“It’s Peter’s.”

“Peter?”

“Teensie’s husband.” He starts the engine, puts the car into gear, and pulls away from the curb with a jolt.

“Sorry,” he laughs. “I’m a tad distracted. Don’t take this the wrong way, but Teensie’s insisted on giving you your own room.”

“Why?” I frown in annoyance, but secretly, I’m relieved.

“She kept asking me how old you were. I told her it was none of her damn business, and that’s when she got suspicious. You are over eighteen, aren’t you?” he asks, half jokingly.

I sigh, as if the question is beyond ridiculous. “I told you. I’m a sophomore in college.”

“Just checking, kitten,” he says, giving me a wink. “And don’t be afraid to stand up to Teensie, okay? She can be a bully, but she’s got an enormous heart.”

In other words, she’s an absolute bitch.

We swing into a long gravel drive and park in front of a shingled house. It’s not quite as large as I imagined, given the enormity of the houses I saw along the way, but it’s still big. What was once a regular-sized house is attached to a soaring barnlike structure.

“Nice, huh?” Bernard says, gazing up at the house from behind the windshield. “I wrote my first play here.”

“Really?” I ask, getting out of the car.

“Rewrote it, actually. I’d written the first draft during the day when I was working the night shift at the bottling plant.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“It wasn’t at the time. But in hindsight, yeah, it does sound romantic.”

“With a touch of cliché?” I ask, razzing him.

“I went to Manhattan one night with my buddies,” he continues, opening the trunk. “Stumbled across Teensie at a club. She insisted I send her my play, said she was an agent. I didn’t even know what an agent was back then. But I sent her my play anyway, and the next thing I know, she opened her house to me for the summer. So I could write. Undisturbed.”

“And were you?” I ask, trying to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Undisturbed?”

He laughs. “When I was disturbed, it wasn’t unpleasant.”

Crap. Does that mean he slept with Teensie? And if he did, why didn’t he tell me? He could have warned me, at least. I hope I won’t discover any other unpleasant facts this weekend.

“Don’t know where I’d be without Teensie,” he says, slinging his arm across my shoulders.

We’re almost at the house when Teensie herself appears, strolling briskly up a flagstone path. She’s wearing tennis whites, and while I can’t speak for her heart, there’s no mistaking the fact that her breasts are enormous. They strain against the cloth of her polo shirt like two boulders struggling to erupt from a volcano. “There you are!” she exclaims pleasantly, shielding her eyes from the sun.

She plants herself in front of me, and in a rush, says, “I’d shake hands but I’m sweaty. Peter’s inside somewhere, but if you want a drink, ask Alice.” She turns around and trots back to the courts, waggling her fingers in the air.

“She seems nice,” I say, in an effort to like her. “And she has really big breasts,” I add, wondering if Bernard has seen them in the flesh.

Bernard hoots. “They’re fake.”

“ Fake? ”

“Silicone.”

So he has seen them. How else would he know all about them? “What else is plastic?”

“Her nose, of course. She likes to think of herself as Brenda. In Goodbye, Columbus . I always tell her she’s more Mrs. Robinson than Miss Patimkin.”

“What does her husband think?”

Bernard grins. “Pretty much whatever she tells him to, I imagine.”

“I mean about the silicone .”

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know. He spends a lot of his time hopping.”

“Like a bunny?”

“More like the White Rabbit. All he’s missing is the pocket watch.” Bernard opens the front door and calls out, “Alice,” like he owns the place.

Which, given his history with Teensie, I suppose he does.

We’ve entered the barn part of the house, which has been fashioned into a gigantic living room filled with couches and stuffed chairs. There’s a stone fireplace and several doors that lead to unseen corridors. One of the doors flies open and out pops a small man with longish hair and what was likely once a girlishly pretty face. He’s on his way to another door when he spots us and beetles over.

“Anyone seen my wife?” he inquires, in an English accent.

“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 Español. ”

“ 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.