Page 72 of Meant to Be

“And what’s the accent color?”

“Navy.”

“Okay…and is it monogrammed?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Even better.”

“Okay,” I said, amused. “But please explain to me why on earth you think L.L.Bean is better than a Tumi suitcase?”

“Because you need to go high or low. Old-money types love the price-point extremes…. They either drive a brand-new Mercedes or a beat-up Volkswagen…. They wear a Rolex or a Timex…and they resist any sort of upgrade on their electronics because ‘Hey, this one still works!’ It’s reverse snobbery. New money equals new shit.”

“Wow,” I said, thinking of Joe’s stubborn loyalty to vinyl and cassettes over CDs. “That’s really true.”

“Yeah,” Curtis said. “Stick with me, kid. I know what I’m doing here.”

—

That Saturday morning,Joe picked me up just before sunrise with Thursday in tow. To my great amusement, he was driving an old Jeep Wagoneer with seventies wood paneling. Smiling to myself, I put my L.L.Bean tote in the backseat, along with a gift bag containing Curtis’s choice of a linen robe, then climbed into the car next to Joe.

He beamed at me and said, “Don’t you look cute.”

“Thanks,” I said with a laugh, thinking that no one ever called me cute.

“And look—wematch,” he said, giving me a once-over as he patted my leg.

I nodded—wewereboth wearing denim and white, but the similarities stopped there. Possibly overthinking what was appropriate for a beach weekend with Dottie Kingsley, I’d worn a sleeveless silk blouse, flared jeans, and leather slides, whereas Joe had on old Levi’s, a dingy T-shirt, and red high-top sneakers.

“Nice shoes,” I said.

“You don’t like Chuck Taylors?” he asked, pretending to be wounded before checking his rearview mirror and putting his car in drive.

“Not particularly,” I said. “Especially when they’rered.”

Joe laughed, then said, “Well, my mother hates them, too.”

“Is that why you wore them?” I asked.

He laughed and handed me one of two coffee cups in the console between us. “Here you go. Three creams, no sugar.”

“Aw. You’re the best.” I gave him a quick kiss, then leaned back in my seat, getting comfortable.

Joe drove down Second Avenue, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with the radio dial. He landed on John Mellencamp singing “Wild Night” and immediately joined in, belting out the lyrics. It was a little loud for so early in the morning, but his enthusiasm was infectious. I looked out my window and smiled, feeling a contentment that bordered on excitement. Getting out of the city was always a thrill, especially in the summertime when you were with a guy you liked.Reallyliked. Life was good, I told myself, and a few minutes later, as we merged onto the Long Island Expressway, I was singing along, too.

The next two hours passed quickly, as Joe and I laughed and talked and listened to music. Occasionally I’d feel myself start to fret about the introductions to come, but for the most part, I kept my anxiety at bay. I wasn’t one to put my foot in my mouth—I was too circumspect for such missteps. It was all going to be fine. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I would survive.

—

By the timewe reached the windmill at Halsey Lane, the effects of my pep talk to myself had expired, and the high of our road trip was replaced by a sinking dread. To be fair, it was the effect the Hamptons always had on me, even when I wasn’t headed there to meet Dottie Kingsley. It could be really fun—and was undeniably beautiful—but it was also exhausting. Everywhere you looked, there were bankers and lawyers and PR types, and, yes, models, all jockeying for position, frantically trying to figure out where to go, what to wear, and how to gain entry to the hottest restaurants, clubs, and parties. Like one big casting call. Even though I had opted out of the scene years ago, and my memories of all those pretentious White Parties were in the distant past,there was no way to pretend that I wasn’t now headed into the biggest audition of my life.

As we pulled down a residential road markedPRIVATE, Joe waved to a man sitting in a Buick, reading a newspaper. He slowed to a stop, wound down his window, and yelled, “What’s up, Hank?”

“Same old! Good to see you, Joe!”

Joe waved again, then kept driving, telling me that Hank had been with his family for years.

“Is he a security guard?” I asked.

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