Beach Lane - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,77
she began pushing her single bed up against Mara’s bottom bunk. “Get down here, Jac,” she whispered.
The three of them snuggled on the one makeshift king-size bed, feeling comfort in the warmth of each other’s bodies.
Eliza told them about how she and Jeremy got back together. “I just love him so much,” she said, burying her face in the pillow at her own cheesiness. “But Buffalo is so far.”
“I’m sure you’ll see each other,” Mara said. She could have slept in Ryan’s bed, but she didn’t want to for some reason. Their last week in the Hamptons had been something out of the middle part of Titanic—before the ship sank and everything was perfect and hot and steamy. But on the last night there, she wanted to be in the au pairs’ room. It was the only thing that felt right.
Jacqui told them how Kit had offered all three of them a ride back to the city in his car. That was good. At least they wouldn’t have to take the Jitney. So why were they all so bummed?
“We’ll see each other at Christmas,” Eliza said, voicing the emotion they were all feeling. They were going to miss each other. They had gone through a lot this summer. “Just think, we’ll need winter bikinis!”
“In Palm Beach,” Mara said dreamily. Another chance to get out of Sturbridge.
“What’s it like?” Jacqui asked.
“Awesome,” Eliza yawned. “Parties and galas and we’ll all need new clothes!” Her eyelids dropped. Mara was falling asleep, too. Jacqui turned on her side, grabbing for the covers.
Their summer was over. They had done everything they wanted to do and some things they shouldn’t have. Tomorrow they would drive out on the Montauk Highway for the last time. They would return home older, wiser, and certainly more glamorous.
In the end, it had been best summer of their lives. Maybe there was truth in advertising after all.
acknowledgments
Many heartfelt thanks to the wonderful folks at 17th Street—my absolutely fabulous editor, Sara Shandler, the inspiring Josh Bank, and the encouraging Ben Shrank. Thanks to Les Morgenstein for invaluable insight. Immense gratitude to Emily Thomas for all her brilliant ideas. Thanks to Claudia Gabel and Jennifer Unter for thinking of me for this project. As always, I’m very grateful to Deborah “superagent” Schneider, a guardian angel in high-heeled shoes.
Thanks to Jason Oliver Nixon, Andrew Stone, Paige Herman, and Juliet McCall Dyall at Hamptons magazine for giving me a reason to write off my summer rental. Thanks to Karen Robinovitz, my partner in crime, an invaluable resource and a true friend.
Thanks to the de la Cruz and Johnston families for all their support. Thanks to my dad for letting me hog his computer to write this book when mine broke. Thanks to my mom for asking if the naughty parts would be “normal or perverted” (I’ve never laughed so hard, Mom!) Thanks to “Hotel Chit” in New York. Thanks to Aina and Steve for sharing their stories about the Hamptons. Thanks to Kim, David, and Diva for a fantastic summer. Thanks to Jennie for coming out to visit. Thanks to Tristan, Gabriel, Tyler, Peter, Andy, and the rest of The Gang for being The Gang.
Thanks to my husband, Mike, for getting out of the city every Friday night, no matter how late it got.
Thanks dpgroup forum.
Spend another summer with the girls!
eliza discovers fire & brimstone is a new cosmo flavor
IT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE MUCH, BUT THEN THAT WAS PROBABLY because it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and Seventh Circle, the newest, soon-to-be-hottest club in the Hamptons, wouldn’t get going until after midnight. A potato barn in its former life, Seventh Circle was a large, brown-shingled, rambling wood building set back in the Southampton woods. Only a discreet sign off the highway (seven circles posted to a tree, natch) let the initiated know they had arrived at their destination.
Eliza Thompson steered her black Jetta into the parking lot, feeling at once pleased and apprehensive. She examined her makeup in the rearview mirror, applied a thick layer of lip gloss, stuck two fingers inside her mouth, and pulled them out slowly, just like Allure suggested, in order0 to avoid a grandmotheresque lipstick-on-teeth situation.
She checked for detritus of Chanel Glossimer. Nothing. Perfect.
Eliza grabbed her bag—the season’s covetable metallic leather Balenciaga motorcycle clutch. Eliza had bought it in Palm Beach, during the week she’d spent as a vacation au pair for the Perrys last winter. Inside was a rolled-up resume that listed her sparkling attributes: a Spence education