, confused. The book is written, and since it’s fiction I didn’t exactly interview people for research.

“Yes, I’m fourth generation Southamptonite. My grandfather was a trapper.” She makes a show of adjusting the rings on her fingers – sapphires and amethyst, like jewels from a sunken treasure. “So go on, ask me anything about the Hamptons. Did you know Tony Curtis used to vacation here?  Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller honeymooned in Amagansett. And let me tell you, I’ve met all the big ones. Donna Karan, the famous fashion designer. JFK, Jr. – such a pity about that boy, and thank God Jackie didn’t live to see it!  I’ve rubbed elbows with Bianca Jagger and Andy Warhol. And Lorne Michaels and that Chevy Chase fella. I know which house belongs to Jerry Seinfeld and which one used to belong to Billy and Kristy. Oh, and Sarah Jessica...such a doll, and the manners on that girl!”

“That’s quite a gallery of celebrities.” I nod. There’s no one else in line; I’m stuck with Esther. 

She steals a drink from a passing waiter’s tray and slugs it back, blinking. “I’d offer you one, toots, but I see you’re in no condition. But ask me about anyone. Any Hamptons dweller.”

I mention a television star, and Esther rolls her eyes. “Couldn’t come up with anyone more challenging? Let me tell you about Penny...” 

As she waxes nostalgic, my eyes wander to the beach below the grassy bluff where a handful of kids kneel in the sand.  The skinny girls  digging for sand crabs and shells remind me of my friends and myself, some twenty years ago. Most of us were eight when we met – goofy third graders who enjoyed riding bikes, having bubblegum bubble blowing contests and staying up late to watch Saturday Night Live. Even at age eight, our personalities were well formed. There was Darcy the Queen Bee; Tara, the noble voice of jurisprudence;  Elle, the brilliant eccentric. And me? I guess I was always the sucking-up peacemaker, the great facilitator.

As I watch one of the scrawny girls slings a bucket of water on her friend, who shrieks and leaps to her feet to chase her friend and wrestle her to the ground.

I smile, recalling the first year the four of us were together...

We have been digging in the sand all afternoon, answering to Darcy’s orders to build an elegant sand castle with perfect, conical towers, a moat, and a precise trim of gray shells. The castle is nearly finished when Elle argues with the design, deciding that the seashell trim is overdone. She begins to remove clamshells, which sends Darcy into a rage.

“No, no, no!” Darcy stomps around the castle and gets right into Elle’s face. “Don’t touch those shells. Are you crazy?”

Elle’s green eyes flame, her nostrils flare. In one quick move she hoists a bucket of water and slaps it onto Darcy.

Darcy explodes with a four-letter word, her blue eyes snapping with fury.

Tara freezes as Darcy mouths the forbidden word. I shoot a nervous look at the sunbathers around us, wondering if any of the adults have noticed, especially nosey Ms. Janice Olsen who loves to catch us doing something wrong.

Fortunately, Ms. Olsen is walking Nipsy down the beach by the jetty.

Only Elle is unscathed, laughter bubbling out of her as she rolls back in the sand.

Darcy snatches Elle’s towel and blots off most of the water and sand. When the towel falls from her shoulders, she is model perfect once again. You’d never know she was wet, except that the material covering her boobs (perfect ones, that grew last winter) is a slightly darker shade of hot pink. Only eleven and already she’s on her way to having all the stuff the boys want.

“Don’t you ever, ever do that again!” Darcy shrieks in a voice so stern I sense the sand crabs burrowing deeper in the sand...

Now, watching as the skinny girl stomps off the beach, I sigh. It’s a wonder that Tara, Darcy, Elle and I are still friends.

“Who else?” Esther prods, tinkling her fingers at a waiter. “Who else would you like to know about?”

I tap my chin.“How about Darcy Love. Have you ever met her?”

She accepts another lemon drop and holds it high with flare, as if to say: Ole! “Do you mean Darcy Love the actress?”

“That’s the one,” I say. “What do you hear about her?”

“She’s a hot one now, isn’t she?” Esther puts her drink down on one of my books, her jewelry winking in the sunlight. Cocktail rings, my ma used to call them. “I happen to have attended a party here, when this place was the Love Mansion.” She nods toward the house looming behind me. “Of course, back then Darcy Love’s parents were players in the Hamptons. The money they threw around! It was appalling, but not so bad if it was getting thrown on you.”

“Esther,” I say, intrigued. “Were you a player, too?”

She presses her palm to her cleavage, her rings sparkling. “Esther Lefkowitz. I write the Beach Buzz column for the Hamptons Register?

I blink. “A reporter?”

“A gossip columnist, and over the years, I must admit, my columns have gotten a few boosts from the activities of the Love family. But now Darcy...” She sighs.  “She’s become quite the Phoenix, hasn’t she? From the ashes rising? We all love a good redemption story.”

“Esther,” I pretend to be dumbfounded, “it sounds like you’ve read my book already!”

Esther snorts. “No, dear, but I can tell you a thing or two about Darcy Love. The girl spent every summer here. Let me tell you...”