And before I knew it, we were over the East Hampton Airport, which is basically a holding pen for famous people’s private jets and other sky vehicles. I guess there’s a private little airline that runs flights back and forth from different places, but it had never before occurred to me that some people never drive from the city to the sea, that they always arrive by air. As we gently swiveled west and descended and I caught a full view of the peachy-pink sunset, I finally understood why some people preferred to make their entrance from the sky.
CHAPTER THREE
As soon as we landed, I saw our mothers—mine and Delilah’s—waiting for us on the tarmac. They looked nearly identical, so it was anyone’s guess which comely, middle-aged blonde had birthed the comely, teenage blonde. No stranger would’ve ever guessed the flat-chested, skinny little string bean with the dull brown hair was a product of the lovely lady in lavender.
My mother loves lavender. It’s a trademark for her. She never appears on television or at a public function without something lavender, even if it’s just a raw silk scarf draped around her perfectly toned, tanned shoulders, while the rest of her body luxuriates in a white silk shirtdress that shows off her beautiful ballerina legs. She danced professionally in Chicago for a few years but never broke out of the corps de ballet, so she quit. When my father met her, she was a cocktail waitress in a not-so-fancy restaurant. She still takes ballet classes (in a lavender leotard, natch), and my father says the reason Mom is so effortlessly elegant and graceful is “all those years of ballet. They taught her to sit up straight, walk like a princess, and never eat a goddamned thing, not even the stuff she bakes.” And while it’s true that my mother was unnaturally skinny by Chicago standards, where we eat a lot of bratwurst without shame, she fits right in with the rail-thin priestesses of New York high society.
“Darling!” Mom cried out in a voice so embarrassingly sweet I thought everyone else had to know it was bullshit. “You look so thin! God, to be seventeen again.” She quickly looked at Merilee Fairweather for approval, and when Merilee laughed and nodded her agreement, my mother perked up even further. She rushed forward to envelop me in a Chanel No. 5–scented hug, and I patted her awkwardly on the back. My mom was wearing a silk scarf and silk dress, and she also had on these fancy, white open-toe high heels from Ferragamo (I only know this because she never shuts up about Ferragamo) and a string of pearls, and her fingernails and toenails were done in this kind of off-white champagney color.
I was dressed in maybe a slightly dissimilar fashion. I’d made a dress out of this old long black T-shirt with the lead singer of the Cure on the front, and I wore a black camisole underneath (no bra, I don’t need one) because the T-shirt falls off one shoulder, and I cinched the whole thing around the waist with one of my dad’s old black belts. My hair was up in a ponytail, and I wore a jet-black pair of vintage Doc Martens with slouchy black socks.
I realize from this description I sound like some weird Goth kid, but I’m not Goth in the least. I like the Cure, and the Docs are comfortable. But did I wear all that black because I was kind of hoping it’d freak my mother out a little? You’re damn right I did. And it worked, too. I could tell she was a little embarrassed when she said, “Darling, you remember Mrs. Fairweather, of course. Merilee, I’m afraid it looks as though Naomi is going through a bit of a phase.” I caught Jeff’s eye then, and he looked as if he were about to crack up. I tried hard not to laugh as I greeted Mrs. Fairweather.
“I think you look lovely, Naomi,” she said, looking me up and down with the kind of blankly cheerful expression that meant she either liked my outfit or was on benzos. “Very creative. You and your mother should come with Delilah and me to some of the Fashion Week shows this September.”
Mom just about died at that one. “We are coming!” she said immediately, before Mrs. Fairweather even had a chance to shut her mouth. “Naomi, I don’t care if you have school—I’m flying you out here, and we’re going to go. Delilah, will you be walking in any shows again this year?” All I had heard about from my mother the previous summer was how Delilah was going to make her runway debut walking around in clothes designed by a close personal friend of her mother’s. It was no one I’d ever heard of, and being around my mother for many years has forced me to learn a few things about fashion, if only through osmosis. Delilah looks like a skinny, gorgeous high school cheerleader, so I never imagined those high fashion people could make her look bad. But my mother emailed me a link to photos of Delilah walking in that designer’s show, and they had managed to make her look like a freaky ghost. Who puts white powder on a blond girl’s eyebrows, anyway?
“Yeah, I’m gonna walk again this year,” Delilah said politely, her hand intertwined with Teddy’s. “In a couple of shows. Maybe three.”
“And we just shot a mother/daughter feature that will be in the September issue of Vogue,” Mrs. Fairweather said proudly. “It was about models and their mothers.” My mother gasped with joy.
Teddy spoke for the first time, letting out a snort of laughter. “Yes,” he said, putting one arm around Mrs. Fairweather and the other around Delilah. “She’s walked in one runway show and done one Gap ad, and that makes her a big supermodel.” Delilah poked him in the side and he jumped, laughing again.
“Oh, Teddy.” Mrs. Fairweather sighed with an indulgent smile. “You always tease.”
“We haven’t really spoken since you were a little boy,” my mother said, smiling at Teddy. “I’m Anne Rye. I catered a few of your birthday parties when you were small, darling.” She widened her eyes and her smile. I was instantly repulsed. She was flirting with some teenage football douche. Ew.
“Of course I know who you are, Anne,” Teddy said smoothly, reaching out to shake her hand. “I don’t just want a handshake—I want an autograph!” They shook hands as Mom let out a happy squeak of laughter. Being completely obsessed with her career doesn’t give my mom much time to date, so I’m sure pressing the flesh with Teddy Barrington was her thrill of the month.
“You’re the famous actor,” she purred. “I want an autograph, too!”
“Only if I get a chocolate cake,” he teased. Ugh, I hate when guys work older women like that. It’s so obvious to everyone else. It’s embarrassing. Some guys do it at school with this one teacher, Mrs. Grey, and she always falls for it.
They all went on chattering among themselves, and at some point Jeff inserted himself into the conversation and was introduced to my mother, who thankfully didn’t try to pull a Mrs. Robinson with him. I had enough issues with my mom without her trying to hook up with an underage hottie. (He was kind of hot, I had to admit.)
We got into Mrs. Fairweather’s huge SUV, and Teddy insisted on getting behind the wheel, which I guess was standard operating procedure when he was around. I can just imagine what my mom would say if I had some boyfriend and he tried to pull that move. Anne Rye is not a woman who knows how to give up control.
“Baxley’s for dinner? Or the Living Room?” Teddy asked casually, steering out of the airport parking lot.
“Well, yes to Baxley’s,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “You know what Senator Fairweather says about the Living Room.”
“Well, lucky for us, he isn’t here to have heard me suggest it! Or, really, anything else I might suggest later,” Teddy said, winking at Mrs. Fairweather. My mother tittered. I looked at Jeff, who rolled his eyes back at me. Jesus, Teddy knew how to play women.