A Weekend in the Hamptons

"I hung out with you most of the night, remember? After you disappeared I found her alone on the back stairs so I sat and talked with her for a while then walked her home. When we discovered her parents weren't there we took a long walk on the beach."

"What did you talk about all that time? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't even want to know. If I know Skippy it was something totally boring like plankton and marine invertebrates."

"Suit yourself," I replied.

Derek rolled to his stomach, turned his head and faced away, which was fine with me. I didn't want to talk about it.

* * * *

Skippy. Cynthia. Cindy. She seemed like the only unpretentious person I met in the Hamptons that weekend. Derek derided her as a tall, awkward flat-chested teen, but her features were really quite striking: a shock of long, rich dark brown hair, huge dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, her mother's graceful gait and long thin lips curled in a perpetual pout. Is it possible Derek had missed it? This girl had the long, unusual body type of a supermodel-to-be and when those long lips broke into smile the whole world smiled.

While I was looking for Derek the night before, I passed her twice on the back stairs at the Barker's before stopping, remembering her face but not her name.

"Excuse me," I said. "Have you seen Derek?"

With what appeared to be titanic effort she lifted huge soulful eyes off the floor and locked them on mine.

"Who?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't presume you know him."

"Everyone knows Derek," she replied. "You're his house guest."

"Yeah. We go to school at-"

"Fordham. I know. My name's Cynthia, but my friends call me Cindy."

"Nice to meet you again, Cynthia. I'm-"

"Martin. I remember. Last I saw Derek he was flirting with Devon Butterworth. They've probably gone off somewhere to be alone. Sorry."

"Why sorry?"

"Aren't you two together?"

"No. Just classmates. Believe me," I replied, making a gesture with my hand that indicated I kept Derek at a distance.

"You're not gay, then? Or bi or whatever he is? I know he has a girlfriend."

"God, no," I chuckled. "He said he wanted to make an appearance here, then escape."

"He's probably getting laid."

The concept didn't silence me, Cindy's matter-of-fact statement did.

"I shouldn't say things like that," she said, reading my face. Her large, doe-like eyes hadn't unlocked from mine, nor had they shifted from one eye to the other. She had chosen my left eye and stayed there with laser intensity.

"That's okay," I chuckled. "You know Derek."

"Just like him to bring a guest and bail," she said, looking away.

"We were supposed to make an appearance here then go out for a late night cruise on the water."

"Sounds infinitely more interesting than this," she said, making a small gesture with her arm which encompassed the party night raging all around us even though we were alone on the stairs. Her eyes resumed their attempt to melt my eyes from their sockets.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked.

Her eyes dropped to the floor again before rising slowly up the length of me to meet my eyes once more. It took me a second to realize she was sizing me up. Her eyes narrowed.

"This isn't a come-on, is it?" she asked.

"No," I replied, "it's a serious inquiry from a prisoner who wants to escape."

"I don't mind, then."

I sat two steps below her on the same side of the narrow passage. I did it deliberately to put her at ease and to leave room for passers-by, though no one passed us while we were there. No one I remember, anyway.

"So," she said, looking at nothing, "why aren't you off in a bedroom getting laid like everyone else?"

For a moment I was struck dumb by her comment.

"My, um, my girlfriend isn't here tonight."

"Does she know you're at this party?"

"Not specifically. She knows I'm in the Hamptons for the weekend."

"And she didn't come along? That's brave. Or stupid."

"She's in France for the summer."

"Ah," Cindy said, looking at me with new eyes, as if impressed and relieved at the news. "What's her name?"

"Cynthia."

Serious look. No smile. Eyes like lasers again.

"That's my name," she said.

"Yes. A beautiful name."

She blushed. Was she embarrassed that she had stated the obvious, or because of my compliment?

"Does... does she let you call her Cindy?"

"Only when I'm on my best behavior," I smiled.

"Is she beautiful?" Cindy asked, lowering her voice.

"Very," I replied, looking into my drink.

Cindy considered that for a moment, then crossed her arms over her knees and laid her head sideways on her forearms.

"I wish I were beautiful," she sighed.

"You are beautiful," I said, lowering my voice they way she had.

"No I'm not," she barely whispered, avoiding eye contact.

"What?"

"I said you don't have to say that."

"It's true," I continued. "You're a beautiful woman."

"Girl, you mean."

"I doubt that," I smiled.

"I have someone, you know," she said, suddenly defensive again.

"Lucky man," I said. "Where is he?"

"Getting laid," she sighed.

For the third time I was struck dumb by her frankness.

"I'm sorry," I said, then gathered myself. "Why are you still here? Kick him to the curb. He doesn't deserve you."

She looked at me sideways, her head still resting on her arms on her knees. God she looked sad.

"I have a car," I said, not knowing then where she lived. "Why don't you let me drive you home?"

"Really?"

"Sure."

"You're not trying to pick me up, are you?"

"No. Come on. You're not happy. Let's get you out of here."

We left and drove a couple miles, but her directions led to a marina, not a home.

"You live here?" I said, setting the parking brake. "Like on-board or something?"

"Of course not, silly. I live next door to Derek, on the other side of his house from the Barker's."

"So what are we doing here?" I said.

"You were promised a nighttime cruise, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Come on then," she said, getting out the car.

We walked down the quay and into a maze of floating docks. No one stopped us. No one asked who we were. People were partying on a few boats, others sat on the occasional fantail enjoying the evening, but most boats were silent and dark. Given the stifling heat and humidity I imagined most were home in air-conditioned comfort.

I followed Cindy. The moment we left the car she became a different person, her posture upright, her chest thrust out, her arms swinging freely, her stride open and easy. Released from the oppressive social situation of the party, it was as if she could finally breathe. I had to smile at the sheer joy of this. She had become comfortable with herself and for the first time I noticed her body as that of a self-possessed adult and not Derek's awkward teen.

She wore low-cut jeans torn at the knees, dangling earrings with matching necklace, sandals, and a stylish red halter which exposed her tanned midriff. Her breasts were so small it looked as if she were just out of training bra, yet she wore a skin-tight halter. Why do women do this? It's as if they're saying I don't have much, but I'll show you every bit of what I have. Was this really necessary? For a second I wondered if she did it to avoid being mistaken for a boy, but that didn't make any sense. Her make-up, hair and the sweep of her long body all said woman as did the roll of her hips when she walked. A man would have to be blind not to see it, but then Derek and all the men in the World of the Hamptons would miss it. Most men outside the Hamptons would miss it, too, unless she installed enormous implants like her mother's.

"This is it," she said, pulling a key from her pocket and unlocking a powerboat named Sea Horse. "Do you know how to cast off?"

"Is that where I stand on the dock, undo the lines, and push the boat away?"

"Yeah, only be sure to jump onboard," she smiled. "And wait till I start her up and give the signal."

"I don't know semaphore," I quipped.

"Then I'll use English, okay?" she smiled.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

She laughed at that, reaching the helm inside the cabin, turning on lights, running lights and the engine itself. It came to life with a throaty roar for a few moments before she throttled it back. It sounded a little rough to me, as if missing on a few cylinders. All white with blue details the fiberglass boat had to be twenty-five feet long with a flying bridge above the cabin which made the boat look top heavy for its size. The armature of a marine radar began spinning atop a small mast above the flying bridge.

I undid the bow line, but left the stern line in place and held the boat fast against the bumpers while Cindy turned on the marine radio, adjusted the squelch and fired up the GPS. Born to a family of fishermen on Long Island, my father made sure I was in and around boats enough not to be afraid of getting lost in the dark on the water, but I felt considerable reassurance with all the high-tech equipment and a smart skipper who knew how to use it. Pulling her hair back and in a gold clip she was clearly in her element, her face no longer a mixture of boredom and unhappiness, her pout replaced by lips pursed in intense interest. When she killed the cabin lights, her face glowed in the soft amber light of the instrument panel.

"Okay, Martin," she said, looking back at me. "Cast off."

I loosed the stern line, pushed off and stepped aboard, coiling the line neatly like any good rating. Cindy advanced the throttle a little and began backing out of the slip when the engine quit.

"Damn. It's always doing that."

I grabbed the grapple and held the boat to the dock, but the engine restarted on the first attempt and she slipped it into reverse again.

"You can let go," she said.

Once clear of the marina and puttering slowly down the channel, she abandoned the helm inside the stuffy cabin and climbed up onto the flying bridge, waving at me to join her.

"The view's better up here."

I climbed up and stood next to her, feeling the instant relief of sweat evaporating on my face, neck and arms.

"God that feels good," I said, lifting arms to the breeze caused by the forward motion of the boat.

"I know," she said, pulling at the fabric of her halter, trying to get some air between it and her skin. "God it's hot. There's no breeze tonight. Here. Take the helm. I'm going below to get out of these."

"Which way do I go?" I said.

"See that buoy?" she pointed, "and the next one in line?"

"Yes."

"They mark the channel, so keep them on your right and stay to the right side of the channel. You'll go under that bridge and out to open water. I'll be right back."

She returned fifteen minutes later in bare feet, baggy shorts and a sleeveless cotton top which didn't cling to her the way the halter had, but still showed her midrift and flat belly. Why does it take women so long to change clothes? How could it possibly take fifteen minutes to trade jeans, halter and sandals for shorts, top and bare feet? What'd she do, try on a hundred different combinations to come up with that? Did she have a walk-in wardrobe below? Take a shower? Shave her legs? Reapply make-up? Mix a cocktail? Chop and snort a few lines? Perhaps she stopped to use the head and did a crossword. In the meantime, I'm finding the channel, loosing it, circling back, following the wrong buoys, then finding the right ones again, all while idling along at a walk. I passed the bridge, a light, another marina, and a second bridge without seeing what looked like open water. Honestly, we should have been halfway across the Atlantic.

"Any traffic?" she asked, climbing the ladder to join me.

"No, but I think we're lost."

She took a quick look around. "No, we're okay, but we can go faster out here," she said, advancing the throttle. I gladly gave up the helm.

"Where are we going?"

"Around that point and out Shinnecock Bay past the house. Maybe we'll get close enough to see and hear the party."

"Or we could go someplace else," I said, thinking anyplace else.

"I want to show you the house from the water first. Then I know a place we can go."

"Sounds like a plan."

We motored along in silence for a few minutes, our eyes fixed on the water ahead in the dark.

"Are you sure you're not gay?" she asked.

"Positive. Why do you ask?"

"You didn't follow me below," Cindy said. "You haven't tried to take advantage of me or anything."

"Who'd steer the boat?" I chuckled, half seriously.

"You could have dropped anchor," she flirted, her eyes twinkling.

"Didn't think of that," I said, not saying that as hot as it was here the cabin had be stifling

"You're not like Derek at all."

I hoped she was speaking of him from reputation and not personal experience. The thought of him harassing or assaulting her made my eyes go dim.

"Cynthia, I-"

"Call me Cindy," she said. "All my friends call me Cindy."

"Cindy it is," I said.

She looked at me.

"What?" I said.

"Can I call you Marty?"

"God, no. I hate Marty. Please don't."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay."

"I hate my nickname, too," she sighed. "Skippy."

"How'd you come by it?"

"I liked playing hopscotch when I was little and used to skip everywhere I went. Someone called me Skippy and the name stuck. I didn't mind back then, but now people only use it to be mean to me."

"Like Derek," I said. "I'm sorry."

"No biggie. He's an ass," Cindy said, then pointed. "Look, there's the house. That's where I live, then Derek's, then the Barker's. Sounds like the party's still going strong."

We could hear the driving bass a quarter mile offshore, but few people were outside in the oppressive, humid heat.

"Why didn't you just go home?" I asked. "It's only a walk across the lawn."

"I'm in love with him-with Ethan Barker. We used to go steady and he was my first kiss. He's two years older and is seeing someone else, but I can't let go. I don't want to let go. I made a complete fool of myself, but I want him back. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," I replied.

"Have you ever done that before?" she asked.

"What? Make a fool of myself over an ex? Sure."

"What was her name?"

"Jackie."

"Recently?"

"Back in high school. We were together for a couple years. I didn't give up and did a lot of stupid things thinking I could win her back."

"I can't stand it," she said. "How do you survive?"

"I don't know. It hurts like hell for a while, then heals over. It will for you, too, Cindy. Just give it time, keep doing the things you love, and ignore those who criticize you. One day Ethan won't seem so important anymore."

"I don't want to hate him or anything."

"You don't have to. But I promise you: one day you'll wake up and wonder why you ever felt this crazy for him."

Cindy looked at me then turned the boat away from shore. With floodlights on the water she opened the throttle all the way and we raced a mile or two across the sound to the barrier island which separated bay from the open Atlantic. Cutting the spotlights, she motored around for a few minutes until her eyes adjusted to the dark and she found her favorite spot off a wild, secluded beach swept by dunes tufted with beach grass. We dropped bow and stern anchors in the pale light of the half moon and relaxed, first sitting on the cushioned benches in the stern, then stretching out on our backs next to each other looking up at the stars. Crickets chirped on the dunes. For a long time we didn't say anything.

"Thanks for helping me escape," I said. "You chose the perfect spot."

"Like it?"

"Yeah."

"I love it here," she sighed. "It's the only place where life makes sense."

We fell silent again. A few minutes later she shifted next to me. I felt her hand touch my elbow and slide down to my wrist. I looked at her, but she was looking straight up. We held hands and watched the stars. A sudden breeze engulfed us then disappeared just as quickly. The boat rocked a little on her anchor lines and went still again.

"God, I made a total fool out myself going to the party tonight, didn't I?" she said. "Hanging around hoping I'd get a chance to talk to Ethan or have him notice me. I know it's pathetic, but it's like I had to be there in case he and his girlfriend had a fight and broke up, then maybe he'd take me back again. Is that stupid or what?

"It hurts when you love someone who doesn't return your love."

"We broke up six months ago. But I haven't let go."

"Why did you split up?"

"He got me pregnant and it was a bad scene between his family and mine. I had an abortion. Everyone knows and gossips about it which only adds to my humiliation every time I see them. Like tonight."

She paused. I didn't reply.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't be telling you my secrets."

"It's okay. Your secrets are safe with me."

"You must think I'm crazy."

"I think you're completely sane."

"Thanks."

"I'll share a secret if you want to hear it."

"Okay."

"My Cynthia broke up with me before she left for France."

"Why?"

"She wanted to be free to date while she's over there."

"At least she was honest."

"No, she wasn't. We were exclusive for the last year then she gets accepted for a summer semester in France but waits until the day she leaves to discard me so she can have a fling over the summer. She knew a month before she left that she was going to dump me and never said a word. No discussion, zip."

"How do you know?"

"One of her friends told me about it after she left."

"I'm sorry, Martin."

"Problem is I'm still crazy about her and want her back."

"Like me and Ethan."

"Yeah. Please don't tell Derek. I don't want him to know."

"I won't."

"Thanks. I haven't told anyone about the breakup, not even my family, just in case she and I can work it out. You're the first."

"Break-ups totally suck," she said. "I'm sorry you hurt."

It was my turn to look at her and squeeze her hand.

"Thanks, Cindy."

Chapter Three

We fell silent, looking up at the stars. They don't twinkle as violently on hot, humid summer nights as they do on cold, clear winter nights, but a few of the brightest winked at us from time to time. A yellow half moon hung low in the western sky. I liked her hand in mine and her fingers moving slowly between mine, caressing them. Sometimes she stopped and I caressed her fingers in return, and sometimes we held hands without caressing fingers at all.

"Do you really think I'm beautiful, Martin?"

"Yes. Very much."

"How so?"

"You have an extraordinary face, clear skin, beautiful eyes, high cheekbones, perfectly shaped eyebrows, lips and lashes, a cute nose and a killer smile. A perfect smile. Did I mention stunning eyes?"

She flashed that perfect, killer smile at me in the dark, but it soon faded.

"I hate my body, though."

"Why? You have a beautiful body. Most women would kill for a body like yours; long, lean and slender with a cute little butt, narrow waist and long, sexy legs-just like the supermodels."

Her smile flashed in the dark again, then she rolled to her side to face me and sandwiched my hand between both of hers.

"I wish I had boobs."

"You do," I said, "and they're perfect for your body. All the tall, slender supermodels get paid millions for being born with a body just like yours."

"I don't have much of a figure. Yet."

"I beg to differ," I said, rolling to face her and tracing her figure with one hand. "Yours is perfect and is only going to get better."

Her long lips parted, revealing the killer smile again. As I withdrew my hand from tracing duty, she took it in hers. We held both hands between us, pressing palms together, lacing fingers and caressing wrists.

"If you're trying to seduce me, it's working."

"I didn't come here to get into your pants, Cindy."

"I don't mind," she whispered.