I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one final time, then climb out of my convertible and lock it.
I pick my way around the clumped weeds carefully, glad I opted for sneakers over sandals. I thought it’d make my dress look more casual, and I got the sense this would be a laid-back affair.
The correct sense, I confirm when climbing the stairs and stepping inside the open sliding door of the deck. The interior of the house isn’t any nicer than the exterior. The only furniture in what I think is theliving room is a stained floral-print couch and a coffee table so covered with cans that I can’t tell the color.
As I shoulder through the crowd, I get a lot of double takes. I haven’t spent enough time in the Hamptons for any of them to recognize me as a Kensington, but they can all tell I don’t belong here. Not wearing a designer dress with a full face of makeup.
Whatever.
I like looking good. And I had time to kill, waiting for the rest of the house to go to bed, before sneaking out.
Amid a sea of ripped denim and faded shirts, plus a few swimsuits, my outfit stands out.
I scan the unfriendly, surprised faces, looking for someone I recognize. The woman from the clearing is across the room. She looks younger tonight, with her hair down, and happier, laughing loudly at something the girl next to her said. Then she sees me and immediately sobers.
I wave, and she glowers.
What is her problem?
I push ahead rather than wait to find out.
The kitchen is next. Linoleum floor, white appliances. Cheap bottles of alcohol and used plastic cups litter the counter.
“Wren! You came!”
I turn, finally spotting another semi-familiar face. It’s the guy who invited me. Will? Wes? Neither sounds right. I nod and smile and try to recall his name as he approaches, a beer bottle in one hand and a wide smile aimed my way.
“Cool party,” I say.
He smiles. Sips some beer. “Probably not what you’re used to, huh?”
I shrug a shoulder. “Variety is good.” Glance around the kitchen. “Isthis your place?”
“Not just mine. But I live here, yeah.”
“Great location,” is the only honest compliment I can come up with.
What’s his name lights up. “Right? That’s what sold me on this place. Do you surf?”
“Uh, no. Not really big on the ocean. I prefer a pool.”
He tilts his head. “Why’d you go bluffing, then?”
“I wanted to. I’m notafraidof the ocean.”
“Huh.” He still seems confused. Or maybe I’ve offended my only ally. “You want a drink?”
“Just water. I drove.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, we usually just take it from the tap.” He nods toward the sink.
I clear my throat. “Anything flavored? Sparkling?”
He shrugs a shoulder, not appearing optimistic. “I’ll check the fridge.”
The door swings open, revealing the contents. Several cases of beer sit on the shelf, all but one ripped open. Aside from that, all that’s inside is a random assortment of condiments.
I should have brought a seltzer.
