CHAPTER 25
IF GOD BELONGED TO a country club, it would be Somerset.
Then again, there’s no guarantee God would be admitted.
Somerset, a magnificent white mansion surrounded by five acres of prime Long Island Sound beach property, has strict membership rules: You have to be invited to join or be sponsored by a current member. Also, there’s a seven-year wait for cabanas. From what I remember of my history classes, wars have been fought over less.
But wait. I’m being unfair. Somerset isn’t as elitist as it sounds. It’s not just a bunch of one-percenters wandering around the emerald-green golf course, perfectlyraked clay tennis courts, pools, restaurants, and kiddie snack bar (home of the three-dollar chicken nugget). There’s the occasional Nobel Prize winner allowed in. A presidential nominee. And recently, in a magnanimous gesture of upper-class solidarity, Somerset opened its doors to a few two-percenters as well.
Ben hands the keys to his BMW to the parking attendant, and the four of us get out. It was supposed to be five, but at the last minute, Hailey pulled a “Hailey,” refusing to go to their “stupid snotty club.” Then she jumped on her Yeti Cycles mountain bike, called her father a few choice names, and pedaled away.
I push Lily in her stroller through the main gate and into a gilded lobby. It’s like the Vatican but with bay windows. Since the only club I’ve ever belonged to was a hosiery club (buy five pairs of pantyhose, get the sixth one free), I’m feeling overwhelmed and—need I add—underdressed. I’m wearing my civilian beachwear: a purple paisley muumuu that barely fits over my bodysuit. From a distance, it looks like I’m being devoured by amoebas.
Amber asked me if I had a bathing suit, but I don’t. I haven’t owned one since the Reagan administration. I’m proud to say I’ve had body issues since long before it was chic. I still remember how my mother tried to reassure me when I was a chubby teen. Her tender words still resonate:Fatter girls than you get into bathing suits.
So now, at fifty, I thought:Why bother buying one at this point?Besides, it’s October. Swimming season is months away.
Big mistake.
I forgot about global warming.
So here I am, on a shockingly sunny, seventy-eight-degree October day, giving Lily a bottle of breast milk, when I hear Amber say, “You know you have to wait twenty minutes before you take her into the kiddie pool, right?”
Wait. What?
Forget the varicose veins and belly fat. I’ve got a bigger problem. I’m wearing a foam-rubber bodysuit. Foam absorbs water. With Lily in my arms, I’ll sink.
I’ve got to think fast.
Amber walks over to chat with two couples. After a few minutes, I take her aside and, not for the first time, lie to her.
“See, there was this accident when I was a child,” I say. “My mother was boiling water. I got too close.”
“Oh my God,” she says, so sweetly that I feel guilty.
“That’s why my legs are always covered, and—”
I start to go into gruesome details about my second-degree burns, but Amber cuts me off. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” she says. “Well, then of course you don’t have to take Lily into the pool.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’ll have the Velasquez nanny do that, if it’s okay with them. Come. Let me introduce you.”
Mr. Velasquez! Ben’s friend, according to their nanny, Marianna. Maybe even Ben’s business partner. Great. This may be one step closer to getting a fix on Ben.
Amber puts her arm around me and we walk over to the two couples she was talking to earlier.
“Carol, this is Mr. and Mrs. Velasquez.”
“Please. I’m Paulo,” Mr. Velasquez says in a rich Spanish accent. His voice sounds like it was dipped in honey. Paulo is handsome and dark-haired, wearing a yellow Izod shirt that covers, from what I can tell, a set of first-rate abs. In a gracious gesture, he bows.
“And I’m Felicia,” his wife says. Her long black hair is braided and pulled back in a flowery scrunchie. She’s slim and sultry, in a hot-pink bathing suit over which she’s tossed a lacy pink see-through top, an outfit that looks like it would be right at home in a California king. She’s wearing pink stilettos.
“So nice to meet you both,” I say. “Marianna has told me wonderful things about you.” Has she? I can’t remember. But it’s as good an opening as I can think of. They smile.
“And these are the Taggarts,” Amber says. “Ray and Meg.”
The Taggarts look to be in their fifties. I learn that they have three grown kids.
