Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (12 page)

“But you knew he was the DA from the story I told you?”

“I might have figured that out.”

“Yet you still invited him to the party?”

My grandmother laughs and brushes past me. Jean-Marie has already set out iced tea and lemonade on the table, and I see Nate take my grandmother’s glass and then pour her some iced tea.

“The tents look amazing,” I hear Nate say as I walk outside.

“They’ve been working on them for days,” my grandmother says.

“Well, actually one day,” I say, sitting down at the table next to my grandmother. “Didn’t they finish in one day?”

“Yes,” my grandmother says. “I suppose they did.” She regards me.

“Well, they look great,” Nate says. “I love how they’re open on the sides, so we can take advantage of the breeze coming off the water.”

“Yes, I thought that would be nice,” my grandmother says.

“It was really the party planner’s idea,” I interrupt.

“Yes,” my grandmother adds. “We’ve worked together on all of my parties out here and it seems that the tent with the open sides works best for this venue.”

And then, there it is: complete and utter silence. A very uncomfortable silence as we all end up averting our eyes, careful not to stare at one another, sipping our drinks because there really isn’t anything else to do. Or say.

It’s moments like these I savor. I guess it’s because I feel uncomfortable all the time, so when I can sit in a group where we all feel uncomfortable, I feel a little less lonely.

Nate excuses himself to use the restroom and I feel my grandmother’s eyes bore into me.

“What exactly are you doing?” she says.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like a petulant teenager,” she says, regarding me. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I thought that the only person who can embarrass you is you,” I say, recalling one of my grandmother’s many life lessons.

“Yes, that’s right,” she says. “And
you
are embarrassing
yourself
.”

It’s only then that I understand what she’s saying—that I’m not embarrassing her, but I’m embarrassing myself. Why did I misunderstand what she was saying to me? Is it because I was trying to embarrass her? And if so, why? Why am I acting this way?

Nate walks back out of the house with Jean-Marie. I can see in my grandmother’s face that she is charmed by the fact that Nate helps bring the food out to the table, even though he doesn’t have to do so. She’ll later tell me that he’s a good man—the type of man you want to marry.

“For lunch today, we have tuna tartar on these tiny little crispy things,” Nate says, playing the role of chef.

“I’ve prepared them on wonton chips, but I also have lettuce wraps, if you’d prefer,” Jean-Marie says. “And then I have this Asian summer salad, which I’ve prepared in a peanut-soy dressing, which has glass noodles, peppers, red onions, and peanuts.”

“You’re not allergic to peanuts, are you?” my grandmother asks Nate. I narrow my eyes at her, but she simply laughs. Nate misses the joke completely.

“No,” he says. “It looks great!”

“Yes, it does,” I say, and serve the salad.

Nate nods his head in agreement as he stuffs a wonton filled with tuna into his mouth. I watch him as he eats his food and I’m struck by how manly he is about it. To look at him, all gangly arms and legs, freckles all over, you wouldn’t think he was an eater, but he really devours his food. Almost like an animal, but an animal with extremely good table manners. His napkin is in his lap. His hands are manicured, neat, but there’s a roughness to them. Like if he touched you, it might hurt. When he tears a piece of bread and bites into it—he has a tiny chip on one of his front teeth—I have a fleeting thought about what it would be like to have those hands on my body. I feel my face flush and take a long swallow of my lemonade.

“I think you’re getting red out here,” Nate says as he looks at me.

My hands fly instinctively to my face.

“Are you wearing sunscreen?” my grandmother asks.

“Yes,” I quickly reply.

“Your face is turning bright red,” she says. “Maybe you need to get out of the sun.”

“You have to be really careful in the sun out here,” he says.

“I’d better go get more sunscreen,” I say, and make a hasty exit into the house.

*   *   *

“You should come over some time,” Nate says after lunch, after I walk him to the door to leave the house. “Maybe I could teach you to play tennis.”

“I don’t really have the time,” I say, almost on autopilot. It’s true, I did have fun at lunch with Nate, but what’s the point in starting something I know won’t last? Nothing ever does.

But I can see in his eyes that Nate might be harder to get rid of than your average suitor. I try to channel my grandmother as I come up with my next comment. “How about this? I’ll call you the next time I’m in your neck of the woods.” I figure this gives me an out if I want one, and an opening should I change my mind about the whole thing.

“Are you calling me right now, then?” he says.

“What?” For some reason, a girlish giggle escapes my mouth.

“I live next door,” Nate says, laughing. “Your grandmother didn’t tell you?”

“No,” I say, slowly. “She did not.”

“Well, I do,” he says. “I live in the yellow house next door.”

“The yellow farmhouse with the widow’s walk?” I ask.

“The very one.”

“Maybe I will come over sometime.”

Seventeen

The day of the party. T minus eight hours until the big event. In my old life, if I had a party invitation for seven o’clock, I would hop in the shower at six, run my fingers through my hair, throw on some clothes, and arrive at the party by seven-thirty.

But in my new incarnation as a lady of leisure, that routine simply won’t cut it. For starters, since we are the hostesses, we need to be downstairs, ready to greet guests, at six-forty-five. Not a minute later, my grandmother insists. That would be rude.

The day starts and we are immediately on the clock. We rise sometime around nine, as we usually do, and have our breakfast. After we are done with our coffees, my grandmother informs me that I ought to bathe quickly, since our appointments begin at eleven. Specifically, our nail appointments are at eleven and noon, Jacques will be coming to do our hair at one and two. After our hair is perfectly coiffed, we will take a short break for a light lunch. Nothing too heavy, since we don’t want to be tired or bloated for the party. Then, our makeup artist will arrive for appointments at four and five, giving us enough time to go upstairs and dress once the beautification process is complete.

All of the last-minute details of the day will be handled by Eleanor, which explains why she is already running around like a complete and utter lunatic.

I decide to take a bath. My grandmother has graciously offered to take the first appointments of the day so that I can leisurely bathe and come down to get started at noon, instead of eleven. Since coming out here, I have learned to enjoy baths. In the city, I never took a bath because my tub wasn’t big enough to sprawl out in, but here, all of the baths are oversized soaking tubs, designed for you to stretch out and stay awhile. They all have hundreds of tiny jets, which make perfect little bubbles. My grandmother takes a bath every day and has done so since she was married to her third husband, the race car driver. He was the one, she says, who taught her how indulgent a bath could be—your one respite in a busy, crazy day. She says that just hearing the faucet pour water into the tub and watching the bubbles take form is enough to relax her, prepare her for the day. She also says that bathing with salts will make the fine lines around your eyes disappear. (I hadn’t realized I had any of those.)

I ease myself into the tub and immediately feel calm. This is what my grandmother was talking about—the warm water and lavender-scented bubbles have a way of making you feel like you can handle anything that comes your way. Even fine lines around your eyes. I use the remote control to open the cellular shades and look out the window at the perfect blue Hamptons sky. Even the clouds are perfectly shaped out here. It’s as if the residents of Southampton wouldn’t stand for any misshapen clouds.

As I look out the window, I try to catch a glimpse of Nate’s house—that beautiful yellow farmhouse that I always think about, always wondering about the people who live inside. Then I think about Nate’s hands—how big they are, how they tore apart that bread. And his mouth. How he devoured his food. What those hands and that mouth would do to me.

All at once, I’m uneasy, like someone’s watching me. I jump out of the tub and wrap myself in an oversized towel.

When I come downstairs, my grandmother’s manicurist is hard at work on her feet. My grandmother is regaling her with a story about her last fête when I sit down next to her.

“So, are you excited for the big event?” the manicurist asks.

I’m not excited. Not excited about it by a long shot. But my grandmother is looking at me, waiting for my answer, and I just don’t want to disappoint her.

“Yes,” I say with a smile.

My grandmother can see right through me. Right to my core.

She always does.

“Why do you hate parties so much?” she asks. “I would think you’d do well in a social situation like that.”

“I don’t hate parties,” I say, and my grandmother rolls her eyes. She never rolls her eyes.

“I just never know what to do, what to say,” I say.

“Well, I can help you with that,” my grandmother says. “Give me an example of a situation you were in the last time you were at an affair.”

I don’t go to a lot of parties. Certainly never a bash like the one my grandmother is throwing. The last time I was at a get-together was on a rooftop of a building in Williamsburg. There were kegs of beer and copious amounts of pot.

“I always get stuck talking to the biggest bore in the room,” I say, thinking about the last time my law firm threw a reception. “I can never extricate myself. Usually, I end up telling him I have somewhere to go and then I just leave to get away from him. But I can’t very well do that here. Can I?”

“That’s an easy one,” my grandmother says as her manicurist starts in on a foot massage. I look down and see that she is listening, too, waiting, just as I am, for my grandmother’s good advice. “I learned this from the Senator. You just put your hand on the person’s arm and then look him or her right in the eye as you say: ‘Well, I don’t want to monopolize you all night. It was lovely talking to you.’ The sincere look in the eye is important. It doesn’t work without the look in the eye.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Try it right now,” she says. “Try it on me.”

“It was very nice talking to you,” I say to my grandmother, my hand firmly planted on her forearm, “but I don’t want to monopolize you all night.”

“You’re not monopolizing me,” my grandmother says back to me, smiling.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, then, I guess—”

“Do you see where you went wrong there?” my grandmother asks.

I shake my head no. Her manicurist does the same.

“You lead with the ‘monopolizing’ line. Not the ‘nice to meet you’ line. The ‘pleasure talking to you’ should come last, so the person understands that the conversation is over. Try it again.”

“I don’t want to monopolize you all night,” I say. “It was a pleasure speaking to you.”

“And you as well,” my grandmother responds. “That one was better. But you need to work on your sincerity. They really have to buy the fact that you liked talking to them. I can see that this will be the challenge for you.”

“I like talking to people,” I say, and my grandmother laughs a big throaty laugh.

“During cocktail hour don’t sit down,” my grandmother says. “It’s easier to extricate yourself if you’re standing up. And by all means, mingle! Talk to as many party guests as you can.”

“I hate mingling. I’m not a good mingler. I never know what to talk about,” I protest.

“Another easy one,” my grandmother says. “Stick to light topics. The weather, the food, the wines that are being served. We just went wine tasting, so that would be a fun thing to talk about.”

“I can talk about that yacht we went on,” I say, catching on.

“Well, you don’t want to gossip,” my grandmother says. “And since you thought those young men were spoiled and awful, that probably wouldn’t be a good thing to talk about.”

“But the yacht was pretty fabulous,” I say. “If only those boys weren’t on it…”

“You’ve just proven my point,” she says. “Stick to topics where you won’t be tempted to judge others. Talk about the view of the ocean, what a beautiful night it is. Try it.”

“The view of the ocean is so pretty,” I say. “I love living beachside.”

“Now
you
sound like the spoiled brat,” she says. “Keep it light, act like your conversation is going to be broadcast on the evening news. Never say anything you wouldn’t want your grandmother to hear.” Her eyes light up at that last part.

“But I don’t mind if you hear anything I say.”

“Never say anything you wouldn’t want printed on the front page of the newspaper, then.”

I look down and see that my grandmother’s manicurist has stopped working on her toes. She’s just looking up at my grandmother, soaking in every word.

“The breeze off the ocean is just beautiful, isn’t it?” I say. “We really are having a delightful summer.”

“Yes, we are,” my grandmother says.

“And the food!” I say. “Have you tried the lobster rolls? Truly delicious. They would pair perfectly with the cabernet they are serving. Very strong notes of nutmeg and vanilla. Did you have a chance to taste it?”

“Well done,” my grandmother says smiling. “Although I think a lobster roll would pair better with a white wine.”

“Noted,” I say.

“I think you’re ready for the party,” she says.

I suppress a giggle, since in fact, I won’t be ready for the party until my nails are buffed, my hair is teased, and face is made up, but I decide that now is not the time for one of my “clever little quips.” So, instead I say, “Yes, I think I am.”