Marc offered a steadying hand as Brittney transitioned from grass to gravel, which she accepted with a shy smile.
“Brittney, it’s nice to see you again,” Jill began, because Marc didn’t. “I believe the last time we spoke was at the summer clambake?”
“Yes. Hello, Mrs. Goodman.”
“Brittney’s come to field offers for the Dewberry Beach project,” Marc offered, and that was the end of it.
Across the driveway, Kyle staggered under the weight of two cardboard boxes. It didn’t look like he was going to make it to the table.
“Brittney, go help Kyle. He’s supposed to be putting pamphlets on the welcome table.”
When they were out of earshot, Jill turned to Marc for a further explanation of Brittney’s dress. There was a time when Jill would have chosen something similar, but Marc had made it very clear what he thought of that.
To her surprise, Marc shrugged it off. “I’m sure she just made a mistake. She’s young.”
So was I, Jill thought as she tracked Brittney’s progress across the driveway. Her heels wobbled on the gravel, and if she tripped, Jill predicted that she’d fall out of her dress completely.
“Do you have something nice Brittney can borrow? Like a necklace or something?”
The question was so jarring that it took a moment to process. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know.” Marc swirled his hands in the air. “Something. She looks… plain. I’m sure you can find something.” He shrugged absently as if the details didn’t matter, but Jill didn’t believe him. For Marc, details always mattered. Marc was a man who lived in details.
“Don’t you think it’s weird to ask me to lend my personal jewelry to an employee?”
“Her dress is missing something,” Marc said again.
“I see that. Maybe a sweater would help.”
He frowned. “Don’t be like that.”
“She shouldn’t be dressed like that in the first place,” Jill countered, confused by Marc’s obvious double standard. “Kyle’s part of your sales team and he’s wearing khakis. Your whole sales team is dressed appropriately. So why isn’t Brittney?”
“The Dewberry Beach house is unique… it needs a different touch,” Marc said. “Besides that, she’s a property manager and he’s an intern. She doesn’t need to wear the uniform.”
“What’s wrong with the Dewberry house?” Jill asked, steering the conversation back because she didn’t want to talk about Brittney.
To her surprise, Marc seemed to take the question seriously. He frowned as he considered it. “I thought the clambake Brittney organized would have generated new interest in the house. It didn’t. Things aren’t progressing as well as I’d hoped.”
Jill had attended Brittney’s party and she hadn’t been impressed. The theme was “A New England Clambake” and, properly executed, clambakes were one of the joys of summer. In fact, the highlight of childhood summers spent with Jill’s Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney had been the clambake. It was an all-day event and it started early, with a walk to the beach with Uncle Barney to prepare the site. As the men dug a pit in the sand, the kids were charged with gathering seaweed to steam the food and collecting twists of driftwood to feed the fire.
When the fire had burned to embers, the women arrived with food: ears of sweet New Jersey corn, baskets of tender red potatoes, buckets of clams, mussels, lobster, and shrimp, all of it dotted with butter, wrapped in foil and ready to steam. The trick to layering the food was to alternate the packets with handfuls of seaweed and strips of burlap soaked in seawater, and techniques were a closely held secret.
As they waited, the men gathered around a battered radio to listen to the Sunday afternoon baseball game while women chatted and yelled at kids who had wandered too far into the surf. When the food was ready, the men dug it up, unwrapped the foil and laid everything out on enormous platters, placed in the middle of the table. And that’s when the magic happened. For Jill, the best part of a clambake was sitting with your neighbors and sharing the treasure.
Jill couldn’t imagine that kind of party would be welcomed by the upscale crowd who had been invited, though it turned out she needn’t have worried because the party Brittney had arranged wasn’t a clambake at all.
Engraved invitations were sent to guests, complete with suggested attire. The guests, almost all from the Hamptons, arrived in a predictable uniform. Seersucker sports coats, slim linen pants and driving moccasins for the men, and breezy black silk dresses, summer tans and perfect blow-outs for the women. Jill remembered dressing differently for those earlier clambakes, in cut-off shorts and summer tees.
Brittney had arranged for valet parking, a bartender on every floor, and a string quartet on the rooftop. The caterers had “re-imagined” traditional New Jersey Shore food. Instead of steamed lobster, there was puff pastry filled with lobster mousse. In place of fresh corn dripping with butter, there were shot glasses filled with chilled corn chowder. But worst of all, at least to Jill, fresh garden tomatoes had been pureed to “reveal their essence” and served as a paste. Guests were visibly disappointed, and if Jill had been in charge, she would have fired Brittney on the spot, but Marc had let it go, calling it a “learning experience.”
“Why is Brittany here at all? This isn’t her market,” Jill asked.
Marc’s gaze cut back to Jill, then he frowned. “She’s young and needs guidance, that’s all. Cush and I both think she’s got potential.”
Jill scoffed but said nothing. She didn’t like Cush, never had, but now wasn’t the time to open that can of worms. Her annoyance lay firmly with her husband. He’d changed the party without consulting her and had allowed one of his employees to dress as if she belonged in a red-light district.
Marc had been watching her and his expression hardened. Jill lifted her hand in surrender. She’d made her point and
