But just like she really knows her stuff when it comes to breakfast preparation, my mother is a genius when it comes to picking out bed linens. Still in the pajamas that had so horrified her, I slid between the 1,200-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and drifted off to sleep almost immediately. I have a dim recollection of noting the time on the antique wall-mounted clock in the corner (taken from an old lighthouse, natch)—11:07. I figured I’d get up at 1.
When I woke up, the clock read 6 p.m. I’d slept for (as Skags would say) seven freaking hours. I don’t know what had me so tired, or why my body felt it needed to store up so much sleep. At least my mother wasn’t home—she really would’ve flipped if she found out I ditched a day of tennis with Fairweather and Barrington offspring in favor of just sleeping. I mean, my mom doesn’t even like it when I sleep more than seven hours a night. She regards sleep as a necessary evil, and essentially a waste of her time. She’d eliminate it from all our lives if she could.
I wandered down to the kitchen to make myself an iced coffee. I swear I had all the best intentions of actually cracking open that SAT prep book, but when I looked out the window above the sink, I was astonished by what I saw.
Something truly faaaaaabulous was happening at our next-door neighbor’s place. In all the years I’d been coming to stay with my mother in East Hampton, I’d never seen anything like it.
Gleaming red-and-white striped tents lined the left and right borders of the backyard. The tent flaps were down on three sides, but the side facing the river pool was open. Some of the tents contained catering stations—I could see two Baxley’s vans parked in the driveway—while others displayed games you might see at a carnival. You know that one where you shoot a stream of water into a clown’s open mouth and fill a balloon that rises above his head? That was one of the games. There was also a game of Whack-a-Mole, one of those horrendous weight-guessing booths, a dart challenge where you had to try to pop a balloon to win the prize listed on its tag, a beanbag toss, a ring-the-bell competition with a big old-fashioned mallet, a miniature rifle range, and a bunch of other activities that would’ve seemed perfectly at home at the Jersey Shore but which seemed hilariously out of place in stuffy East Hampton.
As two white-gloved cater waiters struggled to set up a giant tub of lobsters near a grill, I noticed with delight that Baxley’s was not the only food provider on-site. It seemed the hostess next door had seen fit to engage the services of a company that did carnival snacks like funnel cakes, grilled corn on the cob, cotton candy, roasted peanuts, ice cream, and (my absolute favorite) sno-cones! I don’t know what it is that I so love about pouring a bunch of artificially flavored and colored high-fructose corn syrup over ice, but I’m a big fan. Big.
And to top it all off—and this was what I really couldn’t believe—there was a Ferris wheel! I mean, a pretty, romantic, old-fashioned, classic Ferris wheel. It wasn’t giant like an amusement park Ferris wheel, but it was pretty large! It even matched the rest of the décor, being red and white. They’d centered it in the backyard along the rear perimeter, practically in Georgica Pond, and it dominated the entire scene, dwarfing the tables and chairs that were set up around the U-shaped river pool. The footbridges that crossed the river pool here and there had been festooned with red and white balloons.
As I watched a small army of workers rush around lighting the tiki torches that lined the river pool, I thought I heard a knock at the front door. I figured I was just hallucinating, so I stayed in the kitchen spying on the circus unfolding next door. It occurred to me that my mother would absolutely lose it when she saw that her peaceful evening of silent cupcake contemplation was going to be ruined by some kind of noisy party next door. I honestly would’ve assumed it was a party for little kids, except that one of the red-and-white striped tents was a fully stocked bar—manned, I noticed with some surprise, by Giovanni, the kid from Baxley’s. As I looked around at the other cater waiters, I recognized quite a few faces. I even saw Misti-with-an-i, straightening the spotless white tablecloths on the white circular tables and adjusting the perfect white cushions on the white folding chairs. Each table was anchored by an expensive-looking crystal bowl in which floated white candles and red roses. Misti yelled something at Giovanni, and he hurried over with a lighter and began attending to each candle. Even from my vantage point, I could see the look of scorn she shot him as she watched him work, her hands on her hips.
We still had a couple of hours until sunset, but all the lights in the house were blazing, and a harried-looking woman wearing a headset kept rushing in and out of the back door, surveying the progress in the yard and barking orders to various sweaty men who were hoisting boxes, pushing hand trucks, handling armloads of red and white flowers, and doing a seemingly endless series of other tasks involving color-coordinated objects. I caught a good look at the woman’s face and realized that I actually knew who she was—this was Greta Moriarity, my mother’s favorite party planner (though, of course, Anne Rye never liked to publicize the fact that she used a party planner—she liked people to think she did everything herself). I’d met Greta a few times over the years, and she had always vaguely terrified me. Now, as she screamed at a large man carrying a giant red-and-white vase, I could see that she terrified other people, too.
Conspicuously missing from this whole scene was my neighbor, the gorgeous angelic creature I’d seen the previous evening. It seemed as if this horde of caterers, construction workers, carnival barkers, and—were those guys in dark suits security guards? Why yes, they were—other employees had just spontaneously descended upon the castle-like house and elaborate grounds next door and magically made this spectacle come to life. I was sure they’d been at work outside for the duration of the seven hours I’d been asleep—and I had a feeling Greta had been directing activities inside the house since before I woke up in the morning. Suddenly I heard the door to the garage slam. My mother’s shrill voice called out, “Naomi!”
She swept into the kitchen, loaded down with bags from Marc Jacobs and Calypso and Citarella, and stared at me with disdain.
“You haven’t changed?” she demanded.
“Wait, I haven’t?” I shrieked, staring at myself in mock shock. I couldn’t help it.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, huffing around the kitchen and noisily unpacking fancy cheeses and jars of expensive tapenade. “That’s really disgusting. You haven’t even showered today, have you?”
“Just been really focused on studying,” I lied.
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, there’s an absolute circus unfolding next door,” she said. “I doubt we’re going to get much peace and quiet tonight. I didn’t think anything could be worse than those Saudis, but this girl next door is clearly about as gauche as it gets.”
I edged out of the kitchen and toward the front staircase in order to beat a hasty retreat, but stopped when I noticed something affixed to the front door. It was a little pink envelope. I grabbed it quickly and went back into the kitchen.