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with the new store you'll hardly even be around, you hotshot designer, you."
"Thanks, J." Eliza couldn't suppress her grin. Jeremy always knew the right thing to say. Back at Parsons, she'd recovered from the shock of her parents' separation, presented her collection, and ended up receiving the highest grade in her design class. She'd been chosen as one of five students to show during Fashion Week in February at the big Bryant Park tents. Buyers from Barneys, Bergdorf's, and Kirna Zabete had clamored for her childlike yet edgy collection--the Times had described it as Courtney Love meets Wednesday Addams.
Bolstered by their enthusiasm, Eliza had decided it was high time she opened her own store. And since her clothes had been such a huge hit last summer in the Flamptons, what better place to do it? She'd found a tiny little space in an alley just off Main Street across from Scoop and Calypso and had the entire place painted a pale pink--the exact color of the inside of a seashell. Her name would appear in lowercase Arial letters-- eliza thompson--on the pink-and-white awning. Just thinking about her little boutique made her heart leap.
She held the phone close to her ear, wishing Jeremy were here so she could kiss him. It was hard to believe they'd already been dating for three years--Eliza skipped over the part when they had taken a break after the first summer due to the long-distance thing. Jeremy, with his warm brown eyes and delicious head of curls, was the sweetest guy she'd ever met. She couldn't imagine being with anyone else.
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"But I really should go--I'm almost here. And I got so distracted talking to you that I think I may have just run over a pigeon."
Jeremy laughed. "Okay, call me later. Love you, babe."
Hearing those three sweet words, Eliza sighed. No matter how many times Jeremy said them, it still made her skin tingle.
It was going to be another perfect summer in the Hamptons. Except, of course, for one thing: for the first time since they'd met, Mara wasn't going to be there. She'd landed some kind of job backpacking through Europe, writing about off-the-beaten-path locales--as in stinky hostels and cheapo pubs. Charming. Eliza thought travel should involve five-star resorts, hot stone massages, pina coladas by the pool, and the occasional hot pool boy--and nothing less. But she knew Mara would love it. And at least Jacqui would be nearby with the Perrys.
Eliza sped along the last stretch of the highway and found herself pulling up to the Thompson estate in Amagansett less than fifteen minutes later. Her parents always called it their "shack" or "the cottage," even though the house was the size of a fortress. It was a beautiful old place--solid, weathered, sprawling, and distinguished, with none of the grotesque McMansion details or gargantuan proportions that were popping up all over the Hamptons. A stately colonial with a two-story portico, a row of impressive columns, and an antique bronze oil-rubbed lantern over the doorway, the house had been in her mother's family for years. There was even an authentic Indian tepee in the back, where Eliza had played house as a kid and had first smoked pot as a teen. It was home.
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"Dad!" she called, pushing her sunglasses up on her head and scrambling out of the car. "I'm here!"
She was about to unlock the front door when it opened. "Dad?" Eliza stopped short. A man in his late thirties stood there, wearing a white Lacoste shirt, faded Edun jeans, and moccasins--no socks.
"You're not my dad," Eliza said stupidly.
"No. But you are definitely a babe." He extended a hand. "Rupert Th
orne. Pleasure's all mine."
Eliza kept her hands by her side. "I think there's been some kind of mistake," she said hesitantly. "I'm Eliza Thompson."
"Honey, is it the au pair?" a female voice called from inside.
Rupert's smarmy leer only deepened. "I certainly hope so." He winked.
"I'm not the au pair. I live here. Or at least, my family does. During the summer. This is our house." She ignored the sleazy up-and-down look he gave her and dug her phone out of her purse, speed-dialing her father.
He picked up after about ten rings. "Sweetie! Are you stuck in traffic?"
Eliza could hear the clinking of ice cubes in a glass. It occurred to her that she could always tell which parent was on the line by the background noise--with her mom it was hair dryers, with her dad it was the chink-chink of ice in a glass. "Dad, there are people in our house. What's going on?"
"Oh, sweetheart, I forgot to tell you. Your mother rented out
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the house without telling me." The sound of ice was now drowned out by a loud clamor and the sound of shrieking. Where was he? "I think it's payback for selling the yacht in Portofino without telling her. But don't worry, there's lots of room at Suzy's. There are a few extra rooms in the east wing, near the kids."
Suzy's? Kids? Eliza frowned. Did that mean those insane whoops in the background were her children'. There had been no mention of children before this. Eliza cast a grumpy look at Rupert Thorne, who was still staring at her, practically salivating. She'd so been looking forward to staying in her own room, with her own things, in her own house. This did not sound promising.
"It's right off Dune Drive," her father said. "You can't miss it. It's the largest one on the block, with all the Greek and Roman statuary out front. Turn left at the Pieta."
Eliza sighed. She didn't have much of a choice. She walked back down the steps and toward her car, ignoring Rupert Thorne as he called after her, asking if the au pair wanted to come play house.
Eliza's dad was right: she definitely wasn't in any danger of missing Suzy's house. If the Thompsons' "cottage" was the epitome of a Gatsby-like Hamptons past, Suzy's home was decidedly the Hamptons future. It positively screamed new money, with its elaborate mailbox--an exact replica of the house itself--and a massive roof that made it look like the house was sinking into
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