The Carlyles (2 page)

The Best Things in Life Are Free

Avery couldn’t help grinning to herself as she emerged from the apartment building and started walking south down Fifth. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but the streets were already buzzing with tourists and families. The late August heat was laced with a cool breeze that made her shiver in anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see the trees flanking the avenue turn brilliant orange, red, and yellow. She couldn’t wait to snuggle up in a cashmere Burberry coat and sip hot chocolate on one of the benches lining the austere stone walls surrounding Central Park. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow, when she would start school at Manhattan’s exclusive Constance Billard School for Girls and her life would
finally
begin.

She turned onto Madison, pausing at the large plate-glass windows of the Calvin Klein boutique on the corner of Sixty-second Street to take in her reflection. With her long, wheat-colored blond hair wrapped in a Pucci print headscarf and a peony pink Diane von Furstenberg sleeveless wrap dress hugging her athletic frame, she looked like any Upper East Sider out for a stroll. In Nantucket, where fleece was party attire and a party was drinking a six-pack of Molson on Sconset beach, Avery had always been out of her element. But this year it was all going to be different. Finally, she was right where she belonged.

Avery tore herself away from the shop window and continued to walk down Madison. Just past Sixty-first Street she reached the door to Barneys and smiled exultantly as the dapper, black-suited doorman held it open. She breathed deeply as she entered, the achingly familiar scent of Creed Fleurissimo hitting her along with the AC. It had been her grandmother’s favorite perfume, and Avery could practically feel the elder Avery’s spirit steering her away from an oversize apple green Marc Jacobs bag and toward the true designer purses.

Avery walked through the luxury handbag department, rever-ently touching the crocodile skin and soft leathers. Her eyes stopped on a cognac-colored Givenchy satchel, and she felt her stomach flutter. Its gold buckles reminded her of the antique chest she’d left behind in Nantucket. She’d always imagined some ancient blue-blooded great-aunt had lost the trunk in the Atlantic when her ship sank on her honeymoon, only for it to be recovered by a bearded lobsterman years after her romantic death. Avery had a habit of making things far more romantic than they actually were.

Well, that’s way better than sucking your thumb and biting your nails.

“Exquisite piece.” Avery heard a smooth voice over her shoulder. She turned around and took in the saleslady behind her. She was in her mid-forties, with gray-streaked hair pulled back into a sleek bun.

“It’s beautiful,” Avery agreed, wishing the saleslady would disappear. She wanted this moment to be pure: a moment between her and the purse.

And the imaginary lobsterman?

“Limited edition,” the saleslady noted. Her name tag read
NATALIE
. “It was actually claimed, but we never heard back from the buyer. . . . Would you be interested?” Natalie raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows.

Avery nodded, transfixed. She glanced at the price tag—four thousand dollars. But she hadn’t really bought that much since she had arrived in New York, and wasn’t that what Edie’s new accountant, Alan, was for? Besides, as Grandmother Avery had once reminded her when she’d admired a particular vintage Hermès Kelly bag in her namesake’s extensive collection:
Handbags never die. Men do.
This bag was forever.

“I’ll take it,” she said confidently, her just-manicured petal pink fingernails reaching for the supple leather straps.

“Oh, there you are!”

Avery and Natalie turned in unison to see a willowy girl with cascading auburn hair and a freckled complexion sweep across the marble floor. Avery paused, transfixed. Even in a fluttery white Milly sundress with enormous D&G sunglasses perched on her head, the girl looked exactly like the ballerina in the Degas painting hanging in Grandmother Avery’s library. “I came to pick up my bag. So sorry I didn’t get your messages—I was in Sagaponack. My cell phone service is awful out there.” She sighed deeply, as if a weak cell phone signal in the Hamptons were the most monumental handicap.

“Thanks again for holding it.” The girl grabbed the satchel from Avery’s hands, as if Avery’s job had been to hold it for her. Avery narrowed her eyes as she firmly grasped the bag’s strap.

“You must be Jack Laurent.” Natalie pressed her lips into a tight line as she turned to the girl. “Unfortunately, because we do have a release policy and we have someone interested, I’m afraid that we’ll have to put you back on the waiting list.”

Avery smiled a
too bad
smile at the girl, feeling giddy. No one at Constance Billard could possibly have this bag. It seemed all the more valuable now that she saw how in demand it was. Avery tugged on the handle, but the girl made no effort to loosen her grip.

“I can see why you need a new bag.” Jack glanced pointedly at Avery’s worn Louis Vuitton Speedy purse. It had been her thirteenth-birthday present from her grandmother, and it was
well loved
, as Grandmother Avery would have put it. “There are some outside you might be interested in.”

Avery narrowed her blue eyes at the girl and gripped the cognac-colored bag’s shoulder strap. Outside? As in, the tacky knockoffs hocked by vendors on the street? She was speechless.

“Now that that’s settled,” Jack went on, tightening her grasp around the Givenchy’s straps, “can we please take care of this?” she ordered Natalie haughtily, her green eyes flashing.

Natalie drew herself up to her full height of five foot two. She stood comically between the two girls, who faced each other eye to eye five inches above her head. “That’s the only one we have,” she began authoritatively. “It’s a limited edition and rather fragile, so I’m sure you both will be able to work something out.” She reached for their fingers, trying to pry them from the bag’s leather handles.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Avery said, giving the purse a sharp tug that surprised Jack. She stumbled forward, losing her grip.
Take that, bitch,
Avery smirked.

Before Jack could regain her balance, Avery strode quickly away across the marble floor of Barneys, clutching the satchel protectively against her chest, like a football player headed for the end zone. She’d gotten there first, and she was going to leave here first, with the bag that was rightfully hers. Only ten yards separated her from the exit. Unable to help herself, she turned around to glare at Jack victoriously. It was the Carlyle equivalent of a touchdown dance. The girl’s pale freckled face was drained of its perfect tan and her green eyes looked more confused than angry. Avery grinned, feeling giddy. But all of a sudden, a hideous buzzing sound erupted around her. She looked around in annoyance but couldn’t see where the buzzing was coming from. Not daring to hesitate, she continued to walk, feeling a surge of victory.

“Excuse me, miss?” A burly security guard appeared in front of her. His name tag read
KNOWLEDGE
. Avery looked up in confusion. She tried to sidestep him, but he moved his bulk in front of her with ease.

She’s not the first girl to make a run for it in Barneys!

“Give me the bag, baby girl, and it’ll all be over,” Knowledge said gently and quietly, holding on to Avery’s thin arm. She could feel his gold-ringed fingers make an indentation on her tan skin.

“I was going to pay for it,” she insisted, trying not to sound desperate. Wordlessly, she handed him the bag as her blue eyes widened in shock. Could they really think she was trying to steal it?

Natalie joined them, whisking the purse out of Knowledge’s hands. Avery felt red splotches begin to form on her chest and face, which always happened when she was upset, a precursor to tears.

“I really think they should have an age limit for some floors, don’t you?” Avery overheard one white-haired lady say loudly to her female friend with overly teased red hair, wearing a leopard print Norma Kamali shirtdress. Avery suddenly felt like she was five years old.

“I was going to pay for it,” she repeated loudly. “The checkout counter wasn’t clearly-marked.” Even as she said it, she cringed. Checkout counter? She sounded like she had taken a wrong turn at Target.

She shook her head, trying to appear supremely irritated and reached into her own LV-monogrammed purse. She would pull her brand-new black AmEx out of her red and green striped Gucci wallet. Then everyone would see it was all an unfortunate mistake and apologize and give her loads of complimentary products for the inconvenience.

“Luckily, the exit
is
well marked,” Natalie replied icily. She was enjoying this, Avery realized. She lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. We’re not going to call your parents.” And with that, Natalie whirled around on her black Prada pumps and walked back to Jack, who was waiting with a steely smirk on her irritatingly freckled face.

“I just
had
to have it for the first day of school,” Jack cooed dramatically. She took the purse in her hands, examining it as if to make sure Avery hadn’t dirtied it with her sticky fingers.

“Your shopping trip is over, honey.” Knowledge’s soft voice interrupted her awful reverie, as two more security guards escorted her out a side entrance onto Sixty-first Street.

The door closed with a thud.

Avery’s faced burned. She half expected an angry Barneys mob to follow her as she scurried away, but instead two thirtysomething women pushed their black, tanklike Bugaboo strollers past her, chatting about nursery schools. White-gloved doormen stood outside rows of luxury apartment buildings. A red double-decker bus headed toward Central Park. Avery felt her heartbeat slow down. No one had a clue who she was or what had just happened. She readjusted her headscarf and crossed the street with her chin held high. This wasn’t Nantucket, where everything was broadcast until infinity. This was New York, a city of more than eight million people, where Avery could do whatever she wanted to do—be whoever she wanted to be. So what if she hadn’t gotten the Givenchy satchel? She still had the new patent leather Louboutin slingbacks she’d bought yesterday and her lucky pearls from Grandmother Avery. She could probably go back to Barneys tomorrow and no one would recognize her.

As she crossed Fifth, a cute guy in a gray Riverside Prep T-shirt and a Yankees cap jogged by, smiling at her. She smiled broadly back, batting her carefully mascaraed eyelashes. Tomorrow, Avery Carlyle would begin her brand-new life at her brand-new school and Jack Laurent would be a distant memory—some bitchy diva who had stolen her purse, never to be heard from again.

Maybe. The thing is, New York is a big city, but Manhattan is a very small island. . . .

This Looks Like the Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

Owen Carlyle stood in front of an imposing redbrick town house between Park and Madison and hesitantly rang the doorbell marked
STERLING.
He’d gotten an e-mail last week that he was supposed to pick up his swim team uniform from Rhys Sterling, the St. Jude’s team captain, but he was still kind of embarrassed to stop by unannounced. It sort of felt like he was trick-or-treating.

Like anyone wouldn’t give him a treat at any time of year.

He rang the doorbell again. Pretty blue flowers sprang from orderly white window boxes flanking the entrance. Idly he leaned down to smell one, thinking of a certain someone he wanted to give flowers to. As Owen inhaled the sweet scent, the door swung open, revealing a woman in a navy blue linen dress with striking, perfectly white hair, even though her face was completely unlined. She sort of looked like a white wig–wearing Nicole Kidman.

“Good day,” she announced in a prim British accent, opening the door partway and glancing down her ski-jump nose at Owen quizzically. “May I help you?”

“Hi. I’m, uh, Owen Carlyle? I’m here to see Rhys. I’m new to the swim team and wanted to pick up my stuff?” he began awkwardly. He really hoped he had the right house.

The woman’s face broke into a warm smile. “Owen Carlyle! Of course, I knew your grandmother quite well. What a wonderfully unique woman.” She ushered Owen into the expansive foyer. Owen awkwardly toyed with the blue flower he had snapped from outside. “You know she was on the show a few times?”

Owen furrowed his brow in confusion. In front of him was a grand, sweeping red-carpeted staircase like the one in
Sunset Boulevard,
one of Avery’s favorite films. He had no idea what it was about, but Avery had probably watched it four hundred times.

“Tea with Lady Sterling,”
the woman said sternly, as if she was correcting him. “Tea with
me
,” she clarified.

Owen still didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about. He seldom watched TV, and when he did, he made a point of not watching shows with the word
tea
in the title.

“Nice to meet you.” Owen stuck out his hand awkwardly. The foyer walls were painted a soothing taupe color and were bordered by ancient-looking English foxhunting scenes. Suddenly, a preppy-looking guy wearing pressed chinos and a pristine short-sleeve blue button-down shirt bounded down the red-carpeted staircase. He looked like he was headed out to play golf. Owen tucked his hands into the pockets of his ratty Adidas shorts and hunched his shoulders inside his thin gray Nantucket Pirates T-shirt.

“Rhys! You have a guest.” Lady Sterling smiled fondly at the two boys. “This is Owen Carlyle. Owen, darling, please do tell your mother I would love to see her. We’ve only met once, at a charity function, and you know how those things are,” Lady Sterling trilled as she clicked down the hall.

“Nice to meet you, man!” Rhys gave Owen a firm handshake. He was just a little bit shorter than Owen’s six feet, two inches, and had dark brown hair and gold-flecked brown eyes. He opened a closet door and pulled out a maroon Speedo swim bag. “This is for you.”

“Thanks, man.” Owen pawed through it to find six PowerBars, a maroon towel with
ST. JUDE’S
embroidered on it, and three tiny black Speedos. He held one up to his hips awkwardly. It was about five sizes too small. “Well, good meeting you.” Owen stuffed the swimsuit back into the bag and turned to go.

“Wait up,”
Rhys called behind him. “You busy this afternoon? Want to go to brunch? Fred’s is pretty good. It’s on the top floor of Barneys.”

“No!” Owen said quickly, one foot already outside. The last thing he wanted to do was run into Avery in the midst of some sort of fashion emergency.

Rhys looked crestfallen. “Oh, that’s cool.”

Owen shook his head. “I mean, can we just grab bagels instead? Go to the park?” he asked awkwardly. Despite the bevy of girls following him at all times, Owen had never really had close guy friends. In fact, it was
because
of the bevy of girls following him at all times. The guys at NHS had always been jealous of Owen’s good looks and easy confidence, and knew they didn’t stand a shot at scoring when he was around. Owen tried not to care, and he wasn’t lonely or anything. But come on. It wasn’t
his
fault he was a chick magnet.

It’s not easy being beautiful.

“Fine by me.” Rhys nodded in agreement and pulled down a pair of Ray-Bans as they made their way out of the town house and toward the park. On the way, they stopped at a deli for bagels and beers.

Breakfast of champions!

They crossed Madison and then Fifth, and when they entered the park Rhys guided them through several winding paths, heading farther and farther west. Finally they stopped at some castlelike stone structure sitting regally behind a small pond. It was about three stories high and looked like a medieval fortress.

“This is one of my favorite places in the city,” Rhys said. “Belvedere Castle. When I was younger, I thought the castle was real and wanted to live in it. My mom has her own TV show,
Tea with Lady Sterling
?” He looked at Owen questioningly.

“Yeah, she mentioned that.” Owen kicked at a pebble on the pathway. Girls in Malia Mills bikinis were tanning themselves in some big field, pretending they were in the Hamptons, and stoner guys were playing Hacky Sack or Frisbee. It was kind of sad: New Yorkers were so fucking starved for nature, they had to pretend a patch of grass was the beach.

“Since she’s English, I figured we should have our own castle.” Rhys shrugged sheepishly.

Owen laughed, settling onto the rock as Rhys cracked open a can of Olde English, careful to keep it concealed inside a paper bag. He passed the brown bag over to Owen. Owen took a sip and surveyed their surroundings. The pond’s surface was covered with old leaves and greenish scum, but an endless array of girls with perfect late-summer tans were picnicking on the grass beside the imposing stone castle. Despite the flock of hot girls in loosely tied bikini tops, Owen found himself searching for a flash of butterscotch candy–colored hair. He sighed in frustration.

For the past few months, no matter where he was, all he’d been able to think about was Kat, the girl he’d hooked up with at a bonfire on Surfside Beach at the beginning of summer. He’d spotted the curvy girl with dancing blue eyes and hair the color of their golden retriever, Chance, and hadn’t been able to tear his gaze from her. By the time she wandered up to him and asked for help opening her Corona Light, Owen was practically in love. And when she asked if he’d show her the lighthouse a few minutes later, they both knew what they wanted to do. There, in the sand in the dark, they’d lost their virginity to each other. It had been the wildest, most irresponsible and amazing thing Owen had ever done.

“What’s your name?” he’d asked afterward, tracing his fingers down the curve of her shoulder. He’d felt like an asshole then. Sure, he was a player, but losing it to a girl without exchanging names was too much, even for him.

“Here’s a clue.” She’d pulled out a delicate silver bracelet that spelled
KAT
in loopy, careful letters.

They’d spent the rest of the night fooling around on the beach and running into the water whenever they got too sweaty. She was from New York, only visiting Nantucket for the day, she said, and knowing she’d be gone tomorrow somehow made it even more special, like it was his last night on earth. The next morning, Owen had woken up alone on the beach. It might have been a dream, except he had the silver bracelet as proof. Owen pulled the bracelet out of his cargo shorts now and ran his thumb over the uneven scratches on its surface. He held it up to his nose to see if he could somehow smell her.

“What is that?” Rhys asked curiously, snapping Owen out of his romantic reverie.

“Just . . . a good luck charm,” Owen lied, slipping the bracelet quickly back into the pocket of his Adidas shorts. He wanted to ask Rhys if he knew Kat, but there were millions of people in the city and he didn’t want to seem like some lovesick freak.

Too late.

“Oh,” Rhys said, losing interest. “So, Nantucket, huh? What was that like?” he asked.

“It was cool,” Owen said. “Small.” There was no way he was going to tell the first person he’d met in Manhattan that all of the guys at Nantucket High sort of ostracized him for being a player. He took another sip of beer. The carbonation tickled his throat and the sun made him feel sleepy.

“It’s pretty small here, too,” Rhys told him. “I’ve been in the same school with the same guys since kindergarten.”

Owen watched as two freckly girls walked past them, their shopping bags swinging in unison. He couldn’t believe he was about to spend the rest of his school days surrounded by guys. What would he look at? “So, what’s it like not having any girls around?”

Rhys squinted his gold-flecked brown eyes, as if he’d never really thought about it. “It’s fine. My girlfriend goes to Seaton Arms, which is down the street, so it’s not like it’s all guys all the time.”

Owen sighed in relief. He stretched out on the blanket, feeling the sun warm him through his thin gray T-shirt. A runner jogged by wearing skintight Day-Glo Lycra.

“So, one of the things I’m supposed to do as captain is to give some informal, end-of-summertime splits to Coach,” Rhys said, breaking the silence. “Since I don’t have any from you, let’s just race each other across the pond, and I’ll estimate your times off mine.”

“Right here?” Owen asked skeptically, sitting up.

“Why not?” Rhys stood up on the rock, motioning for Owen to stand next to him. Rhys took off his shirt and revealed a sculpted six-pack and broad swimmer’s shoulders. Owen shrugged and pulled his T-shirt off too. Two girls flipping through a French
Vogue
on a nearby bench looked up to stare over their magazine.

Hello!

“Ready? Go!”

Owen dove into the muddy pond without a moment’s hesitation. He kicked through the seaweed and began to freestyle, startling the ducks in his path. He tore through the water with a smooth, strong stroke, his competitive instinct taking over.

He reached the other end of the noxious pond, breathing hard as he set his feet down on the squishy mud bottom. It felt like week-old oatmeal between his toes. Green gunk clung to his arms. Across the pond, Rhys stood on the rock, drinking out of his paper bag and laughing. Owen narrowed his eyes. What the fuck? The two girls on the bench giggled.

“Hey, dude, you’re pretty fucking fast,” Rhys yelled good-naturedly as he made his way around the pond toward Owen. A green-jumpsuited park ranger appeared from behind the castle, shouting.

“You can’t swim there!” he yelled, charging toward Owen with a rake.

Forgetting about his shirt and shoes, Owen sprinted away. Rhys caught up with him on one of the winding paths out of the park. As they reached the exit, they stopped and doubled over laughing. Owen grabbed the still-open forty out of Rhys’s hand. Maybe living here in NYC wouldn’t be so bad. A cool guy friend, hot girls, and fierce swimming—what more could he want?

Hey, this is Manhattan. There’s always more to want.