Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (11 page)

“Your mother likes it out here, too,” my grandmother says.

I keep my gaze toward the ocean. I don’t know how to respond. I simply sit there, perfectly still, like a gazelle caught in the gaze of a lion. Maybe if I sit still enough, the comment will just pass me by and leave me unscathed.

My grandmother knows this little trick of mine. She doesn’t fill the void of conversation, just lets it lie. So I do the same. And then we sit like that for a while, staring out at the ocean, sipping our iced teas and waiting for the other to speak first.

Our silence is interrupted when the tents come into the backyard. A huge team of men invades our space.

“Why don’t we move the two of you inside?” Eleanor asks, one eye on the men working in the backyard.

“Oh, I think we’re fine out here,” my grandmother says.

All at once, a dozen different industrial-sized power tools go on and the tents begin to take form. Another team brings in the wood that will eventually make up the dance floor.

“Did you invite her?” I ask. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“No,” my grandmother says. “If I’d invited her, I wouldn’t
try
to tell you, I’d just say it outright. This is my party and I can invite whomever I want.”

“A party that you’re throwing for me.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” she says, turning to me. “It’s not attractive.”

I laugh. “So, this party is really for you.”

“It’s my party and you are the guest of honor.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Would it be so bad if I’d invited your mother?” she asks.

What I want to say is: yes, it would. I haven’t spoken to her for months, and now is certainly not the time to start. I don’t want to hear what she thinks of my taking the summer off to lounge around the pool in the Hamptons. But instead I say: “No, not at all.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” my grandmother says.

Another group of men begin wheeling in tables and chairs, and the combination of steel being erected, wood being hammered into the floor, and Eleanor’s screechy voice as she tries to coordinate all of this gets to be too much for us.

“Walk on the beach?” my grandmother asks.

“Great idea.”

*   *   *

The beaches in the Hamptons tend to get a bit quiet during the week, especially by the private estates. My grandmother technically does not own the land from the bluff to the water—neither do any of her neighbors—but still, people tend not to congregate near the beachfront homes.

If we walk to the left, we’ll be walking along more beachfront property. I’ve walked that stretch before and it’s beautiful, just beautiful. It’s so much fun to see the various estates. I like to walk by and imagine which one I’d buy for myself if I had tens of millions just sitting around burning a hole in my pocket. Some are way too modern for my tastes, with pointy lines and copious amounts of chrome. I prefer the more traditional Hamptons homes, with the wood siding and clean overall look. Some are way too exposed, with floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere you look, designed, no doubt, to take in the view. Others take advantage of the view with an “upside-down traditional” layout, which means that the bedrooms are downstairs, with the shared spaces—living room, dining room, kitchen—upstairs. My favorite house that I’ve seen so far is the one just to the left of us. It’s a yellow farmhouse with charming little details, like a wraparound porch and widow’s walk. I wish I could see the interior. I’d love to know what it looks like, see every little detail. Is it modern inside, or did they stay true to the architectural details they have on the outside?

Today, instead, we walk right. If you keep going in that direction, eventually you’ll hit the public beaches, which is where all the action is. Don’t let the term “public” fool you, though. Not just anyone can come to the public beaches in the Hamptons. In order to park in the lots here, you need to have a special sticker that indicates you own a home in Southampton. Without the sticker, you’ll pay forty dollars a day. For your forty bucks, you get access to the beach and also the little snack bar that serves breakfast and lunch. For another forty, you can also rent beach chairs and umbrellas if you haven’t brought your own. The kids in the share houses usually take a taxi to and from the beach—it’s cheaper than parking for the day. And anyway, if you show up after 11:00 a.m., good luck getting a spot.

It’s a half mile to Coopers Beach (my grandmother once had Raoul track it for her), so my grandmother likes taking the walk this way. I prefer walking along the quieter route, but I can see why she likes the action. In just half an hour, you can go from the calm of our backyard, crashing waves as your only sound track, to the insanity of hundreds of people setting up camp on a stretch of five hundred feet. It’s crowded. It’s alive. It’s a total scene. No wonder my grandmother loves it there.

We walk along the white sand and the scenery changes in an instant. As we approach Coopers, there are children running wild in the waves, a few boogie boarders, and girls in bikinis. Not as crowded as the weekend, but a very decent showing for a weekday.

“Want to get some ice cream?” my grandmother asks me.

“Yes,” I say. We walk up to the snack bar. There’s a huge line at the ice cream window, so we get on line. My grandmother adjusts her floppy hat and I do the same. I’m secretly happy that she insisted on the hats: where we’re standing there’s no shade, and if you just stand directly in the sun like this, it can get hot. I’m glad to have the tiny bit of respite.

“Vivienne? Is that you?”

My grandmother and I turn around.

“Oh, Charlie,” my grandmother says. She allows him to kiss her on both cheeks and then makes the introductions.

“I’ve been sent to get ice cream for my little one,” he says. He pats his pockets. “If I wasn’t wearing this swimsuit, I’d whip out a picture to show you,” he says, smiling. “Do you have children?”

It takes me a moment to realize that this question is directed toward me. He’s speaking about his grandchild and he wants to know if my grandmother has a grandchild, too. Little does he know, her grandchild is me. She really does look great for her age. Or maybe he just doesn’t think that it’s appropriate for two grown women to be standing at the ice-cream window at a snack bar.

“No,” I say. “I don’t have kids.”

“You never know,” my grandmother says to me. “Maybe soon.”

“Are you and your husband trying?” Charlie says to me, smiling a conspiratorial smile.

“I’m not married,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, “I’m sorry. I thought you were. I thought I was at your wedding a few years back, but I must have been mistaken. Your grandmother throws so many parties, it’s easy to get confused.”

“You never know when your life can change,” my grandmother says. “One day you wake up and it’s a regular day. But that could be the day everything changes for you. That’s what’s so wonderful about life, don’t you think?”

Charlie looks a bit dazed from this whole exchange. He smiles and says: “I can’t wait for your party this weekend.”

“Neither can we,” my grandmother says, not missing a beat.

“Your grandmother throws the best parties,” Charlie says to me.

“I know,” I say. Because it’s true.

Fifteen

“I’d like her to wear white,” my grandmother tells the salesperson. We are at a tiny boutique in town where there’s hardly any clothing on display. Even though it’s a beautiful day outside, my grandmother wants to go shopping. She has decided that nothing in my closet is party appropriate.

“Were you thinking a dress or pants?” the salesperson asks my grandmother. I look around at the racks. There are only four of them. It’s like a carefully curated art exhibit.

“Dress,” my grandmother says.

“Long or short?”

“Let’s look at both,” my grandmother replies.

It’s like I don’t even have to be here.

“This suit is really nice,” I say, pulling a white linen suit off the rack. My grandmother has already declared that white is the color I’ll be wearing that night, so I don’t dare go too far off program.

“That’s lovely,” my grandmother says. “It’s just not right for this party. If you want to try it on, maybe you could wear it to a Sunday brunch or to the polo matches later this summer.”

The salesperson rounds the corner with an armful of dresses: white eyelet, starched white cotton, off-white silk, and white rayon.

The starched white cotton is first. I put it on and take a look at my reflection. The white makes my skin glow, but the dress is too tight. It has no give to it.

I walk out to the three-way mirror, but I don’t need to look. My grandmother tells me everything I need to know.

“Do you like it?” she asks me.

“I can’t lift my arms,” I say, and make a big show of trying, and failing.

“Why would you need to lift your arms?” she asks, and motions for me to put the next dress on.

I put the silk dress on, and immediately feel self-conscious. First, it hugs my every curve, but I’m not sure if it’s in a way that is desirable. Second, I fear that if someone touches me, the entire thing will unravel. I slowly walk out of the dressing room, careful not to let the fabric snag on anything.

“Why don’t you put on the next one?” my grandmother says.

“Oh, okay,” I say, and make a hasty retreat.

“Did you like that one?” she asks, but I’m already slipping on the white rayon.

It has a plunging neckline and a swingy skirt. The fabric is soft and falls nicely on my frame. I feel a little like Marilyn Monroe in it.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” I say as I walk out for judgment.

“Do you like it?” my grandmother asks. I’m not sure if she doesn’t get the reference, or just doesn’t appreciate it.

“I guess so,” I say, and swivel my hips so that the skirt swings around.

“Don’t do that,” my grandmother says. “It looks nice. Try on the next one.”

The second I put on the eyelet dress, I know it’s the one. It’s sweet, it fits me perfectly, and I think it’s the way my grandmother sees me. Youthful, cute, nice.

“I like that,” she says. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very comfortable,” I say. “And I like that it has sleeves.”

“Comfortable is not what one should look for in a party dress,” my grandmother says.

“What should I be looking for?” I ask. “I like to be able to raise my arms.”

My grandmother purses her lips. She motions for me to go back to the fitting room to get dressed.

“Which one do you want?” she asks as I walk out of the dressing room.

“I really have no idea,” I say, and I don’t.

“Let’s go with this one, then,” she says, holding it up for me to see.

I’m surprised that the rayon Marilyn Monroe number is my grandmother’s choice—it’s a bit on the sexy side. I would’ve bet that she would have chosen the white eyelet with the bell sleeves.

“Silver or gold?” the salesperson asks me as I walk out of the fitting room.

“Silver or gold what?” I ask.

She laughs, turning to my grandmother to say: “Mrs. Morganfelder, your granddaughter is such a breath of fresh air.” And then to me: “Shoes, silly. Do you want to wear silver or gold shoes?”

“I already have shoes,” I say.

“She’s already got silver,” my grandmother pipes in. “Let’s do gold.”

“Gold, it is!” the salesperson says, feigning excitement.

We walk toward a wall of shoes at the back of the store. I go into sensory overload and can barely look at it. I feel a headache coming on. Now I remember why I hate shopping so much.

“She’ll take these,” my grandmother says, pointing at a pair of gold strappy heels.

I wish I could be like that: look at an entire wall of choices, hone in on one thing, and know it’s the right one. Me, I’d spend an hour just staring at the wall, overwhelmed by it. Then, when forced to make a decision, I’d randomly choose ten different pairs, try on each one, and still have no idea which one would suit me best. Eventually, I’d choose a pair, only to find out a few days later that they don’t fit me properly.

But the shoes my grandmother has selected fit me perfectly and I can see how they would look great with the dress. And a few other things I have hanging in my closet.

I let my grandmother choose where we go for lunch.

Sixteen

“What are you doing here?” I say as I open the front door. I’m not accustomed to having visitors here in the Hamptons. Let alone gentleman callers. Let alone Nate.

“Nice to see you, too.” He seems to find my churlish attitude cute. “May I come in?”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t really want Nate Sugarman to come into the house. Sure, we had a nice time dancing at the party the other night, but that doesn’t really change the fact that I find him arrogant and entitled.

“Nate, darling,” my grandmother says, walking over to greet him. “Come in!”

“You look nice today,” he says to me. And then to my grandmother: “Mrs. Morganfelder, you look fetching as always.”

“Oh, Nate,” my grandmother says. She is completely taken by his boyish charms. “We were just about to eat. You simply must stay for lunch.”

“Grandma, I’m sure he has a lot of things to do,” I say. “Don’t you, Nate?”

“No, not really,” he says.

“A golf tee time? A tennis date? Don’t you play tennis? You look like you play tennis.”

“We can play tennis later if you want,” he says. “We have a court at my place.”

“I don’t play tennis.” I say.

Nate furrows his brow, but quickly regains his composure. “I stopped by to see if you needed anything for the big party.”

“You’re coming?” I say.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He leans in to me as he says this.

“Why don’t you meet us outside and I’ll help my grandmother get us set up for lunch.”

My grandmother is about to say something about the chef bringing lunch out to us, but I am able to maneuver her into the kitchen before the thought is fully out of her mouth.

“You invited Nate Sugarman?” I ask her. “I told you that I hate Nate Sugarman.”

“When you were dancing at Walter’s son’s party, it didn’t seem to me like you hated him so much,” she says.