It's Hot in the Hamptons Page 5

  A groom walked into the hall, and as he approached, the driver flipped through the pages on his clipboard and scribbled some fake notes, as he pushed his Yankees hat down further on his head. He was relieved when the groom made a left. Not able to find anything incriminating in the trunks, he now searched the tack room where bits and bridles hung on hooks. Very-expensive-looking saddles rested on polished wood bars. Nothing there, either.

  Half an hour later, the driver steered his truck out of the massive equine complex, slouching so as not to be seen on the way out. He was annoyed he hadn’t found anything. Maybe his source was wrong about the trunks. Still, he would have to find the goods somewhere else. Maybe Marcus McCree would have to come help him in person.

  Anything to bury Eddie Clarkson in his own horseshit after all these years.

  Chapter 8

  He Built It, They Showed

  Saturday, Memorial Day Weekend, Bridgehampton

  The day party for the launch of the Sea Crest Stables complex was packed; more than a hundred people showing up in the first hour alone. Faint notes of honeysuckle trailed through the persistent scent of hay. At the entrance circle, valets ran around opening car doors as if their lives depended on it. Cars from Priuses to Ferraris inched up in a line, announcing the income of those inside. No matter which chariot brought them, each guest stood awestruck at the exquisite barn and stables that Eddie Clarkson had created.

  Parents huddled in groups or chased their children around the hydrangea bushes near the horse rings. A half dozen food and drink tents circled the main lawn, now filling up with guests nibbling on designer chips and mini lobster rolls, sipping rosé and mint lemonade, or queuing up to order a vigorous ginger shot.

  The anticipation of summer simmered in the excited mood of the crowd. Pieces of conversations flew around the grassy fields and horse rings: What kind of influx of cash did this take? How did that Eddie Clarkson develop this so fast? What percentage does that Eddie actually own?

  Alongside several gated horse rings, pristine white cocktail tables stood on the green under large market umbrellas. Tented food and drink stations were scattered around the edges of the entertaining area offering sushi, mini sliders, sandwiches, and gelato in a dozen flavors. A truck pumped out thin-crust gourmet pizzas with truffled Italian cheeses and artisanal organic toppings. A rosé-tasting tent from the local Wölffer vineyard stood in one corner of the massive front lawn, a regular bar in the middle, and on the opposite edge, the fresh-pressed juice tent for the health-obsessed Hamptonites, already the most crowded.

  Caroline still felt like an impostor with all this new wealth, and today, to mitigate any showiness (especially in front of old schoolmates who might come), she wore white jeans and a blue button-down she’d had for years. Eddie, meanwhile, marched around his manor in spanking new lavender JP Tod’s moccasins and a matching lavender linen shirt. He shed his local East Hampton skin like a snake, allowing any sign of his past to wither up and turn to dust.

  As Caroline leaned against a tree, checking her phone, figuring out which group to approach, Eddie had grabbed her hips from behind.

  “Stop,” she said, unpleasantly spooked.

  He cuddled her and kissed her neck. “I want you by my side.”

  “You know I hate it when you come up to me like that,” she told him. “I’m so proud of you, but don’t scare me like that.”

  “C’mon, beautiful, off your phone. I know how you get all apprehensive. Lemme walk around with you.”

  “Well, maybe,” she answered, knowing he got her ticks better than anyone, social anxiety and all. “You don’t think I’m going to take away from your bro moments, working the banker guys out there?”

  “I could introduce you to their wives, maybe some you haven’t met?”

  “You know the deal,” she said, nodding. “Those horse moms think I’m some local yokel in the wrong clothes.”

  “It’s high time they didn’t.”

  “Let’s get a smoothie over at the Juice Press bar, and just allow me to settle in at my own pace. I’m good.”

  Just then, Pierre Huntsman, a dashing Belgian billionaire now living in London with a boatload of children from several wives (and a gorgeous new husband he’d just married at his estate in Moustique), walked by. Eddie couldn’t help himself. “Pierre, wait up!” he called. “I gotta talk to you! Your kids would fit right in!” And then, turning to Caroline, he said sweetly. “I’m sorry, you’re right. This guy loves horses. He is the central fuckin’ fixture of European social life. Lemme go work on him.” He pinched her arm. “And if you’re going to Juice Press, would you get me the Pink Dragon smoothie? And, honey . . . don’t forget the turmeric booster. Makes me feel extra alive.” Before going into battle to charm the Londoner, he pounded his chest like a gorilla and winked at her.

  Next, Caroline walked to the lemonade stand where her nine-year-old, Gigi, and her favorite summer friend, Rosie, waited in line. “Girls, let me take you to go help with the pony rides, like we planned,” she told them, as two men furiously cut up lemons, limes, and oranges before them. “A lot of the younger children will be scared to be in a saddle, and it’s good to have other kids reassure them. Scooby-Doo and Sauerkraut are sweet ponies, and you know them better than anyone.”

  “We are, Mom!” Gigi said defensively.

  “I’m just reminding you that you’re the best helpers here, and the grooms could use you.” Gigi was so sensitive these days, more so as she entered her tweens.

  Caroline had allowed her daughter to ride ponies for three years now. The girls met at Gigi’s old barn last summer, Rose Patch, where Rosie’s uncle Thierry had served as a barn manager for the two dozen ponies stabled there, working for that well-known blond beauty Jenna Westlake, who served as head trainer. Rosie’s mother had passed away when Rosie was a baby, her father had abandoned them, and she had lived out here with Uncle Thierry all of her life. Once the barn was complete, Eddie had poached Thierry to run the logistics and coordinate the horses at his own Sea Crest Stables year-round.

  “I know you get it, honey: you ride, but you also love the responsibility of taking care of an animal. You’re just like the working students here, who work for their lessons,” Caroline said, kneeling down to face her child, brushing her long brown hair behind her shoulders. This time Gigi cuddled up against her for a tight, warm mom hug. She was glad Eddie had bought enough animals for the thirty-five-dollar lessons for all the local kids, so it wasn’t only city kids here with cash and their own horses.

  As she embraced her child, Caroline heard men arguing in the stable halls. She thought she heard the voice of that lovely Marcus McCree, who ran Executive Coach, inside. His voice was raised, which seemed odd. If someone were being terribly rude or rough, Marcus had that natural elegance that would diffuse the tension. She told the kids, “Girls, get your drinks when they’re ready and wait for me a sec, then I’ll take you over to the pony ring.”

  Caroline walked thirty yards closer to the barns near the tack room. She saw Eddie’s two main employees, Philippe and Thierry, arguing with Marcus. None of them saw her, but she was close enough to hear garbled phrases.

  “Why were you . . .”

  “I was returning horse treats she’d . . .”

  “Why the hell do you need to be in here at all?”

  She crept up to the wall beside them and pretended to be on a call with her phone to her ear. Looking toward Gigi and Rosie, she waved and pointed at her phone, and held up her hand, indicating five more minutes to the girls. From this vantage point, with a window open to the tack room, Caroline could hear the conversation, or most of it. Philippe was somehow accusing Marcus of something. Nosiness? Theft? Impossible. What on earth could he have stolen? A bag of carrots?

  “You never come in the tack room. No reason for you to be here!” Philippe screamed. “What do you need with the children’s things? Do you ride horses? You want a saddle too?”

  “I was just doing an errand in here, bu
ddy,” Marcus explained calmly. “Mrs. Clarkson asked me to check on her daughter’s trunk. She’s missing a jacket that I thought was in my car. And I got horse treats here.”

  “What kind of jacket?” Thierry asked, far more gently than Philippe had. He did, however, sound equally agitated. “He’s right. You don’t need to be here. Why didn’t you just call?”

  Caroline peeked around a pillar and saw Philippe jab his palm into Marcus’s upper arm to make his point. Even though Philippe was five foot eleven, Marcus towered over him.

  Marcus stood his ground and spoke softly, and in his calm, practiced manner said, “You all can please just keep your cool. It’s your boss’s big party day. He doesn’t need any problems.”

  “But why did you come on a Saturday?” Thierry asked, still wary.

  “I told you, man. I just had some horse treats from the city that his daughter wanted, and they were in the pile to come out here, and I figured they should be in her trunk, the girl would want them here. And, also, the wife said she needed the dry-cleaned jacket out here. I’m sure it was expensive and she doesn’t want to have to replace it. You guys get that.”

  Thing was, Gigi’s jacket was already dry-cleaned and folded in her trunk. And she never asked Marcus to bring horse treats from the city because they were never in the city in the first place. Plus, she would have called his executive car company in general to make a reservation for a car and driver, not the owner specifically. He didn’t get involved in her mothering errands, she wouldn’t even think to bother him with them.

  Philippe pushed further. “Look, here’s the deal: we don’t want anyone who doesn’t work here ever touching anything in this barn.”

  “These trunks belong to the girls, all thirty of them. Each girl has her boots, sunscreen, helmets, and extra crops in here,” Thierry added, in a more conciliatory tone. “They don’t need anyone moving things around. Same for the tack room. If they end up missing something, it’ll be a safety issue.”

  “What kind of safety issue is a horse cookie or a jacket exactly?” Marcus wisely asked. “And I didn’t touch any bridle.”

  Caroline decided it was time to intervene. She walked around the pillar and said loudly, “Why thank you, Marcus, for coming all the way out here on a holiday weekend. It’s the big opening party, and we really needed those piles of treats and the jacket we had in the city front hall.” At that, she shot Marcus a look.

  He looked down.

  “And one more thing, all of you . . . I really don’t understand,” she had to pry, “Marcus owns a large business he tends to, he drives our family sometimes only because Eddie pushes until he just relents, I’m sure. So what are you both accusing him of, exactly?”

  “We weren’t,” Philippe said. “We just have to keep track of the horses’ supplement intake. We keep some of their medicine in the girls’ trunks. And bridles are particular to each animal, and I know them all so well.”

  “He wasn’t touching bridles or medicine, he was just . . .” Caroline didn’t finish, she knew all three men were being dishonest: Philippe and Thierry on one side of a lie, and Marcus on the other.

  “You are so very, very right,” Philippe answered obsequiously; the snow job he did on most women possibly not as effective on Caroline Clarkson.

  Thierry added, “I’m sorry. I agree.” He reached out to shake Marcus’s hand. “Sorry, sir, she’s right. I worked hard to get the barn ready and I don’t want to have any disorganization here. It’s the first weekend of the season, just stress.” He looked away and edged his jaw to one side. Caroline studied his expression, knowing people often make strange facial gestures when they aren’t telling the truth. To mitigate the awkwardness among everyone, he said to her, “Thank you for taking Rosie today. She is going to ask for a sleepover, which obviously you don’t have to agree to.” He yanked at his ponytail, separating it in two to tighten it against the band.

  “It’s fine. They haven’t asked, but that’s good to know. I’m expecting some good behavior from them and, if they do well, that’ll be the prize.”

  Caroline walked away, concerned. Something more than stupid male territorial pride was going on. She liked Thierry Moinot, they’d organized playdates for the girls for three summers now after the girls rode in the other barn he’d managed. She admired him for taking his niece Rosie on, with both her parents gone, but he was acting shifty in a way she’d never seen.

  Adding someone with Philippe’s temperament to the stable staff was a horrendous idea. He had manipulated Thierry into a cohort of some type—just like a seventh-grader who could transform a nice, docile friend into a bully.

  She walked back to the girls who were waiting by the tent. “Thank you, girls, for being so patient.”

  “That was, like, ten minutes, Mom.”

  “I had to do something, honey,” Caroline answered, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. “You guys can go get extra treats from your horse trunks and give some to the lesson ponies.”

  “Let’s give them only peppermint candies. Ponies don’t like the cookie ones,” Rosie instructed, in that bossy manner she always took with the more pliant Gigi.

  As she and Rosie walked off, Gigi turned back, her light eyes sparkling against the fair skin that Caroline recognized as her own. Gigi was becoming the mini-me everyone said she was. “Also, if we do a good job, can Rosie sleep over?”

  “Of course.”

  Caroline watched Rosie walk with her tough girl stride, her thick limbs and middle section giving her a certain sturdiness and strength, and that hint of bullishness perhaps born from a life coping without a mother. Gigi walked beside her, more slight in body and manner, often deferring to Rosie’s lead. Though her uncle Thierry had a network of aunts and grandmothers helping, he was unmarried and the sole guardian and parent.

  Caroline took extra care to smother Rosie with maternal attention when the girls played at her home, dedicating extra time to do art projects or bake with them. When Rosie would talk about science activities at the beach, or hanging out at the barn after school, Caroline felt a pang of jealousy for her own child, who was boxed up in that horrible, cinder-block city jungle all week.

  Chapter 9

  Free Fall

  At the juice bar, the way he raked his gray-flecked hair over his ear felt familiar to Caroline. When he wasn’t looking her way, she managed to study his features through the crowd. His face was kind and weatherworn, tan already in May. She racked her brain searching for his name, but ultimately found nothing—a feeling not unlike a sneeze that faded and grew and then faded away entirely, leaving a sense of annoyance and dissatisfaction.

  They might have walked by each other in a high school hallway when the bell signaled a harried change of classes. Or maybe they sat on the same bleachers at a basketball game. When he turned toward her, her eyes darted quickly away and she pretended instead to be judging the wait in line for the smoothies.

  He walked around the far end of the counter, beyond the mason jars and baskets of vegan chia chips, and politely ordered. “I’ll take a Clean Green Protein smoothie, please. Do you mind going easy on the ice? Sorry to be a pain,” he said. His gracious manner made her wonder what it would be like to be with a docile man instead of the impetuous bulldog she’d chosen. Maybe she’d like it. Or, maybe she’d be bored.

  He pulled a water bottle out of an ice tub before him and opened it. Something about Caroline, or, perhaps, just sensing a past connection, made him startle a little as he sipped. He attempted a little nod, something that said I-know-you-too-but-I-don’t-know-from-where expression at her. This small motion back at her while he drank sent some water dripping down his shirt.

  Caroline mimed hello and sorry at the same time, because she had a feeling her not-quite-normal level of staring at him caused his spill.

  The servers hurriedly mashed kale, green apples, and carrots into loud, whirring machines, trying not to lose a finger in the process. The New Yorkers waved their hands high in the air, strainin
g to get noticed.

  Regardless of their placement in the line, they were all thinking the same thing: I should be able to cut.

  He stood a few inches above most of the men there. One woman beside him at the counter thrust her drink in the air and demanded, “Could you redo this? I think you forgot the activated charcoal.” Deep wrinkles fanned out from the edges of his greenish eyes, and he seemed to be considering whether or not to push his way around these people, who had turned his hometown into their opulent summer playground.

  He rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down, and a vein crossing his left forearm showed across the counter. From ten feet away, Caroline noted the band on his left finger.

  At the counter, the employee finally fit the lid on his smoothie. She mistakenly handed it to another woman who hadn’t ordered it. She sipped it, knowing it wasn’t hers, but claiming it triumphantly. He rolled his eyes while looking directly at Caroline, remarking on the wave of entitlement rolling into the tent like thick fog. The look alone told her that he assumed she had grown up out in the Hamptons as he had. She opened her eyes wide and round back at him, her expression saying, City people can be such assholes when they want something right now.

  He then grabbed another cold bottle of water out of the tub of ice on the counter, and raised it in the air.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Caroline mouthed across the bar, even though she wasn’t thirsty. It’s only water, she told herself, and she wanted to find out where she knew this guy from, anyway.