for my phone. It’s new, a graduation gift from Mom, gold case still sparkly and screen not yet scratched. I should take good care of it—it’s the nicest thing I own—but chances are I won’t.
The texts aren’t from Emilia Bellamy, or Tom, the husband I haven’t yet met. They’re from Kaylee.
I can’t believe you abandoned me.
We JUST graduated like ten seconds ago.
What am I supposed to do with myself all summer?
Anna, hello?
A guilty twinge in my chest says I should have given Kaylee more of a heads-up about my summer plans, but I knew she’d react like this. I close out of my messages and make sure my ringer is cranked all the way up in case the Bellamys call. By now, the platform has cleared out, and most of the parking lot too. I hope I’m in the right place. That I got the meeting time right. It would be just like me to fuck this all up, which is exactly why I’m here. To get out of Bay Ridge. Away from Kaylee. Away from myself. In two months, I’ll be a first-year at SUNY New Paltz while Kaylee starts community college in Brooklyn. We’ll both be starting new lives, or at least I will. But I can’t wait another two months. I need this fresh start now.
I’m debating calling Emilia when a shiny black Lexus SUV pulls into the lot below. A man’s tan arm and face lean out of the window, peer up at me. “Anna Cicconi?” he asks. He’s handsome in a dad way, or at least he’s what I imagine a young, successful dad would look like. I used to have one of those. When I was a kid, he was always working. Now I barely remember his face.
I give him a small, awkward wave. “Mr. Bellamy?”
“Call me Tom,” he says, motioning me over. Backpack over one shoulder, purple monster wheeling behind me, I make my way down the ramp.
* * *
It’s a quick ten minutes from the train station into Herron Mills, one of the many ocean-side towns dotting the southeastern shore of Long Island like jewels on a sandy crown. To my surprise, we pass as much farmland as we do art galleries and private homes on our drive toward the shore. The sun flares low and hot and orange against the tree line. I squint into it, trying to take it all in. I haven’t seen the water yet, but this is definitely not Brooklyn.
“First time in the Hamptons?” Tom asks.
I turn my head toward him, tearing my eyes from the hedgerows and entrance gates that obscure what promise to be jaw-dropping houses from public view. “Yeah. Yes. I think so, anyway.”
My interview for the nanny position took place last month, in Manhattan. I met Emilia and Paisley on the terrace café at MoMA, and the three of us spent the afternoon together. Emilia paid for my iced tea but not my entry to the museum. They probably have a membership. I guess little things like fourteen-dollar student tickets don’t cross your mind when you’re rich. In my lap, my hands clench and unclench.
“Then let me give you the lay of the land,” Tom says. His teeth flash white and straight against his tan skin. The weather just warmed up last week; I wonder how he’s had the chance to spend so much time in the sun. “The Hamptons stretch along the East End of Long Island. Twenty or so hamlets and villages in all. We’re on the South Fork, the branch of the peninsula that meets the Atlantic. To our north is the bay, then the North Fork.”
“Got it.” I did look at Google Maps. Maybe not until I was packing this morning, but still. I’m hoping for more local history, less geography, but I don’t want to be impolite.
“Herron Mills is one of the oldest villages, so you’ll see a real mix of architecture, everything from Dutch colonial to very modern. And Restoration everything. Clovelly Cottage is English country traditional, so it blends in with the older architecture on Linden Lane, but it’s a 2011 construction. We’ve made a few updates over the years, but we bought it turnkey because Emilia needed to be settled before Paisley came. Barely made it too; we closed in late February and she went into labor three weeks later.”
I nod and pretend I’m following more than every second word out of Tom’s mouth. Clovelly Cottage, I’ve gathered from my exchanges with Emilia, is the