Beach Lane - By Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,2
whole Hamptons thing had blindsided him. It, like, totally ruined his plans for the Fourth of July! He was going to show off his souped-up El Dorado at the local auto show. Who was going to help him polish the hood now that Mara was abandoning him?
She and Jim had been inseparable since freshman year. More than a few people had told her she was too good for him, but they were mostly related to her, so what were they supposed to say? Mara felt a twinge of guilt for leaving but brushed it away. She had other things to take care of at the moment. She walking up tentatively to a uniformed officer behind a ticket booth and rapped on the glass window.
“Yeah?” he asked curtly, annoyed at being interrupted.
“Hi there, sir. Could you please tell me where the Hampton Jitney is?”
“You wan’ da Longuylandrail?”
“No, um, it’s called the Jitney?”
“Jipney?”
“It’s a bus? To the Hamptons?”
“New Joisey transit ovah theh.” He shook his head. “You wan’ da Hampton, take LIRR on Eight Ave.”
A passenger waiting on line overheard and chirped, “You won’t find the Jitney here; it’s on Third Avenue.”
“But really, you’re better off taking the train. Less traffic,” piped a lady holding several shopping bags behind him.
“Forget the train. Jitney’s worth it.”
“I don’t know why anyone bothers to go to the Hamptons anyway.” The lady sniffed in exasperation. “It’s just inundated with all those horrid summer people. Woodstock is so much nicer.”
“I don’t know about that. You can’t get decent sushi anywhere in the Catskills,” the first guy disagreed.
The two began a colorful argument about the relative merits of the Hamptons versus the Hudson Valley, completely ignoring Mara.
“Third—Third Avenue, did you say?” Mara asked.
“Huh? Oh yeah, just take the one-nine over to Times Square, then take the shuttle over to Forty-third and walk two blocks up toward Lex; it’s on the south side.”
It was all Greek to her. She nodded dumbly, feeling more like a hick than ever.
“But I’m telling you, dear, the train’s much better!” yelled the lady with the bags.
Mara left the line and had opened the crumpled e-mail again to make sure she had read the directions correctly when she was caught off balance by a girl who tumbled into her, narrowly missing falling flat on her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, helping the pretty, long-haired blonde to her feet. Mara noticed a tennis racket slung over the girl’s shoulder and was about to ask her about the Jitney, but when she looked up, the girl was gone.
Squaring her shoulders, she decided a taxi was probably her best bet and joined the packed line in front of the station to wait for a cab. Mara looked around her happily. She was so thrilled to be away, it didn’t matter how long it took to get where she was going.
jfk baggage claim: jacqui picks up more than her luggage
KEEP LOOKING, A LITTLE BIT TO YOUR LEFT, UH-HUH, these are real, all the way down, yeah, baybee, you like what you see? I know you do, pervert, three, two, one. . . .
BINGO.
The thirty-something guy with the slicked-back hair, faded jeans and sockless mocassins touched Jacarei Velasco on her arm. It was a soft tap—a mere flutter, really; he didn’t pat her arm as much as hint at the start of a caress.
“Manuela?”
That she didn’t expect.
“Qué?” she asked, raising her wraparound shades to assess him further. Bronze tan. Oversized Rolex. Aviator sunglasses. The shoes were obviously hand-made. He’d do.
“Sorry, I thought we’d met somewhere before, Miami Beach maybe?” he said, smiling so that the faint wrinkles around his bright blue eyes crinkled charmingly. He shrugged and turned away. Well, if that wasn’t the oldest line in the book. But she wasn’t about to let him get away that easily. “Maybe we have,” she called.
The guy turned. “The Delano bar? Last year?”
Jacqui shook her head, smiling.
“Ah, well. Rupert Thorne,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “Those yours?” he asked, spying a matching pair of shiny black patent luggage on the ramp.
Jacqui nodded. “I’m Jacqui Velasco.”
* * *
He motioned deftly to a uniformed driver to pick them up.
“Where to?” he asked.
“The, ah, ’Amptons?”
“Exactly where I’m headed.” He nodded approvingly. “City’s no good in the summer. Fry an egg on that concrete. Not to mention the smell.” He grimaced.
“Are you from New York?” Jacqui asked, amused by his complaints.
“Originally. We’ve got a place up in Sag. But I’ve got the cross-country commute. I’m still on Malibu time.”
She smiled, letting him yap