at his favorite Starbucks, just down the street from his brokerage internship. She smiled and pulled in behind him. He was soaked with sweat and took a minute to wipe off his body with a small towel carried in his backpack.
She put on a sweater and asked, “How far did you go?”
“Sixty or so, just north of Pawtucket.”
“Must have had a lot on your mind,” she commented.
He looked at her and said, “Let me guess, chai tea and a bran muffin.”
“Make it blueberry and you’ve got a deal. I’m Jane.”
“I’m not going to dignify our meeting by saying that I wish I was Tarzan.” He stuck out his hand. “Bobby Lane.”
She took off her helmet and shook like a lab coming out of the water. There stood a stunning teenager with medium length blond hair, piercing green eyes and an aristocratic body, obviously fed perfect food over her lifetime. Her formfitting body suit belied her tall strong body. She was 5’11” if she was an inch. Eye to eye. As she spoke, he detected no New England accent, a telltale giveaway to her upper class breeding. He ordered, paid and sat. She joined him with a smile.
“Lemme guess, Ethel Walker,” said Bobby.
“Close; ex-Farmington.” Ethel Walker and Miss Porters School were two girls’ schools near Hartford, known for upper class educations. Miss Porters was also known as Farmington. Nobody knew why the nickname stuck, but graduates included names like Gene Tierney, Gloria Vanderbilt, Julia Child and Jackie Kennedy Onassis.
“Why ex?”
“Well, I’m off to Connecticut College in the fall,” said Jane.
“St. George’s to Trinity,” said Bobby.
“You are kidding!”
Small world, they both thought. He looked at her over the lip of his chai. Stunning. Confident. Classy. An hour passed in instant, and it was time to go. Haltingly, Jane said, “My family is going to the Beach for the Sunday evening buffet tomorrow night. Want to tag along as my guest?”
There are six or seven WASP paradises on the East Coast for seeing and being seen. The Spouting Rock Beach Association, or “Bailey’s Beach,” as it is known, in Newport is definitely one of those. A daily magnet during summer playtime for the old family idle rich, it reeks of tradition and style. Presidents and senators have walked the beach, especially liberal Democrats taking time off from supporting “the agenda.” Movie stars love the Olympic-size pool. A cabana in the right place is perceived as total acceptance. It is famous for its Sunday buffet dinner loved by all the membership and their guests. It’s the “high” in “high society.”
Rick Davis and his wife Janet knew it and liked it. They always got a table on the upper level. Tonight it was a reservation for six, including an oil executive, his wife, their daughter Jane and her date. Janet Davis was a Texan, with oil on her dad’s side and a huge hunk of 7/11 stock on her mom’s. Homes in Houston, Palm Beach, Andorra and Newport, with domestic help at each.
Bob Lane arrived at precisely 6:15, dressed smart but casual. His preparation had taken four hours, with enough changes to match the Palestinean peace process. He had decided on an open shirt, his double-breasted blazer, gray flannels and no socks. Jane had already signed him in at the office and he moved tenuously through the interior and out to the veranda, where cocktails had begun and tables were filling up. She stood up when he came through the door.
“Holy Christ,” he murmured as he caught her eye.
He was looking at the cover of Seventeen, Vogue, and the Robb Report, all in one. This girl was stunning. She smiled a look of enthusiastic support, came over and said, “Glad to see you with your clothes on, Bob! Welcome to my world.”
He shook her hand and remembered that firm, large palm from their initial meeting.
“Did you peddle your fifty today?”
“Of course.”
“Come and meet my folks.”
Rick Davis had eyed him the minute his daughter stood up. Like most rich dads, he was suspicious of any male object who came within five yards of his only child and heir. He loved her too much and jealousy was part of the package. Jealousy begat suspicion, suspicion begat delusion, and delusion begat hatred of any man who could mistreat his most precious possession.
But he was also somewhat realistic about her need for independence and knew that college would change both their perspectives on parenting forever. So he and Janet had resolved to “keep the enemy close” if necessary and agreed that alienation was a bad strategy, especially if parenting is attempted from a penthouse in Andorra, a small country in the Pyrenees Mountains between France and Spain, one of the world’s most popular places to avoid income taxes.
The adult conversation turned from the frivolous to the sublime—inflation, taxes, and, immigration—leaving Jane and Bobby to talk sports, music, and the fall. Never at a loss for words, they meshed like two minds on speed, each needing to learn from the other. As the night wound down it was like water torture for Bobby, who wanted it to go on forever. Great chowder, roast beef, new potatoes, green beans and a little of each of ten desserts (or so it seemed). Set off against three glasses of Chateau Talbot and the most delicious young woman in America, he was aghast at the thought of returning to Civil War Central at St. Georges.
She walked him to his bike by the tennis court and she said, “Fifty miles? From the Tennis Hall of Fame at 10:15? We’ll exchange numbers.”
“Right,” he said with a bad English accent.
He was bursting with desire, but couldn’t summon the courage to do anything except to try to disguise his partial arousal, which had gotten well out of hand. He would not embrace her for fear that the bubble would burst and he would never see her again. Her parents waited patiently by their car.
Jane grabbed his hand tenderly, unlike before, smiled and said, “Best meal I’ve had this summer!” She winked and turned, and as she reached the back door of the black Range Rover, she paused and looked back before getting in.
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