"I don't know how to make you that," I finally admit, even though I don't know why I first went through the charade of actually looking through the liquor cabinet.
"Okay, fine, I'll have a mojito," she says, waving her hand at me and putting her Birkin bag on the recently shined quartz island.
I decide not to go through the theatrics of trying to prepare a mojito that if I don't do it correctly, I know will be sent back.
"I'm sorry, I don't actually know how to make a mojito either," I admit.
I expect her to challenge me and maybe even say something disparaging, but she just throws her hand up in the air and says, "Oh, well, why didn't you just tell me? Come here, I'll show you how. Place mint leaves and one lime wedge into a glass. Use a muddler to crush the mint and the lime to release the oils and the juice. Add two more lime wedges and a bit of sugar and muddle again to release the lime juice. Fill the glass almost to the top with ice. Pour the rum over the ice and fill the glass with carbonated water. Stir, taste, and add more sugar as desired. Garnish with the remaining lime wedge.”
I'm surprised by this turn of events, but I listen carefully and as soon as she makes one, she hands it to me. "Try it."
I take a sip and it tastes delicious.
"Okay, now make me mine."
This is a challenge to see if I've been paying attention or just nodding along.
Luckily, I was too scared to not carefully catalog every step in the process. I go through it in my mind and then repeat all the steps.
When she tastes it, she gives me a small smile, nothing extravagant, just something out of the corner of her lips but I can tell that she approves.
"Let's sit down," she says, and we go to the sitting room where there are two plush sofas facing one another in front of a magnificent fireplace.
"You and my son must be very close.”
I nod, uncertain as to how she would know that.
"Well, I know that he wouldn't just bring anybody to this place."
"Yeah, we are close," I say.
"Tell me about yourself, Jacqueline."
So, this is a woman who seems to like the best things in life. I decide to play up the only hand that I have.
"Well, I got my bachelor's degree in English literature from Dartmouth and I'm just finishing my master's in journalism at Columbia."
"Impressive."
"Thank you.” I nod.
That's it.
That's all I have. If she asks me about anything else, I won't be able to offer her much of anything else.
"And how is it that you met Dante?" I swallow hard and bite the inside of my cheek.
23
Jacqueline
I'm not exactly sure how to answer that question, so I try to be as honest as possible.
"We actually met in a club. A bar. We started chatting and found out that we had a lot in common."
"And when was this?" she asks, taking a sip of her mojito.
Her pristine white linen suit is something that a model out of Town & Country magazine would wear. In fact, if she exudes anything, it's that kind of New England old money charm.
Even her voice has just a tinge of that kind of Kennedy-esque accent that we're all so familiar with.
"This was a few months ago," I say, realizing that I haven't answered her question.
She doesn't clear her throat or bother with asking it again. She just waits and isn't afraid in building that tension.
That kind of confidence and intensity is quite disarming, and now I can see why she and Marguerite don't get along at all.
"And you've been dating ever since?" she asks, focusing her gaze on mine.
She narrows her eyes and I notice that she barely has a single wrinkle around her eyes. She doesn't even have any crow's feet.
At the same time, she has not been stretched thin and stretched out like a lot of the plastic surgeon nightmares you see walking around here and in Manhattan.
"We stayed in touch a little bit, but we actually ran into each other on the beach here and sparks flew."
"Oh, I see. Summer love." She nods approvingly. "Are you staying at one of the nearby cottages?"
She uses the word "cottage," even though the homes are more than 5,000 square feet. This is a common attribute of someone who comes from old money. Everything is an understatement.
"My friend and I actually rented a place a few streets away."
"That sounds like a nice trip," she says, leaning back on the couch and crossing her legs around her ankles.
"You have a wonderful son, Mrs. Langston," I say after a deliberately long pause that makes me feel uncomfortable.
She raises an eyebrow. I decided to go with Mrs. Langston because Adele seems too familiar, and she hasn’t told me which name she prefers.
"I appreciate the sentiment," she says slowly. "But you can call me Adele, like everyone else."
"Okay. Whatever you prefer," I say, sitting up straight and crossing my legs in front of her at my ankles, avoiding doing it at the knee.
Of course, I'm not familiar with any of these rules, but I do remember that this is what a little girl entering society was taught to do in Titanic.
"I appreciate you telling me that about my son. I know that he's very special, but can be quite difficult to have a relationship with."
I nod.
"Is that what your intentions are?"
"I don't have any intentions," I say, shaking my head.
"What do you mean? You just told me that you care a lot about him."
"Yes, I do, but we're not defining this relationship right now. We just met up again this weekend and he is a wonderful man, so I just wanted to say that to you."
I figure this is the best way to go around telling her that we're basically hooking up without making me sound like I'm not wife material. The truth is that Dante and I are getting closer and closer every day, but the things that we haven't talked about can fill volumes.
“So, Dante says that you live in Cape Cod?" I ask.
“On Cape Cod,” she corrects me. “Yes, I have a house on the beach, kind of like here. Not as many tourists. More land. It's very private."
"That sounds wonderful," I say. "I actually would love to spend more time in a place like that."
"Oh, really?"
"Well, my work is in the city, but that's why we came out to the Hamptons, just to get away from the concrete, have a little bit of nature, the ocean. I love wildlife."
Her eyes light up. "I actually sit on the board of trustees of a number of animal causes," she says.
"Oh, that's wonderful." I nod. "I love animals, too. Actually, it's why I don’t eat met."
Her eyes narrow, and suddenly I feel like I've made a terrible mistake admitting something like this.
Most of the time, people aren't particularly bothered, but she is someone who is very judgmental and, let's say, stuck up, and I wish I had thought about it more before letting the words just slip out of me.
"That's wonderful to hear, dear," Adele says, nodding her head in approval. "I am as well."
She gives me another small smile out of the corner of her lips, and I feel like I've won some sort of elusive award, at least for now.