so that’s why william was so out of control
THE NEXT MORNING, THE FLOOD HAD RECEDED AND sanitation workers were beginning to clear the highways of fallen trees and branches. Kit drove Jacqui back to the Perry house, the Navigator plowing through the deep, muddy waters. The winds had died down, and it had finally stopped raining. The storm had moved north, but the Hamptons were devastated. Several homes on cliffside bluffs were completely destroyed, and as Kit pulled up to the Perrys’ driveway, they noticed that the Reynolds Castle—what was left of it, anyway—had taken a severe beating.
“Yikes,” Kit said, his eyes dancing. “I hope they had insurance.”
“It was such an eyesore, it’s a blessing,” Jacqui said.
She felt more nervous looking at the Perry house. It was almost time to face the music, and she was so fired. But as she was gathering her resolve, getting ready to pack up her things and head unceremoniously back to Brazil, a junky old taxi pulled into the other side of the circular driveway. Philippe opened the trunk and stacked his suitcases inside.
He was leaving? Jacqui hadn’t realized he wasn’t staying for the whole summer, but then again, she hadn’t realized a lot of things about him. She looked at the beautiful boy and felt stupid, but not heartbroken. Philippe gave her a mild wave.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He shrugged and put on his sunglasses. “Au revoir, ma cherie.” He shook a cigarette out of his pack before climbing into the back of the taxi.
Laurie came barging out of the house. “And don’t come back! You’re lucky we’re not pressing charges! If it weren’t for your aunt, you’d be in a lot of trouble, young man!”
Dr. Abraham pushed past Laurie, carrying his battered plaid suitcases. “Hold on, boy! I need a ride to the train as well!” Dr. Abraham gave Laurie a sheepish nod and followed Philippe into the car.
Jacqui walked up the waterlogged steps. The Perry house seemed to have survived intact. “What happened?” she asked Anna, who was watching everything from the foyer.
The frosted blonde looked Jacqui up and down. “Don’t you know?” she asked suspiciously.
“Know what?” Jacqui asked, mystified.
“But you called Philippe last night . . .” Anna said.
Jacqui blushed. “I . . . I was stuck out on Route 27. The Prius ran out of gas and I was trapped outside in the hurricane. I tried the main house, but the lines were down,” she explained.
Anna’s face visibly relaxed upon hearing Jacqui’s explanation. “So you really didn’t know?” she asked again.
“Know what?”
“Philippe is a drug dealer,” Laurie interjected, breathlessly recounting how Anna had found out that Philippe and Dr. Abraham were selling Ritalin, Adderrall, Valium, and Ambien to customers in the greater Hamptons area.
So that was why his cell was always ringing. Apparently, Philippe had started nicking William’s prescriptions to fill some orders, and when the doctor had found out what Philippe was doing, instead of reporting it, he’d supplied Philippe with more scrips and gotten a cut of the deal. The hurricane had made a lot of people nervous, and Philippe had made a lot of deliveries that week. Anna had discovered the truth when she’d caught him stuffing William’s pills in his backpack, when she’d been running around the house looking for her meds. And that was why Anna had said, “Philippe isn’t open for business,” when Jacqui had called.
Anna didn’t want a scandal and had chosen to send Philippe away and fire the doctor rather than take any legal action. She found the whole thing more unseemly than criminal. She didn’t want her name in the papers. At least, not for this sort of reason.
Anna dismissed Laurie and then touched Jacqui’s arm conspiratorially. “By the way, congratulations on keeping away from him all summer.” Anna winked. “I know how charming he can be.”
Even though Jacqui hadn’t entirely stayed away from Philippe, she didn’t think there was any reason to mention that now. Maybe Philippe hadn’t been with Anna—the emergency call from the Perry house the night at the motel could have just as likely have been Dr. Abraham. Jacqui would probably never know for sure, but she also didn’t care.
“Anyway, Jacqui darling, I just wanted to remind you that we’ll need you to be back in New York by late August. I’ll send a ticket to your address in Brazil—will that be all right?” Anna asked.
“Does that mean I get the job?” Jacqui practically squealed.
“Of course.” Anna nodded. “And my friend at Stuyvesant said we’d be able to get you in, no problem. We’re not sending William to Eton after all, since he failed the entrance test. And after everything that’s happened with Philippe, I don’t think his aunt—our usual nanny—will be coming back. So we’re definitely going to need someone to help with the kids.”
Jacqui laughed. After all that, she was getting everything she’d wanted. And, looking at Kit, who was helping Ryan clear the wreckage of fallen limbs, she realized that maybe she had ended up with even more than she deserved.
summer ends early, but the next one isn’t too far behind
THAT AFTERNOON, ANNA ANNOUNCED THAT THE Perrys were going to go back to New York early. There were a couple of weeks left before Labor Day, but staying around to clean up the house and yard was not Anna’s idea of a good time. The girls were still going to get paid for the whole summer as had been agreed, but after that evening, their services would no longer be required.
Since the kitchen was unusable due to water damage, Jacqui proposed a full-blown Brazilian churrascaria—grilled steaks, sausages, chicken, and lamb, to celebrate surviving the hurricane. Now that the storm had passed, the sky was bright and clear and the air was warm. It was the perfect night for a barbecue. Jacqui even made a pitcher of caipirinhas, a Brazilian version of the mojito, that she knew her friends would like.
She invited Eliza to come over and join the fun, and although Eliza was a little hesitant at first, she agreed. She had a lot to say to Mara, and it was finally time. She and Jeremy arrived at dusk, his trusty old pickup truck carefully maneuvering over the bumpy roads and around the fallen trees. They walked over to the patio, where the smell of sizzling meat wafted deliciously in the air. The kids were running around, sword fighting with the fallen branches.
Eliza saw Mara and Jacqui manning the grill. Mara was fresh-faced and glowing. For the first time that summer, she was wearing her own clothes—a plain white T-shirt and a pair of Gap cargos.
“Hola, chicas,” Eliza said, in her best imitation of Jacqui.
Mara looked up at the sound of Eliza’s voice. Eliza was wearing her Sally Hershberger jeans and the discount Missoni top. Jacqui had covered her fauxhawk with the Pucci scarf. Mara was glad her friends each had a souvenir from the Mitzi closet.
“Let’s talk, Mar,” Eliza said bravely, when she got a little closer.
Mara nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good.”
“You, too, Jac,” Eliza said. “All of us. It’s been too long.”
The three of them ambled to the beach in silence, Jacqui walking between Mara and Eliza, hoping she could be the peanut butter to stick the three of them back together. They watched the seagulls glide gently over the waves and the ocean glitter under the setting sun. The hurricane had stirred up the ocean floor, and the beach was littered with broken seashells and assorted debris.
Finally, Eliza turned to Mara. “I’m really sorry. For everything. I really hope . . . I mean, I hope you know I would never do anything to hurt you,” she said, her voice cracking. “I know you and Ryan are meant to be, and I made a mistake, and I’m really sorry. I wish I’d told you about Palm Beach earlier—I tried, but not hard enough. . . .”
“ ’Liza, don’t. Please don’t cry,” Mara said. “I was so awful to you at the fashion show, and I accused you of taking those stupid earrings. I’m so embarrassed. It’s my fault too.”
“No, really, it’s me,” Eliza said, wiping at her face with her whole palm. She reached down and blew her nose
on the bottom of her gorgeous Missoni shirt. It was such an un-Eliza move that Mara and Jacqui had to laugh.
Mara nodded. “I trust you,” she said simply. And, looking in her heart, she found that it was true. She really did trust Eliza. People made mistakes. She understood that now. And as happy as she was to be with Ryan again, her friendship with Eliza was just as important. You only met a few kindred spirits in your life, and you had to hold on to the ones you were lucky enough to find.
Eliza’s eyes filled with tears again. In a hoarse voice, she said, “I hope you guys know you’re the best friends I’ve ever had.”
Jacqui slung an arm around each of their shoulders, and the three of them hugged each other tightly. Mara started to sob too, and without entirely totally knowing why, Jacqui did as well. They’d been so lonely without each other.
“Hey, look . . .” Jacqui said, pointing to some trash that had washed up on the beach. “Doesn’t that look like our bottle?”
Mara almost couldn’t believe it, but it was the same rum bottle they’d hidden their message in at the start of the summer. What were the chances?
Eliza pulled the cork open and fished out the label. On top of the scrap was their note: Hello from Mara Waters, Eliza Thompson, and Jacarei Velasco in the Hamptons. We’re having the summer of our lives. If you find our bottle, please write your name and a note and toss it back into the ocean.
Scrawled on the bottom of the page was the following:
Hello from Nova Scotia, Canada, from Sandra Shepherd, Alana King, and Margritte Lyon. We found your bottle floating in White Point Beach. We’re having an amazing summer, too!
Jacqui, Eliza, and Mara laughed. It was like a little miracle.
“Nova Scotia! God, that’s far away,” Eliza said.
“The hurricane probably pushed it farther,” Jacqui surmised. “Or brought it back.”
“I wonder if they’re like us,” Mara mused, touching her neck. The Mikimoto pearl necklace. Mitzi had said it was hers to keep at the start of the summer. It was the only real gift from the designers. Mara thought of a certain tall redheaded sister of hers who would love it.
“Next summer—we’ll be back!” Eliza declared. “Next summer—I know this sounds so cheesy, but I promise—it’ll be the best summer yet. It’ll be the summer of our lives.”
Jacqui and Mara smiled indulgently. They were all thinking of the Internet ad that had gotten the three of them together in the first place. Would they au pair for the Perrys again? It was hard to say. Ryan had told Mara about little cottages you could rent down on the beach. Eliza was already planning her next internship, maybe for a fashion designer—she’d had enough of nightclub hostessing. And Jacqui . . . well, Jacqui was just thinking of how cute Kit had looked yesterday, and of making her dreams of NYU come true.
The day after the hurricane, the world was still, and at peace. It was a cleansing, a catharsis. The Hamptons would survive: During the fall the roads would be repaired, the monstrous houses rebuilt, and, come May, a new crew of hopefuls looking for fun and sun would come to play, fall in love, and drink too much champagne on the sandy white beaches.
Mara, Jacqui, and Eliza vowed that they would be back. Next summer would be here before they knew it.
acknowledgments
Thanks to Les Morgenstein, Josh Bank, Ben Schrank, and everyone else at Alloy for their wit, wisdom, and encouragement. Thanks to Emily Thomas, Jennifer Zatorski, Tracy van Straaten, and Rick Richter at Simon & Schuster for the wonderful support. Thanks to Deborah Schneider and Cathy Gleason for the thoughtful guidance.
Much love and thanks to all my family and friends, especially the DLCs; Bert, Ching, and Francis de la Cruz; Aina, Steve, and Nicholas Green; the Johnstons; Dennis, Marsha, John, Anji, Alexander, Tim, Rob, Jenn, and Valerie, and all the rest of the Ongs, de la Cruzes, Torreses, Gaisanos, and Izumis out there. Thanks to Kim De Marco, Deborah “Diva” Gittel, Thad and Gabby Sheely, Tristan Ashby, Gabriel Sandoval, Liz Craft, Caroline Suh, Tyler Rollins, Karen Robinovitz, Andrey Slivka, Katie Davis, Tina Hay, Tom Dolby, Lisa Marsh, Alyssa Giacobbe, Sarah Eisen, Jason Oliver Nixon, Andrew Stone, Paige Herman, Juliet Gray, Shoshanna Lonstein Gruss, and Ed “Jean-Luc” Kleefield.
Thanks to the Flatotel, Khrystine Muldowney at Chanel, Siren PR, Norah Lawlor, and everyone at Lawlor Media Group for the fabulous New York launch. Thanks to Citrine, Nadia, Meredith, and everyone at Wagstaff Worldwide for the awesome West Coast party.
Thanks to everyone who dished and whose names I cannot mention here. You know who you are.
Last, I’d like to thank all of you who e-mailed, reviewed, and blogged about The Au Pairs. Thank you for your enthusiasm and good wishes. May all your summers be fun and scandalous!
Can’t Wait for the next summer? Take a look at what’s in store!
in seat 12A, mara hopes that all good things come to those who wait
AS THE PILOT CIRCLED LAGUARDIA AIRPORT, MARA WATERS switched off her iPod mini and put away the Dartmouth College catalog she’d been reading. She looked out of the tiny airplane window down at the Manhattan skyline—a luminous vision of steel and glass obscured by a late-afternoon haze. She’d made the forty-minute shuttle trip from Boston to New York several times now and was familiar with the commute. It was a pleasant enough journey that included stacks of complimentary magazines at the terminal and the company of crisp-looking professionals in worsted wool suits or crumpled corporate khakis, twinkling Bluetooth headsets discreetly curled behind their ears.
It was the first week of June, and barely forty-eight hours ago, she had officially graduated from high school. The ceremony itself had been a relatively straightforward affair, with a dull speech from the myopic valedictorian and the halfhearted singing of the class song (Kelly Clarkson’s “Breakaway”—chosen by the administration after the class’s real choice, Green Day’s “American Idiot,” was banned). The only excitement had come when a member of the marching band flashed the stage, showing he was wearing nothing underneath his gown as he accepted his diploma. (His brightly uniformed colleagues quickly struck up a sassy bump-and-grind version of “The Strip.”)
Mara had won the English prize, along with a two-thousand-dollar college scholarship. Her mother cried and her father took way too many pictures with his new digital camera while her sisters cheered from the stands. To the hearty beat of “Pomp and Circumstance,” she’d joined the three hundred other Fighting Tigers in tossing their cardboard hats into the air. Afterward, over watery punch and stale Mint Milano cookies at the gym, she’d watched as her classmates exchanged new college e-mail addresses and promised to visit each other the next fall.
If only she had been able to do the same.
Mara frowned at the Dartmouth catalog, feeling envious of the cable-knit-clad coeds photographed studying on the lawn. Wait-listed. That was what the one-page letter inside the slim white envelope had said. Not “yes” or “no”, but “maybe”.
She could find out she’d been accepted in a week or even a few days before school started. Or she could never be accepted at all. Luckily, she’d been offered a place at Columbia with a generous financial aid package, and she’d put down a deposit to hold her place just in case Dartmouth didn’t come through.
So now her whole summer stretched out in front of her, filled with anxiety and dread, since she didn’t know where she would be in the fall. It was just so unfair. Dartmouth was her first choice, her only choice—as far as she was concerned. Ryan, after all, was going to be a junior there.
Ryan. When she thought of his name, she couldn’t help but smile. Ryan Perry. Her boyfriend. It had finally happened—the two of them together at last. They’d met two years ago when Mara was working as an au pair for his younger siblings, and they had immediately hit it off. But other things and other people quickly got in the way. That first summer, Mara still had been with Jim Mizekowski, her high school steady. Mara finally gave Jim the boot the week before she was leaving, and she and Ryan had spent a blissful week togethe
r in the Hamptons. But later that winter, Mara broke up with Ryan after feeling totally insecure about the whole background-incompatibility thing—Ryan being one of those boys born to everything, while Mara was a girl who had to work hard for everything in her life.
So they’d spent the second summer apart as well. Mara had found solace in the arms of Garrett Reynolds, the rich, tomcatting heir-next-door, while Ryan sought comfort even closer to home—hooking up with Eliza, one of Mara’s best friends. But that was all in the past now. Garrett was forgotten and Eliza forgiven. Over the past year Mara had often visited Ryan in New York and New Hampshire, and Ryan had finally made the trek to Sturbridge.
All her fears about what he would think—that her house was too shabby, her parents too weird, her sisters too loud—had been immediately dismissed once Ryan arrived. He’d bonded with her dad over football and polished off a record four helpings of her mother’s chicken-fried steak. Megan pumped him for celebrity tidbits from New York (“Your friend did a body shot off Lindsay Lohan? Are you serious?”) while Maureen declared Ryan was a great name for a boy as she patted her pregnant belly. And he hadn’t said a word about the unfinished bathroom with the piece of cloth nailed to the window that substituted as a curtain or the fact that her parents kept the house at a chilly fifty-eight degrees in the middle of winter to save on heating bills.
This summer was going to be the best one yet—she didn’t have to au pair anymore since she’d gotten a job as an intern at Hamptons magazine through a connection of Anna Perry’s. It was a standard entry-level post—fetching, faxing, and answering phone calls for the editor in chief, but it tantalizingly promised a few—underline few—writing opportunities. “We need someone to caption all the party pictures,” her boss had told her. Mara got the impression the job required the ability to accurately distinguish one Fekkai-blond socialite from the other rather than real writing talent, but at least it was a first step on the journalism ladder.