Holiday In The Hamptons. Sarah Morgan

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      “I’m not going to mention it again. You’re old enough to make your own decisions, you’re right. Let’s talk about the house, instead. Mom wants to sell it.”

      His gut twisted. “It’s too soon to make that decision.”

      “I know you don’t want to sell it, but she can’t stand the thought of going back there.”

      “She might feel differently in a while.”

      “And she might not. Why does it matter to you, Seth? You’re building your own place near the water. Once that is finished, you won’t need Ocean View.”

      He thought of the big house that had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. Maybe Vanessa was right. Maybe he was holding on to it for himself, not for his mother. “I’ll speak to a Realtor as soon as I have a chance. Get a valuation.”

      “Good. I can leave that with you, then?”

      “Yes.” He could almost hear her mentally ticking it off her list. Vanessa survived by lists. If something wasn’t on her list, it didn’t get done. He could imagine her, pencil in hand, ready to tick off find Seth a wife. She’d inherited her organizational tendencies from their mother, who was a warm and generous hostess. No one arriving at the Carlyle home would ever feel anything other than welcome. Summer at the Hamptons had been an endless round of entertaining both friends and family. No one would ever be fed the same thing twice. His mother had a file. People’s likes and dislikes, marriages, divorces, affairs—everything carefully recorded so that there were no awkward moments. And she had a team of people to help her.

      Vanessa was the same, except she was more drill sergeant than congenial host.

      “And you’ll think about the Fourth?”

      “I don’t need to think. I know I’m working.”

      “In that case I’ll visit you soon. We’ll have lunch. And, Seth—”

      “What?”

      “Whether you see her or not—whatever you do, don’t let her hurt you again.”

CHAPTER THREE

      SHE RENTED A CONVERTIBLE, because if you were going to drive to the beach on a hot summer’s day, you might as well enjoy the ride. The insurance alone should have been enough to make a grown woman cry. Fortunately she’d never been much of a crier. Her business was going well. She was young, free and single. She intended to enjoy every minute of it. She was leaving her troubles—or should that be trouble in the singular?—behind in Manhattan.

      Feeling pleased with herself, she took the Long Island Expressway out of the city and then hit Route 27. As usual it was clogged with traffic, cars idling bumper to bumper. She sat in it, inched forward, then stopped, inched forward again, working hard on her patience, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she stared moodily ahead of her. Too many people going nowhere. It was almost as bad as the traffic in Manhattan, except that she had more sense than to drive in Manhattan.

      Calm, she thought. Breathe.

      Harriet always told her she should try meditation or mindfulness, but Fliss didn’t know what to do with all the energy burning up inside her. She wasn’t a mellow person. She wasn’t calm either. Harriet practiced yoga and Pilates, but Fliss preferred kickboxing and karate. There was nothing quite so satisfying as landing a punch or smacking someone hard with a well-placed turning kick. Restful and calm she certainly wasn’t, but hey, she could pretend. With a touch of her finger, she changed the playlist, switching from pounding rock that had perfectly matched the pounding beat of New York City, to something more mellow and laid-back.

      Instead of thinking about Seth, she tried to think about her plans for the business. Harriet was all for keeping it small. Fliss wanted expansion. She’d need to convince her sister it was the right thing to do, remembering that they each loved the business for different reasons. Harriet loved it because it allowed her to work with animals, which kept her well within her comfort zone. Fliss loved it because she fed on the adrenaline rush of building something and watching it grow. Each new client was another brick in the wall of financial security she was building around herself.

      No one would ever be able to control her or dictate to her.

      She earned her own money. She made the decisions about her life.

      Useless? Worthless? Not so much.

      She tried to focus on the business, tried to think about everything and anything but Seth. So why was it that trying to not think seemed to make her think of him more? Maybe it was because she was going back to the beach. Back to the place where she’d spent the happiest days of her childhood. The place where the land met the water.

      Back to the place where they’d met.

      At the mouth of the Peconic River, at the eastern end of Long Island, the land split into two forks at a place the Native Americans called Paumanok. Fliss took the south fork leading to the coveted side of the island. She waited until she hit an open stretch and then floored it. Too fast, but who cared? She finally had the road to herself, and after idling in traffic she wanted the speed.

      As the road narrowed slightly, she slowed and made a right turn, inching through the tiny hamlets that led down to the water’s edge. This was where the elite chose to spend their summers. People who had made it, and people who wanted to pretend they’d made it by hiring out a beach house for a few weeks each summer.

      She spotted a farm stand overflowing with produce and on impulse pulled over and grabbed her purse. She didn’t know what food her grandmother would have in the house. If she shopped now at least she wouldn’t starve, and even she couldn’t burn salad.

      She was wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt, but after a couple of hours idling in the car under a baking-hot sun she couldn’t wait to strip them off and dive into the ocean. Naked? She grinned, remembering her promise to her twin. This visit she was going to try her hardest to keep all her clothes on. Which was going to be tough, because it was the type of heat that fried brains and sharpened tempers.

      She pulled on a baseball cap and tugged the bill down. Not that she was likely to see anyone she knew, but she wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation. She waited, head dipped, foot tapping, while the family in front of her chose fruit for their lunch—make up your minds already—and then stepped forward to make her choice. There were plump juicy peaches, local strawberries, fresh-picked lettuces and a dome of shiny, jewel-like tomatoes. She bought a selection, then she took a photo and sent it to her sister.

      Proof I’m not borrowing from people’s gardens.

      Next to the farm stand was a food truck. They served macchiato, and Fliss sipped the coffee thinking that as far as exiles went, this wasn’t so bad. The availability of good coffee in this comparatively small spit of land was disproportionate to the number of inhabitants.

      She’d forgotten how it felt to be standing with the sun heating your skin with the scent of the ocean clinging to the air. It took her back to her childhood, to those delicious first moments when they’d arrived at the beach with the long, lazy weeks of summer stretching ahead.

      They’d loaded the car early in the morning so they could make the drive before СКАЧАТЬ