The Beach Lane Collection

  “We might have to sell the Black Hawk!” Grant cried.

  “Why don’t you put up some new jokes, then?” Jacqui asked.

  “We can’t think of any.” Duffy shrugged. “Nothing’s come to mind. Nothing seems funny anymore.”

  “I’m depressed,” Ben admitted.

  “We’re doomed,” Grant declared.

  “C’mon, guys, it can’t be that bad! It’s just a speed bump; you’ll think of something. I know you will. Duffy—Ben—Grant—come on—”

  “We know, you know,” Ben interrupted.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “We know what you’ve been doing.” Duffy said, looking at her mournfully.

  “You deceived us,” Ben lamented.

  “What?”

  “You’ve hooked up with all three of us—don’t try to deny it; we all know,” Grant said.

  Jacqui blushed. “I didn’t mean to. . . .” Really, she didn’t. It had just happened—she had found all three of them irresistible, although in the back of her mind, she’d known this day would arrive, and she suddenly felt awful.

  “It’s okay. We should have known,” Ben said. “It’s not such a big deal, except that there’s three of us and only one of you.”

  “And we can’t live like this,” Grant confessed. “So you have to choose.”

  “One of us,” Duffy said soberly. “Only one.”

  Exchange all three boys for just one? Jacqui turned crimson. How could she ever decide? Because in a way, she loved all three of them . . .

  you get what you wish for

  WHEN MARA ARRIVED BACK FROM New York, she fully expected the Malpractice to be messier than ever—after all, several of Ryan’s college buddies had descended on the boat for the weekend. Mara steeled herself for the smell of stale beer when she walked inside the main cabin.

  She pushed the sliding door aside, but she was assaulted by a strangely pleasing smell. Like roasting vegetables and rosemary. She looked around—there were no boxes on the floor, no cigarette butts, no empty cans, no dust bunnies in the corner. Instead, the boat was clean, its floors shining, the carpets vacuumed. There was a spray of bamboo sticks in a glass vase, emitting a pleasant scent reminiscent of freshly washed laundry.

  For a moment, Mara wondered if she should check the boat’s transom to see if she was in the right place.

  But then Ryan walked out of the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon.

  “Taste,” he said in greeting, placing the spoon to her lips.

  “You cook?” she asked, and took a lick. It was delicious. Marinara sauce.

  “Occasionally.”

  “And you cleaned?”

  “Well, Laurie sent someone over,” Ryan admitted. “But I figured it was about time. I should have just had someone come every week. You were right: the place was getting disgusting.”

  “Did you have fun with your friends?” she asked, watching as he uncorked a bottle of wine.

  “It was fun,” Ryan said. “But I missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” Mara replied, nuzzling him on the cheek. They kissed briefly. Ryan sniffed her hair, breathing in her scent—he hadn’t done that in a long time.

  She embraced him tightly. Mara was delighted. The show of affection seemed to mean he was ready to be more supportive of her career aspirations. She was tired of feeling guilty for leaving him all the time. “I have the best news!” she said.

  “I do too, but you go first,” Ryan said, eyes twinkling. He was still holding her close.

  “Sam Davis called while I was in New York. The Associated Press is picking up that profile I did on Sydney! They’re going to offer it to all their media outlets. It’s going to be published nationally! Can you believe that?” Mara was still in shock about the news. Sam had been very complimentary as well and had said that Mara had bona fide “chops.”

  “That’s great.” Ryan nodded, but Mara noticed he let go of her ever so slightly. “Good for you.”

  Her smile faltered a bit. Why didn’t Ryan ever seem that excited about her job? He’d once admitted he never even read Hamptons magazine, although he did make an exception for her column. But only when she reminded him.

  “Sam said that they never sell any stories to the AP. And I got a call the other day from an editor at Harper’s Bazaar—they want me to write a little story about ‘Hamptons style.’ It’s only five hundred words, but still.”

  “Mmm.” Ryan nodded again. “Very cool.”

  “So what’s your news?” Mara asked, suddenly remembering Ryan had mentioned having some glad tidings as well.

  Ryan immediately lit up again. “There’s something for you. On the table.”

  Mara walked over to her desk. It was a thick white envelope with the Dartmouth crest. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Ryan’s eyes were dancing. “You got in! I told you it would happen!”

  “I did,” Mara breathed, sliding her fingers through the clasp. She removed a package of forms and read the official letter congratulating her on being accepted into Dartmouth’s next freshman class.

  “Now we can be together!” He enveloped her in a tight hug.

  Mara put the forms back in the envelope, feeling conflicted. She should be happy. She had finally gotten what she wanted. She had gotten into Dartmouth. But she remembered the Columbia campus—the energy of the city, the writing program, Danielle’s effortless sophistication. Her story was going out on the wires, and she had an assignment from Harper’s Bazaar. How could she continue to write about fashion if she was stuck in New Hampshire?

  She’d wanted Dartmouth so much, but now that she’d gotten it, it felt anticlimactic.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Ryan exhorted, giving her a pen so that she could sign the acceptance forms.

  He looked so eager and excited for her. Mara remembered why she’d wanted to attend Dartmouth so much in the first place. She and Ryan would be together now; their summer wouldn’t have to end. Maybe it was only beginning.

  Mara signed her name to the statement, promising to attend Dartmouth in the fall. She put it in her purse. She would mail it tomorrow, with a deposit, as soon as possible. Ryan handed her a stamp.

  “C’mon,” he urged, pulling her to the kitchen. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  donna karan, eat your heart out

  JEREMY DIDN’T THINK SHE HAD passion? she had passion. She would show him she was more than just some kind of shopping addict. He thought that all she could do was spend money? And obviously, even with the job at Lunch (which left her fingers calloused, hello), she still didn’t merit his respect. Paige was doing something she loved, while Eliza was just a wage slave. Well, enough of that. She was going to do something she loved.

  Everyone always told her she dressed the best—that she had a unique sense of style that everyone wanted to copy, and it was her vision that had made Sydney’s show a success—she’d even heard that due to the hype that surrounded her helicopter entrance, orders were up and Sydney’s line was back in the black. After working for more than a month at Lunch, Eliza wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty, and she suddenly realized how she could put two and two together—her passion for fashion and her newly acquired work ethic.

  She would design her own collection. Just a few pieces, maybe ten outfits total. She just needed one standout piece. Calvin Klein had made his name on the backs of his blue jeans. Donna Karan on a stretchy bodysuit. Zac Posen on the strength of one slinky party dress.

  Fall meant back to school; back to school usually meant uniforms. Inspired, Eliza sketched out plans to do a working-girl glamour collection: “The Uniform of Fall,” she would call it—cool, trendy pieces inspired by uniforms of all kinds—school uniforms (plaid, tartan, gray wool, burgundy, rep ties), flight attendant uniforms (pencil skirts, waist-nipping jackets, colorful scarves), military uniforms (brass-buttoned coats, epaulets, camouflage), Wall Street uniforms (bespoke suiting, skinny pants, houndstooth). A working woman’s
uniform—the height of wearable chic.

  Anytime she had a break between shifts at the restaurant, she started drawing in her book, and thanks to her internship at Sydney’s office, she knew where to find the best pattern makers and fabric retailers available. Her friend Todd, the shoe salesman at Jeffrey, offered to be her business partner, and Eliza couldn’t have been more excited about the prospect of setting up her own label.

  She was going to show Paige and Sydney a thing or two about real motivation and creative vision—something they both lacked.

  * * *

  A few days later, her parents were away for the night, so Eliza invited the girls to come over to her house for dinner, thinking it would be fun for the three of them to cook together instead of going out all the time. She’d visited the farmers’ market that afternoon and had returned with fresh vegetables and herbs, and her boss at Lunch had given her a few fat trout filets to take home.

  Eliza was marinating the fish in olive oil and lemon when Jacqui and Mara entered, bearing wine bottles and fresh bread from Citarella.

  “I love your kitchen,” Mara said, putting away the groceries and looking over Eliza’s shoulder to take a peek at the fish. “This is such a great house.” She squeezed Eliza’s arm affectionately.

  Eliza smiled. “Thanks, it was my grandmother’s. They’ve had it for ages. Dad had to pay double what they sold it for, but it was worth it.”

  The Thompsons’ kitchen had an earthy, comfortable, shabby quality belied by the custom built-in stainless-steel industrial Traulsen refrigerators. Eliza’s mom had decorated in a vaguely French country style, with tons of rooster- and hen-shaped crockery and colorful floral towels. Whitewashed floorboards, rusting and paint-scraped window finishes. And every conceivable surface was covered by family photographs. Eliza on her fifth birthday, wearing a pink dress and carrying a parasol. Her parents dancing at the Stork Club. Eliza on skis in Gstaad. Her mother as a debutante at the Waldorf. Photographs from a glamorous yet loving family life.

  Mara admired each picture, thinking Eliza led a charmed and charming life—the kitchen hummed with good energy.

  “What’s this?” Jacqui asked, noticing a thick sketchbook in the middle of the table. She opened it and began leafing through the pages. “Wow, Liza. Is this your stuff? It’s really good.”

  Eliza nodded as she stuck the fish in the broiler. “Uh-huh.” She told them about her idea for setting up her own label, her face aglow.

  “It’s brilliant,” Mara said, looking at the theme that Eliza had put together. “Can we do anything?”

  “Thank God you asked—I need so much help,” Eliza confessed, outlining the different tasks: cutting fabric, acting as fit models for the patterns, putting together a press release, meeting with boutique owners. “I bought a sewing machine, but I’m going to have the samples made by real garment workers in the city.”

  “When’s the fashion show?” Jacqui asked, taking a sip from her glass. She’d already offered to help Eliza as a sales coordinator—she would tell her bosses at the boutique in Brazil about the new line.

  “A show—God, I never even thought of that,” Eliza admitted. “But that’s a great idea.”

  “Sydney’s showing the last week of August,” Mara informed her. “We just got the invitation today. He’s not doing Fashion Week in New York; he wants to show early.”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if I did my show on the same night?” Eliza laughed. Then she realized—that was exactly what she was going to do. “But how am I going to do a show without any money? I’d have to pay to rent a place and everything. I can’t afford that.”

  “Why don’t you do it on the beach? The beach is free. There’s a really nice stretch over on Flying Point that’s pretty far from any houses. You could have it there,” Jacqui said, thinking of the night she’d spent with Grant and feeling sad that they had yet to speak to each other. Grant was ignoring her calls. She’d told her friends what had happened, and they’d both told her to give it time.

  “I love it. I’m going to do it!” Eliza decided. “Thanks, guys.”

  They set the table and sat down to dinner. The fish was fresh and wonderfully moist, and they all complimented Eliza on her cooking.

  “Jeremy’s a lucky guy,” Mara said.

  Eliza winced. “I don’t know. We’re not really talking at the moment.” She told them about what had happened the other day at Lunch. It made her unhappy. She didn’t know if they were still together or just fighting. “Anyway, I guess one of us should apologize, but I can’t decide if I’m waiting for him to call me or if I should just call him.”

  “You should call him,” Mara urged. “Summer’s almost over. You don’t want to waste any more time,” she said, thinking more about herself and Ryan. She told them about finally getting into Dartmouth, and they drank to her acceptance.

  “But you don’t seem happy?” Jacqui noticed.

  “I am, but I’m not,” Mara admitted. “I kind of feel like I really want to stay in New York, but then there’s Ryan. . . .”

  “Boys,” Eliza summed up. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”

  “I’ll toast to that.” Jacqui laughed, thinking about how even though the boys had given her an ultimatum, behind each other’s backs, they were still trying to sneak some time alone with her—each had taken the “showdown” to mean she would choose him. This insanity had to end before someone really got hurt. And at that very moment, Jacqui made her decision.

  They spent the night helping Eliza with the fabric, pinning up a few patterns, acting as fit models for a few of the outfits, and dancing around the room to Gwen Stefani’s newest album. Even if the boys were being a pain, it was a comfort to know they could always count on each other.

  she’s just not that into you

  THROWING A SURPRISE ANNIVERSARY PARTY for two people on the brink of divorce was harder than Jacqui had assumed. Especially when one’s love life wasn’t turning out to be so great either. It was time for the three-ring circus to stop, and when Duffy invited her for a sunset ride in the golf cart one afternoon, she saw a chance to clean the slate. They had parked near the spot where they had first tumbled out of it and kissed.

  “You look so serious,” Duffy chided after Jacqui told him she needed to tell him something important.

  “I’ve got some bad news,” she said gently, brushing the sand from her jeans.

  “It’s not me, is it?” he asked.

  “It’s not you,” Jacqui said. “It’s me.” They both cracked up at the clichéd breakup line.

  “Ah, Jacarei. We were having so much fun!”

  “I hope you’re not mad.”

  Duffy grinned, the same easy grin he’d given her the first time they’d met. “How can I stay mad at such a beautiful girl?”

  “Friends?” Jacqui asked, holding up her hand for a high five.

  Duffy slapped it affectionately. “Always.”

  Jacqui exhaled. One down, two to go.

  * * *

  Later, back at Cupid headquarters, Eliza had procured the number of the best wedding planner in town, and that afternoon, the three of were meeting the organizer to go over the event. They had decided that the best place for the anniversary party was in the Perrys’ own backyard. Georgina Perkins’s office was in a simple low-slung Southampton cottage, filled with comfortable overstuffed linen couches. There were antique floral prints framed on the wall, numerous pastel chenille throws, and mismatched crockery—tasteful country chic.

  “So, is this for your parents?” the high-strung blond-bobbed Martha Stewart doppelganger asked, opening up her massive black appointment binder.

  “No,” Jacqui said quickly.

  “Kind of,” Eliza replied.

  “They’re, uh, like parents to us,” Mara explained with a helpful smile.

  “So, you’re thinking tent in the backyard, butlered hors d’oeuvres, five courses, a band, fireworks at the end?” Georgina asked, describing the typical hundr
ed-thousand-dollar Hamptons affair.

  “Oh yes.” The three of them nodded eagerly.

  “And a chocolate fountain. We have to have one,” Eliza insisted. Her cousin had gotten married over the spring, and the five-foot-tall flowing chocolate extravaganza had been the hit of the evening. “It’s romantic,” she argued.

  “That’s extra,” Georgina noted.

  “And could we have the steaks catered from Delmonico’s?” Jacqui asked.

  “Sure. But we’ll have to get them from the city, so it’ll be extra as well.”

  “Why Delmonico’s?” Mara asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” Jacqui said.

  “And who are you thinking for a band?” Georgina asked.

  “Well—I know it’s a stretch, but do you think we could get Matchbox Twenty to sing at the party?” Jacqui asked.

  “Matchbox Twenty?” Eliza gagged. “They’re, like, so 1998!”

  Mara giggled. Even though she had nothing against the band, Eliza did have a point. It was almost as bad as inviting Sheryl Crow.

  “Precisely. That’s when they met,” Jacqui said. “Anna would die.”

  “I don’t know if we could get the band; I think they might have broken up,” Georgina said. “But we could maybe get Rob Thomas to sing one song. I know his wife.”

  “Excelente.” Jacqui smiled.

  Georgina wrote down notes furiously. Then she pulled out a deposit form. “We’ll need fifty percent up front and then the rest the day of the party. Sign here.”

  “We’ve got it covered.” Jacqui said smoothly.

  * * *

  They left the wedding planner’s office and walked over to a nearby coffee shop.

  “So, who’s paying for this party?” Eliza wondered.

  Jacqui looked sheepish. “I put it on Anna’s account. I figured, if it works, they’ll thank me for it later. If not, I’m fired anyway.”

  “Nice.” Eliza nodded, impressed.

  There was just one problem—Jacqui and Shannon couldn’t figure out a way to get Kevin Perry to the Hamptons on the day of the party. After the confrontation at the restaurant and the bad feeling it had engendered, the last place he wanted to be was anywhere near his wife. Worse, Shannon had checked his e-mail account and found that Kevin was planning a trip to the Caribbean in late August—the same time as the party. They had to think of something fast; otherwise Rob Thomas would be singing a divorce dirge rather than a love song.