Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (2 page)

My grandmother attributes much to her feminine wiles. She thinks I need to work on mine.

Two

The moment I step off the Hampton Jitney, I have the sense that it was a mistake to come out here. The big beautiful trees and all around hopeful attitude of Southampton are getting to me already. The last time I was out here, I was one of those happy smiling people you see walking down Main Street, enjoying the day without a care in the world. But that was years ago, and for the past few summers I haven’t been able to drag myself back. Instead, my grandmother and I meet up anywhere but here. She’ll stay at the Pierre during the week so we can have quiet dinners together, go to the theater. We’ll take two-week trips to Paris, long weekends at Canyon Ranch, or a lazy cruise through the Mediterranean.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever come back. But right now, I have nowhere else to go. The police are swarming my Manhattan apartment, so if I want to get away from all of that (and still stay in New York State, as instructed by Detective Moretti), then this is my only option.

I notice that my grandmother is all gussied up for the occasion, as if I am disembarking from the
Queen Mary
and not the Hampton Jitney, a cross between an oversized minivan and a bus. She’s a vision—as always—in her white capri pants (starched to perfection) and teal tunic top. She’s got on a huge chunky necklace with some sort of large white stones, arranged in a way that’s supposed to look haphazard but is clearly purposeful in the way it highlights her long graceful neck.

She raises her arm and moves her hand slightly. Dozens of tiny bangle bracelets chime in the breeze. It’s not a wave, exactly; it’s more like an acknowledgment.
I’m right here,
it says.
You come to me,
it says,
I don’t come to you.

I give my grandmother a big hug. She hugs me back, tightly, and my eyes tear up. She tries to release me from the hug, but I won’t let go. I don’t want her to see that I’m crying, even though she’s been the one to dry my tears for as long as I can remember. But I also just don’t want to let go. Not yet.

Finally, she pats me on the back; that’s my cue to gather my bags. After all, her driver, Raoul, is patiently waiting for us. When you are a widow six times over, you tend to accumulate things over time. Raoul is one such thing.

As is the navy blue Maybach Raoul is driving today. Just one of the fleet that my grandmother keeps back at the house. I don’t remember the last time I saw her actually drive one of her cars herself.

We drive through town toward the Mattress King’s estate and I can’t help but think about the first time I was out here to visit. But the memories of that are far too painful, so I push them away, like I always do.

Main Street is bustling, as it usually is on a summer Saturday afternoon. The throngs of people walking around just make me want to get into bed, dive under the covers, and hide. But as we move south of the highway, past Agawam Park, through the tree-lined streets of the estate section of Southampton, everything changes. All you see is green—enormous trees, perfectly trimmed hedges, and freshly cut grass abound. The only people here are the parents and children riding their bikes along the street, and it gets calmer with each street closer to the beach. I notice the fresh, cool air and feel the breeze coming off the ocean.

Once we turn onto my grandmother’s block, it’s completely quiet. You can hear the birds chirping, the ocean waves breaking. This is why I came out here, I think. This is what I needed.

My heart seizes just the tiniest bit as we pull through the gates—I’m forced to remember the last time I was out here, with him. I can feel a panic attack coming on, just thinking about all that I’ve lost, so I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and concentrate on being present. The smell of the beach, the gentle hum of the car’s engine, the crushing of the gravel as we pull onto the driveway. I open my eyes and look around in wonder. The front lawn is even more like an arboretum than I remember. And my grandmother has acquired some rosebushes and an enormous weeping willow that I’ll later learn is over a hundred years old. But my favorites are the trees filled with hydrangeas.

Of course, no one really cares about the front of the house in Southampton. Out here, the real excitement is around the back. The Mattress King’s estate is beachfront property, the best you can get anywhere in the Hamptons, not just Southampton.

My grandmother describes the place as a “beach cottage,” but it’s anything but. Sure, it evokes a cottage feel with its charming details, like beadboard cabinets in the kitchen, whitewashed wood as far as the eye can see, and copious amounts of wicker furniture. But most cottages don’t have an elevator. Or seven bathrooms for that matter. Or a guest house with another three bedrooms and four bathrooms. Or another cottage over the garage to house the staff. Beach cottages are not over six thousand square feet.

But the thing I’ve come to learn about the Hamptons is that there’s an entirely different set of rules out here.

“It’s so wonderful to have you back. We’re going to have a marvelous summer together. I have you set up in the room next to mine,” my grandmother says as Raoul helps us upstairs with my bags. Well, bag I should say. I only packed one.

“Great,” I say, and then to Raoul, “Thanks.” He smiles back at me, nodding as if to say, “You’re welcome,” and I remember something my grandmother used to tell me when I was growing up: you should always speak to everyone in the same way. From the man who shines your shoes to the president of the United States, you should give each one the same amount of kindness and respect.

“Is this okay up here?” my grandmother asks. “I didn’t think you’d want to be in the guest house all by yourself.”

“This is perfect,” I say. “I’m right next door to you. I’m like your lady-in-waiting.” My grandmother gives my outfit the once over.

“Would you like to change for lunch, darling?” She smiles at me innocently, but I know that what she is really saying is:
You need to change for lunch.

To be clear, my outfit isn’t all that offensive—I’m wearing a pair of dark-colored jeans and a pocket tee. Not the height of fashion, I know, but hardly a distasteful ensemble. More to the point, of course, is the fact that we are having lunch here, at the house. Just the two of us. No one to impress. But my grandmother feels that you should always be dressed to the nines, even if you’re all alone. After all, you should dress for yourself. To please yourself.

I could, right now, make a crack about how you can take the girl out of France, but you can’t take France out of the girl, but my grandmother wouldn’t appreciate that. She feels that I spend far too much time coming up with what she refers to as my “clever little quips.”

“Of course I was going to change,” I say, and then take a mental inventory of what I’ve brought. I packed in such a hurry this morning that I’m not even sure if I brought a sundress or white jeans or anything that my grandmother would deem even slightly appropriate.

“I can see by your face that we must immediately go shopping,” she says. “Immediately! I’ll call Raoul.” And with that, she spins on her heel and leaves the room.

I suppose that lunch is off for the time being.

*   *   *

Working as a lawyer in Manhattan doesn’t allot you the time you need to amass the sort of wardrobe my grandmother would deem necessary for a summer in the Hamptons. So I don’t really mind that she’s dragging me to Georges Mandel after tempting me with the idea of lunch, even though I was on that Jitney for over three hours and can’t remember the last time I ate.

Since my mother would never let my grandmother set up a trust fund for me, or give me money without reason (“If you don’t work for something, you won’t appreciate it,” my mother always argued), shopping and showering me with presents is one of the ways my grandmother can unload some of that pesky cash she has too much of. I don’t love shopping, but I do love bathing in the glow of my grandmother’s attention, so going shopping together is generally a win-win proposition for us.

Raoul drops us off right in front of Mandel’s, and I open the door for my grandmother. Salespeople from every department practically fall over themselves as they see my grandmother walk into the store. It’s a virtual chorus of “Oh, Mrs. Morganfelder! So lovely to see you!” and “Mrs. Morganfelder! What can I help you with today?” and even one “Mrs. Morganfelder, is this that fabulous granddaughter you’ve told us so much about?” No one dares call her by her first name, Vivienne.

We start in the makeup department, where one kind soul is nice enough to offer us a cup of tea and some cookies. My grandmother takes the tea, passes on the cookies. I do not pass on the cookies.

In twenty minutes flat, I’ve got a new beauty regimen that will take me twenty-five minutes to complete each night. It involves a face cream that costs more than most people make in a week, an eye cream that’s made with caviar (I didn’t catch why this would be desirable), and copious amounts of makeup remover. Apparently the key is to fully remove all of your makeup before bedtime. Wearing makeup while you sleep is strictly verboten.

I also get a new makeup “look,” which I’m sure I will never be able to replicate once I’m home. It involves a product called a “corrector,” which I find funny. The salesperson does not seem to find this quite as funny as I do—she takes the banishing of undereye circles very seriously. She does not realize that I need a corrector for my life, not just my face.

The corrector goes on first, followed by a cream concealer, and then you finish with a powder. I want to tell my grandmother that I have neither the time nor inclination to indulge in such a detailed morning ritual, but then I see her beaming at me, so happy to see me looking undereye-circle-free, and I just don’t have the heart. Once my complexion is evened out, and only then, do we move on to the actual makeup part of my new look. There are powders and liners and a whole lot of mascara that go into making me look “natural,” and the salesperson writes it all down for me since it is such an extensive set of instructions. I know that I will lose this sheet of paper the second I get back to the house, but I take it anyway.

Next, we move on to clothes. It’s a blinding assortment. For starters, all of the pants are white. Nary a blue, black, or gray to be found. Jeans, capris, Bermuda shorts, trousers—all of them white. There is seemingly no black clothing of any kind in the Hamptons. Instead, there is an array of cheery pinks, bright greens, and lively yellows. I grab a subdued lavender top to contrast with what the salesperson has already picked out for me, under my grandmother’s gentle guidance. I look at a bright orange shift dress and my grandmother gently shakes her head no.

From there, it’s just a short hop over to swimwear, and in no time, I’ve got four new “appropriate” bathing suits, along with coordinating cover-ups. My grandmother makes a comment about us coming back for more, and I can’t help but giggle at the fact that four bathing suits is not enough in the Hamptons. It doesn’t seem like too much of anything is enough out here.

Then it’s on to footwear. As a woman living in New York City, I’ve got quite a shoe collection, but most of it is work-appropriate, and my grandmother shuns all of the sensible shoes that I’ve already got. (Which is funny, in that my grandmother helped me pick out most of those, too.) Apparently, a woman simply cannot survive in Southampton unless she has the perfect strappy three-inch sandal, a sexy high-heeled wedge, and a pretty flat. I did not know that.

I am Audrey Hepburn to my grandmother’s Professor Higgins, only my grandmother is the one with the gamine looks and hypnotizing eyes.

After we hit accessories and I have more necklaces, scarves, and handbags than I know what to do with, and only after that, do we head home to—finally!—eat lunch. But it’s a light lunch today, since, as my grandmother casually informs me, we have a double date this very evening.

Three

Here’s what I know about husband number one. They met as children in Vichy, France, the town where my grandmother was born. They both had very rich fathers (hers, a jeweler; his, a lawyer) who disapproved of their career aspirations (hers, to be a playwright; his, to be an artist). Sometime before her sixteenth birthday, they hatched a plan to get married and run away to Paris to live among the artists in Montmartre.

Which is exactly what they did.

It didn’t last long, though. The day Germany invaded Poland, my great-grandfather had my great-grandmother take all of the gems and jewelry from the house safe, and stuff it into her bra and corset. It was a scary time and no one knew what would happen. They only knew that jewelry was a currency that would always hold value, always help you out of a sticky situation.

The diamonds were the easiest to hide. The hardest stone, they are nearly impossible to damage. My great-grandmother stuffed dozens of tiny little bags filled with loose diamonds anywhere they would fit. Her bra held most of them. Many of the rubies were already set into jewelry, so those were packed in larger bags and tucked into her girdle. Emeralds aren’t supposed to be exposed to moisture, so they were hidden in a secret compartment in my great-grandfather’s hat, far away from the heat of his head. The pearls were another story entirely. Delicate. Prone to damage. Those went into secret inside pockets sewn into my great-grandfather’s jacket.

Then, just as if it were an ordinary day, they drove to Paris where they carried my grandmother, kicking and screaming, into the car. Since her husband wasn’t Jewish, he wasn’t in any danger, so there was no real reason for him to come with them. My grandmother still remembers telling her parents that they were overreacting, that Jews would always be safe in France. But her parents ignored her protests. And my grandmother never saw her first husband again.

Four

I suppose I brought this upon myself. If I hadn’t fled my life in the city I wouldn’t be out here in the Hamptons with my grandmother. It would follow, then, that I wouldn’t be at this dinner, and I’d really rather not be at this dinner.