Page 6 of Bad Summer People
“Robert! You made it! Come in, come in. Let me get you a drink and introduce you to everyone.” He was wearing a cologne—musky, not too heavy, just the right amount—that reminded Rachel of her dad, who’d died nearly thirty years ago. She took his arm as she led him to Micah, manning the bar, hoping no one saw that her eyes suddenly, to her surprise, had filled with tears.
“Thanks so much for having me,” Robert said. “It’s been a great week meeting so many people.” Micah, as captivated as the rest of the group, handed Robert a sugary watermelon margarita, which he politely took a sip of, stifling a small grimace. “It’s been interesting coming into a community where I know absolutely no one. But everyone has been really welcoming. And there are some great players here!” Rachel hoped he was referring to her.
Rachel led Robert to the group of men. “Robert, this is Jason, Brian, Sam, and Paul. They’re like the Goodfellas of Salcombe. Though not criminals. I think,” said Rachel. No one laughed.
“Nice to meet you, Robert,” said Jason, extending his hand. Jason was tall, about Robert’s height, with black hair and eyes, full lips, and a look of engaged intensity. “Can’t wait to get to know you. My wife, Lauren”—he gestured to the women, who were staring at them silently—“is the tennisplayer of the family. But I occasionally get out on the court.” Rachel saw Lauren perk up at the mention of her name, rolling her bare shoulders back and standing up straighter.
Robert chatted with the guys for a while, each one going through his name and tennis level (Sam was the best, Jason was scrappy, Brian thought he was great but was barely good, Paul only played softball). They all showed off, one-upping each other with cringey jokes, even Sam, who was normally the center of attention. Jason asked Robert some questions about his background (everyone was impressed by his childhood ranking and playing at Stanford) and how he’d come to Salcombe. Robert explained the Morty-Larry connection, and that he’d been vetted by the Salcombe Yacht Club Tennis Committee, and everyone groaned at the mention of Susan Steinhagen.
“Susan used to scream at us when we were kids,” said Sam. “If we were riding our bikes too fast, or jumping off the lifeguard stand after hours, or drinking at the yacht club when we were teenagers. She was always just… there. Watching and judging.”
Robert nodded, taking in this information without adding to it. He was adept at fitting in with his employers socially, which meant humoring them but not joining in any shit-talking. He didn’t particularly care what had happened to these rich adults back when they were rich children or teenagers. Plus, everyone was a potential client, and Robert couldn’t be seen to be taking sides or partaking in gossip.
Rachel tapped him on the shoulder, handing him a glass of whiskey. “This more your speed than a pink margarita?” she said. Rachel liked the feel of his skin on her hand, and so she kept it there for a second too long. “Come meet the ladies,” she said, leading him to the other side of the porch, where Lauren, Emily, Jen, and Lisa were perched around her wicker coffee table, which her mom had bought in the ’80s.
“Everyone, this is Robert. He’s the tennis genius who’s going to be improving our game all summer,” said Rachel.
Jen stood up from her chair and shook his hand. “Hello, Robert!” she said warmly as the others crowded in.
Lauren positioned herself directly to his right. Robert gave them thesame spiel about his background and how he got to this town. They were rapt, pleased to be in the presence of a man, an extremely good-looking man, who wasn’t one of their husbands. Rachel took leave for the guys, with whom she always felt more comfortable. She’d known Sam and Jason for nearly her entire life. And men just weren’t as competitive or bitchy as women. They gave her much-needed attention that the women out here didn’t.
Unfortunately, they were discussing taxes, which bored Rachel, so she did a quick drive-by and headed for her kitchen to get a refill of olives for the spread. Micah would make sure to keep guests’ glasses topped off. The kitchen was a small space, filled with old cast-iron pans and her mother’s dishes and oven mitts. She’d get around to redoing it one of these days, but it wasn’t top priority. What little extra cash she had went to paying for tennis lessons. This house was really her only asset—she’d bought her sisters out with the money from her mom’s will. They’d been kind enough to know how much it meant to her. Besides, they were scattered all over the country, married with children. All Rachel had was this place.
She took a bowl of olives into the party area. Still hidden by the kitchen door, Rachel saw Jason walking toward her bathroom, through the small hallway that led from the parlor to Rachel’s bedroom. He knocked and Jen emerged, lipstick fresh, and as they passed each other, Rachel noticed Jason’s hand brush against Jen’s, then give it a small squeeze. He said something to her, but Rachel couldn’t hear it. Neither of them saw her standing there, and she stepped back into the kitchen to make sure it stayed that way.
What had she just witnessed? Maybe it was just two old friends teetering too close after a few too many drinks. But maybe it was more than that. The idea that there could be something going on between Jason and Jen—Jason and Jen—was almost unfathomable. Jason and Sam were like brothers, and Jason had Lauren, beautiful Lauren. There’s no way he’d do that to her. Would he? She’d always suspected that Jeanette and Greg had been living separate lives, so it was no surprise when she’d heard they’d split. But Jason and Lauren and Sam and Jen all seemed so rock-solid. Whatever she’d seen, it thrilled her to know that drama was on the horizon, that possibly some of the people she thought were happiest were as miserable as she was.
She’d been gone too long, so she continued out with the olives, hoping her face didn’t betray how unsettled she felt. Robert was still holding court with Lauren and Emily. Lisa had drifted over to the bar with Jason and Sam, peppering Micah with questions about what it was like to be young and desired. Jen was chatting with Paul and Brian.
Rachel went over to them, standing next to Paul, who was in shorts and a vintage-ish Strokes T-shirt. Paul’s thing was that he was “cool.” He worked in marketing at a record label and fancied himself the creative in the group, though they all knew that he was a corporate shill like everyone else. He was always talking about new bands, or the cult TV show from Israel or Denmark that only he’d heard of, or bragging about the fact that they still lived in the East Village (in a shiny new development near Union Square, but that point wasn’t mentioned). Emily, who stayed home with their two kids, playing the part of “downtown hip mom,” came from family money. Her mother’s side had some sort of steel fortune. Rachel was mostly friends with them so that she could stay in Emily’s good graces, be included in her tennis life, and remain her partner for the women’s doubles tournament. Rachel found Paul to be insufferable. He was the only husband she didn’t enjoy flirting with, to be honest. He was also short, maybe five foot six, which Rachel viewed as a character flaw.
“Everything has become so Disney-fied,” Paul said. “I hate to say this, but even the East Village has lost its soul.”
“I agree with you, but hasn’t that been happening for the past twenty years? Sam and I were worried that by moving out of the city we’d lose that energy and excitement, but it seems to me that the city has become interchangeable with where we live in the suburbs. You just get less space there,” said Jen.
“And more homeless people,” chuckled Brian. “De Blasio was a disaster.”
Brian and Lisa lived in a town house in the ’90s. She’d been home with their kids for years and was now training to be a “life coach,” whatever that meant. Rachel found it funny to be around all these women who didn’t need to work for a living. She wondered what that must feel like.
“Don’t be so insensitive. Many of those homeless people are suffering from mental illness,” said Jen.
“Oh, sorry, Saint Jen, I didn’t mean to offend you. I know you and Sam are roughing it out there in Scarsdale, so you can relate,” Brian sniffed. Jen’s face darkened. The more Brian drank, the ruder and more full of himself he became.
Sam walked over and put his arm around Jen’s waist, pulling her in close. Rachel felt a pang of jealousy.
“Brian, stop being a dick to my wife,” he said lightly, smiling. Sam was a master of defusing tension.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Jen. I lost a lot of money this week, so I’m in a shitty mood.” He wiped some sweat off his forehead.
“It’s true,” said Lisa, joining the group, pouting. Something looked different about her, Rachel thought, studying her face. Lisa caught her and narrowed her eyes.
Rachel floated away from the conversation, grabbing a piece of truffled gouda and making her way over to Lauren and Robert, who were speaking alone, heads bent toward each other. They looked up to see her at the same time, flashing identical annoyed looks at the interruption. Robert expertly converted his irritation into a smile. Lauren didn’t.
“What are you gossiping about here?” Rachel asked, raising her eyebrows at Lauren, who continued to give her a death stare. “Must be juicy.”
The image of Jason and Jen popped into Rachel’s mind.
“We’re just discussing doubles strategy,” said Robert with a chuckle. “Pretty boring, actually.” He looked a little flushed. Maybe Rachel’s Japanese whiskey was going to his head.
