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A short while later, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering where the phone is and if I should call Samantha to ask for advice on how to deal with Teensie, when I remember Teensie on the floor of the Jessens’ and smile. Who cares if she hates me? I’m in the Hamptons! I jump up, hang my clothes, and slip into a bikini. The room is a bit stuffy, so I open the window and take in the view. The bright green lawn ends at a manicured hedge, and beyond are miles of fields fuzzy with short leafy plants—potato fields, Bernard explained on the way over. I inhale the sweet, humid air, which means the ocean can’t be far away.
Above the gentle sound of the surf, I hear voices. I lean out the window and discover Teensie and another woman seated at a metal table on a small patio, sipping what appear to be Bloody Marys. I can hear their conversation as clearly as if I were sitting across from them.
“She’s barely older than Chinita,” Teensie exclaims. “It’s outrageous.”
“How young is she?”
“Who knows? She looks like she’s barely out of high school.”
“Poor Bernard,” says the second woman.
“It’s just so pathetically textbook,” Teensie adds.
“Well, after that horrible summer with Margie—didn’t they get married here?”
“Yes.” Teensie sighs. “You’d think he’d have the sense not to bring this young twit—”
I gasp, then quickly shut my mouth in the perverse desire not to miss a word.
“It’s obviously subconscious,” the second woman says. “He wants to make sure he’ll never get hurt again. So he chooses someone young and wide-eyed, who worships him and will never leave him. He controls the relationship. As opposed to Margie.”
“But how long can it possibly last?” Teensie moans. “What can they have in common? What do they talk about?”
“Maybe they don’t. Talk,” the second woman says.
“Doesn’t this girl have parents? What kind of parent lets their daughter go away with a man who’s clearly ten or fifteen years older?”
“It is the eighties,” the second woman sighs, trying to be conciliatory. “The girls are different now. They’re so bold.”
Teensie gets up to go into the kitchen. I practically crawl out the window, hoping to hear the rest of their conversation, but I can’t.
Numb with shame, I flop back on the bed. If what they said is true, it means I’m merely a pawn in Bernard’s play. The one he’s acting out in his real life to help him get over Margie.
Margie. Her name gives me the willies.
Why did I think I could compete with her for Bernard’s affections? Apparently, I can’t. Not according to Teensie.
I throw the pillow against the wall in rage. Why did I come here? Why would Bernard subject me to this? Teensie must be right. He is using me. He might not be aware of it, but it’s no secret to everyone else.
There’s only one way to save face. I have to leave. I’ll ask Bernard to drive me to the bus stop. I’ll say good-bye and never see him again. And then, after I have my reading and I’m the toast of the town, he’ll realize what a mistake he made.
I’m tossing clothes into my carpenter’s bag, when I catch the sound of his voice. “Teensie?” he calls. I peer over the windowsill.
He’s striding across the lawn, looking concerned and a bit peeved. “Teensie?” he calls again as Teensie appears on the patio.
“Yes, darling?”
“Have you seen Carrie?” he asks.
I detect a slight drop of disappointment in her shoulders. “No, I haven’t.”
“Where is she?” Bernard demands, looking around.
Teensie throws up her hands. “I’m not her keeper.”
They both disappear into the house as I bite my lip in triumph. Teensie was wrong. Bernard does care about me. She knows it too, and it’s driving her mad with jealousy.
