Summer and the City

“She’s playing tennis,” I say.

“Ah, right .” He smacks his forehead. “Very observant of you. Yes, very observant. That infernal game.” He tumbles on without pause: “Well, make yourselves at home. You know the drill, Bernard, all very casual, mi casa es su casa and all that-we’ve got the president of Bolivia for dinner tonight, so I thought I might brush up on my Espanol. ”

“ Gracias ,” I say.

“Oh, you speak Spanish,” he exclaims. “Excellent. I’ll tell Teensie to put you next to el presidente at dinner.” And before I can demur, he scurries out of the room as Teensie herself reappears.

“Bernard, darling, will you be a gentleman and carry Cathy’s suitcase to her room?”

“Cathy?” Bernard asks. He looks around. “Who’s Cathy?”

Teensie’s face twists in annoyance. “I thought you said her name was Cathy.”

I shake my head. “It’s Carrie. Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Who can keep track?” she says helplessly, implying that Bernard has had such an endless parade of girlfriends, she can’t keep their names straight.

She leads us up the stairs and down a short hallway in the original part of the house. “Bathroom here,” she says, opening a door to reveal a powder-blue sink and narrow glassed-in shower. “And Carrie’s in here.” She opens another door to reveal a small room with a single bed, a patchwork quilt, and a shelf of trophies.

“My daughter’s room,” Teensie says smugly. “It’s above the kitchen, but Chinita loves it because it’s private.”

“Where is your daughter?” I ask, wondering if Teensie has decided to kick her own daughter out of her room for the sake of propriety.

“Tennis camp. She’s graduating from high school next year and we’re hoping she’ll get into Harvard. We’re all so terribly proud of her.”

Meaning this Chinita is practically my age.

“Where do you go to school?” Teensie asks.

“Brown.” I glance at Bernard. “I’m a sophomore.”

“How interesting,” Teensie replies, in a tone that makes me wonder if she’s seen through my lie. “I should put Chinita in touch with you. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about Brown. It’s her safety school.”

I ignore the insult and lob one of my own. “I’d love to, Mrs. Dyer.”

“Call me Teensie,” she says, with a flash of resentment. She turns to Bernard and, determined not to let me get the better of her, says, “Why don’t we let your friend unpack.”

* * *

A short while later, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering where the phone is and if I should call Samantha to ask for advice on how to deal with Teensie, when I remember Teensie on the floor of the Jessens’ and smile. Who cares if she hates me? I’m in the Hamptons! I jump up, hang my clothes, and slip into a bikini. The room is a bit stuffy, so I open the window and take in the view. The bright green lawn ends at a manicured hedge, and beyond are miles of fields fuzzy with short leafy plants-potato fields, Bernard explained on the way over. I inhale the sweet, humid air, which means the ocean can’t be far away.

Above the gentle sound of the surf, I hear voices. I lean out the window and discover Teensie and another woman seated at a metal table on a small patio, sipping what appear to be Bloody Marys. I can hear their conversation as clearly as if I were sitting across from them.

“She’s barely older than Chinita,” Teensie exclaims. “It’s outrageous.”

“How young is she?”

“Who knows? She looks like she’s barely out of high school.”

“Poor Bernard,” says the second woman.

“It’s just so pathetically textbook,” Teensie adds.

“Well, after that horrible summer with Margie-didn’t they get married here?”

“Yes.” Teensie sighs. “You’d think he’d have the sense not to bring this young twit-”

I gasp, then quickly shut my mouth in the perverse desire not to miss a word.

“It’s obviously subconscious,” the second woman says. “He wants to make sure he’ll never get hurt again. So he chooses someone young and wide-eyed, who worships him and will never leave him. He controls the relationship. As opposed to Margie.”

“But how long can it possibly last?” Teensie moans. “What can they have in common? What do they talk about?”

“Maybe they don’t. Talk ,” the second woman says.

“Doesn’t this girl have parents? What kind of parent lets their daughter go away with a man who’s clearly ten or fifteen years older?”

“It is the eighties,” the second woman sighs, trying to be conciliatory. “The girls are different now. They’re so bold.”

Teensie gets up to go into the kitchen. I practically crawl out the window, hoping to hear the rest of their conversation, but I can’t.

Numb with shame, I flop back on the bed. If what they said is true, it means I’m merely a pawn in Bernard’s play. The one he’s acting out in his real life to help him get over Margie.

Margie. Her name gives me the willies.

Why did I think I could compete with her for Bernard’s affections? Apparently, I can’t. Not according to Teensie.

I throw the pillow against the wall in rage. Why did I come here? Why would Bernard subject me to this? Teensie must be right. He is using me. He might not be aware of it, but it’s no secret to everyone else.

There’s only one way to save face. I have to leave. I’ll ask Bernard to drive me to the bus stop. I’ll say good- bye and never see him again. And then, after I have my reading and I’m the toast of the town, he’ll realize what a mistake he made.

I’m tossing clothes into my carpenter’s bag, when I catch the sound of his voice. “Teensie?” he calls. I peer over the windowsill.

He’s striding across the lawn, looking concerned and a bit peeved. “Teensie?” he calls again as Teensie appears on the patio.

“Yes, darling?”

“Have you seen Carrie?” he asks.

I detect a slight drop of disappointment in her shoulders. “No, I haven’t.”

“Where is she?” Bernard demands, looking around.

Teensie throws up her hands. “I’m not her keeper.”

They both disappear into the house as I bite my lip in triumph. Teensie was wrong. Bernard does care about me. She knows it too, and it’s driving her mad with jealousy.

Poor Bernard, I think. It’s my duty to save him from the Teensies of the world.

I quickly pick up a book and arrange myself on the bed. Sure enough, a minute later Bernard knocks on my