The Seasonaires Read online

  Here’s to the dream. #BeWyld #summer

  TWO

  I will end that fucking rodent for biting off me,” snapped Lyndon into her smartphone, which she gripped with meticulously French-manicured fingers.

  The young male flight attendant approached and placed down a tea setting—fine china, engraved with the Lyndon Wyld logo, which also adorned the green and beige seats on the private jet. Lyndon lifted the teapot lid, then lowered the phone to her side.

  “It’s not hot enough, I can tell,” she said in her clipped British accent.

  “I apologize, Ms. Wyld.” The flight attendant picked up the tray.

  “Thank you,” added Lyndon with a smile that said, I value you, but I own you, too.

  The flight attendant returned to the galley and Lyndon went back to her phone call. “Did you just dare say to me ‘Imitation is the best form of flattery?’” Her smile had turned to a glower. “Tell Otto Hahn that if I see one item—one fucking sock or headband or pair of knickers—that looks remotely like mine, I will sue him so fast, his tiny todger will fall off.”

  She clicked off the phone and swiftly exhaled.

  Grace, Lyndon’s younger sister and personal assistant, reached into her tote for a gold pillbox. She handed Lyndon a Valium.

  Lyndon swallowed the pill with a sip of water from the logo-adorned bottle Grace held toward her. “As if it’s not bad enough that he opened a Wear National store down the street from ours, he’s also calling his paltry band of brand ambassadors seasonaires.”

  “What did Elaine say about that?” asked Grace.

  “You mean the idiot who calls herself my attorney? She said I don’t have a lock on the name.”

  “We’ll find a new attorney.” Grace shrugged. “I can’t fart without hitting one waiting to be your counsel.”

  “Poor things.” Lyndon grimaced. “I shared a room with you growing up, remember?”

  “If you can’t toot in front of your sister, who can you toot in front of?”

  “Attorneys, apparently.”

  Grace broke into a laugh, which loosened up Lyndon. She chuckled.

  When Lyndon and Grace were young and poor, which was the case over two decades earlier, they worked at a posh resort in the Cotswolds. They pined over the clothes that their wealthier peers wore. Grace lamented that “everyone should be able to look that toff.” Lyndon, never one to play victim, took that idea and ran with it. She zipped through a fast-track undergraduate business degree at Staffordshire University, but learned the most rising through the ranks working at Selfridges department store. The result was her self-named clothing line.

  Now, on the cusp of forty, Lyndon looked closer to thirty thanks to some strategic nips, tucks, and injections. With her smooth golden bob and Pilates-toned body, she was impeccably classic, yet accessible-by-design. That’s why her line was impeccably classic, yet accessible-by-design. Lyndon had always been the beauty and the brains. Grace, a curvy ginger, was the humor and the help, following behind her older sister because she didn’t have the drive or focus to steer her own ship.

  Grace opened her laptop. “Forget about Otto’s manky little tarts. Let’s review our picks for this summer since we’re going to meet them shortly.” She clicked on the file: Seasonaires. “Fresh meat!”

  This elicited a chuckle from Lyndon. “Don’t be wretched, Grace!”

  Lyndon paid homage to her salad days working at the resort by calling her brand ambassadors “seasonaires.” They came and went with the vacation seasons—summers in coveted locales like Martha’s Vineyard, Cape Cod, and Ibiza; winters in Aspen, Gstaad, and the French Alps. Her first crew of trendsetters converged on Nantucket eight years earlier, and after that summer, her brand’s margins exploded.

  Six sub-folders opened on Grace’s laptop screen: Grace clicked on the one marked “Cole” to reveal a photo of a handsome twenty-something with emerald green eyes and a gentle smile.

  “I still don’t understand why you wanted this lad,” said Grace. “He’s got the look, but no social following.”

  “People appear out of nowhere and succeed,” replied Lyndon. “Look at Otto. I was already busting my arse for years when he popped out of his hovel.” She pointed to Mia’s folder. “Remind me about this pretty bird.”

  Grace opened the folder. “Mia from Boston.” She played the video without the sound. “She’s the one with the sick mum.”

  “Right, right,” said Lyndon. “We should bring the mum out for a weekend. Put her up at The Wauwinet with a butler. Take her on the yacht, get her a massage, have the girl snap and post the whole thing. We’ll look like bloody heroes.”

  Lyndon’s phone buzzed with an Instagram notification:

  thenewpresley just posted a video

  She clicked on the notification and a video played. Freshly made-up, long corn silk–hued hair curled to beach-sexy perfection, Presley stood in front of the Lyndon Wyld Nantucket store. “I’m baaaack, y’all!” she drawled. “This summer is going to be wild. Lyndon Wyld, that is!”

  The video ended. “Our reigning queen just hit nine hundred and thirty thousand followers,” said Lyndon.

  “Your idea to bring her back was brilliant,” remarked Grace.

  “And your scrappy Southie is positively ace.” Lyndon nodded to Mia in her video. “A little healthy competition never hurt anyone.”

  THREE

  Despite the full ferry, the ride was the most peaceful two hours Mia could remember. Hundreds of sailboats were a white tufted welcome into Nantucket Harbor, skimming the water like a choreographed dance.

  A man with his arms around a woman pointed to the sea of boats. “Figawi weekend is the start of Nantucket’s summer season,” Mia overheard him say.

  “Figawi?” The woman glanced back at him.

  “In 1972, when three drunk friends in a sailing race here got lost in the fog, one shouted in his thick New England accent ‘Where the fuck aw we?’ Figawi.”

  The woman laughed. Mia chuckled to herself.

  The ferry was close enough that she could see the detail on the matching white, gray, and brown wood-shingled homes and buildings framing the harbor. The beautiful view was a far cry from her Southie neighborhood’s dull cityscape.

  She took a selfie and group texted Sean and her mom:

  Miss u already.

  Sean’s text popped back:

  Bullshit.

  Her mom’s text followed:

  Language!

  Her mom sent a kissy face emoji that Mia returned. Her heart beat faster as the ferry pulled into the harbor. A Mercedes G-Wagen convertible, wrapped in Lyndon Wyld green and beige with a chrome logo on the grill, waited on the dock. The driver leaning on the car was shirtless and in plaid board shorts that hung below his V-line. He was smooth, chiseled and bronzed, like an Abercrombie & Fitch model.

  “Oh, shit,” Mia muttered under her breath as she dragged her overstuffed suitcase to the car.

  “Hop in the G,” Mister A&F said with a devilish grin, jumping in without an offer to help. Breathless from the effort and the nerves, Mia climbed in the passenger’s seat. Mister A&F leaned over, startling her. He held up his smartphone for a selfie of them. Mia thought she smiled, but it happened so quickly, she wasn’t sure. Mister A&F was already posting on Snapchat. He put the car in gear. “I’m Grant.”

  “Mia.” She stuck her hand out for a shake, but it was ignored, so she pulled it back and tucked her hair behind her ear.

  Any awkwardness she felt vanished when she saw that they were driving down Easy Street. She chuckled. “That can’t be the name.”

  “Oh, yeah, Mia. We are on Easy Street.” Grant nodded, his grin growing bigger.

  They drove through town, with its cobblestone streets and quaint storefronts. The Lyndon Wyld store sat among mainland fashion favorite Ralph Lauren and some local stores, all cloaked in shingles, fresh paint, and well-designed Americana authenticity. People jogged, rode bikes, and walked their designer-breed dogs. Kids scampere
d along, eating ice cream.

  “Nantucket is a little different than South Boston,” remarked Mia. “How does it compare to where you’re from?”

  “Mars,” answered Grant.

  Mia tilted her head at him. “You’re from Mars or this is like Mars?”

  “Both.” Grant laughed.

  Mia gave up trying to get more out of him and turned to the sights. “It doesn’t seem real, it’s so pretty.”

  “Yeah. Pretty . . . rad!” said Grant. “I got here this morning, so the ’hood’s all new to me too, but it’s fucking off the hoooooook!” He threw both arms in the air.

  “Hey, hands on the wheel.” Mia reached for Grant’s muscular arm. His laugh was raucous and infectious as he acquiesced. Mia giggled, easing up.

  Grant checked the car’s navigation. “Gotta make a stop before we go to the homestead. Presley asked me to bring back strawberries. Fridge is stocked with blueberries and raspberries, but I can’t resist a hot girl begging.”

  “Who’s Presley?” asked Mia.

  “You’ll meet her soon enough.” Grant let out the kind of whistle used when words didn’t suffice.

  The groomed trees, manicured grassy patches, and nurtured garden boxes reminded Mia of Disneyland, which she’d seen only on TV. “This is the cleanest place I’ve ever been. Do they even allow trash here?”

  “Apparently, they do.” Grant drove past the Wear National clothing store at the end of the block, with its red flag and window display of tanks and tees. The backdrop photo showed two girls in tanks and nothing else, their arms lying strategically across their laps. He parked in front of the market across the street and jumped out.

  “I’ll be right back. Stay here to keep an eye on your stuff. And don’t fraternize with the enemy.” He nodded toward the alleyway next to the Wear National store, where a whip-thin girl was talking to a guy with a scruffy-sexy beard holding a black apron. The girl, with her long, wavy blond hair and violet streaks, displayed her extensive tattoo collection in a cropped tank and denim cutoffs. She was one of the girls in the window’s photo.

  “Wear National is the enemy,” explained Grant.

  “Come on,” Mia scoffed. “Is that really a rule?”

  “Unspoken.” Grant gave her a once-over. “But you don’t look like much of a rule breaker to me. Sweet as those stray kitties.” He pointed to a calico slinking between some hydrangea bushes nearby.

  “They’re not stray.” Mia straightened and shifted in her knee-length polka-dot skirt she wished was more edgy than classic. “They’re feral.”

  “Right.” Grant shrugged and jogged inside the market.

  When Scruffy-Sexy Bearded Guy walked off down the street, the girl with the violet streaks turned and locked eyes with Mia. She smiled, her silver septum ring lifting with the crinkle of her nose, and entered the store. She didn’t belong here. But then again, neither did Mia.

  FOUR

  Grant and Mia drove back through town and into Nantucket’s picturesque residential area, with its rows of saltbox homes. As they headed toward the shore, the houses grew more expansive, sitting on larger, lusher grassy lots. Grant steered them into the curving driveway of a sprawling shingled estate, surrounded by landscaping that was just the right amount of wild. Mia got a taste of the beach view.

  “Boosh!” Grant shouted. “We’re here.”

  Like most of the other homes on Nantucket, the estate’s name was branded on hand-carved quarterboard: Wylderness. A badminton court was to the right. A meticulously manicured lawn was to the left, set up for horseshoes and croquet. White wood Adirondack chaises were dotted about, so no one was ever without a place to chill. A line of brand-new beach cruisers in Lyndon Wyld green awaited rides.

  Mia and Grant disembarked. Mia picked her jaw up off the ground. “This is amazing!”

  “No pool though,” Grant scoffed.

  “Pools are très gauche.” The Southern belle lilt that butchered those French words came from a stunning beauty with long corn-silk locks who was stepping out of the house in a cut-out one-piece and sheer matching sarong. She held a red plastic cup and wore a pageant queen smile.

  “Well, hi, there,” she said to Mia. “Aren’t you cute as a button?”

  Mia didn’t know what to say, because it sounded remotely patronizing. Pageant Queen sold it as a compliment when she pulled Mia in for an embrace. Mia caught the look of sympathy-meets-amusement from the nice-looking guy who approached with four more red cups.

  Pageant Queen released Mia. “I’m a hugger,” she explained, then motioned to herself as if she were a game show prize. “Presley.”

  “Mia.”

  Presley turned to Nice-Looking Cup Holder. “Well, hand Mia a drink, Cole. Have some freakin’ manners!”

  Cole handed a cup to Mia. “I’m Cole. Vodka cran okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Mia took a sip and tried to stifle a cough as the drink went down with a burn. Taking care of her mom hadn’t allowed for much partying.

  “We make ’em strong here at the Lyndon Wyld house,” said Presley with a laugh.

  Grant grabbed the last cup and took a healthy gulp as Cole put his down to lift Mia’s suitcase from the car. He set it next to her.

  “Thank you.” Mia was drawn to his emerald green eyes, which immediately made her feel comfortable, more comfortable than Presley’s overfriendly hug. She noticed a scar above his right brow.

  “We don’t have a pool because we have the ocean right outside our back door,” said Presley, who took the bag of strawberries from Grant with a “good boy” stroke of his hair. “Also, I hear the Wear National house has a pool, and we are nothing like those brand sluts.”

  “I bet Otto Hahn has boned everyone who’s stepped into that pool, and summer’s barely started,” said Grant as he drained his drink.

  “Who’s Otto Hahn?” asked Cole.

  “The revolting founder of Wear National.” Presley shuddered. “He’s older than my daddy.”

  “That’s because your red state parents got married before they had pubes,” remarked Grant.

  “Dude, that’s gross.” Cole shook his head toward Mia.

  “My parents did get hitched young. That’s how we do it where I’m from.” Presley glared at Grant. “In sickness and in health . . . for richer or poorer. Unlike my parents, I say richer.” She laughed, taking a sip from her cup. “Where you from, Mia?”

  “Boston.”

  “Pats all day!” hollered Grant. “Brady is king!”

  “Julian Edelman is the real unsung hero,” countered Mia.

  Grant and Cole looked impressed.

  Mia shrugged. “I like football. Baseball more.”

  “Too bad the Phillies always make the Sox their bitch,” said Grant.

  “Maybe not this season.” Mia grinned. Grant mimed a crotch stroke.

  “I hate sports.” Presley admired her fuchsia nails, causing Mia to glance at her unpolished ones. “I was a cheerleader in high school, but I didn’t watch a minute of the games.”

  “Well, you’d better learn to like them,” said Cole. “I saw a game of touch on tomorrow’s schedule.”

  “Touch? So we’ll all get to know each other better.” Grant raised his eyebrows and smirked.

  Mia and Cole exchanged another glance.

  A black Escalade crunched over the driveway’s gravel. The group moved back onto the lawn as it pulled up, windows tinted, wheels sparkling chrome. The driver—a mountain of a man with a shaved wrecking ball head, wearing a dark suit and sunglasses—got out. A second mountain got out of the back, also in a dark suit, with a slicked ponytail and hands that could crush a skull like a nutcracker. The Escalade’s passenger-side window slid down a crack.

  “Which one of you assholes is gonna try and deflower my baby?” The deep voice was smooth as velvet.

  Wrecking Ball opened the passenger door. Out stepped Maz, music and entertainment mogul, and a brand unto himself, as reflected in his first-name-only moniker. He sauntered up t
o the group, laser-focused on the boys.

  “I will not only kill you. I will kill you once here and then kill you again in front of the parents that spawned you.”

  Grant virtually shit his plaid board shorts, giving Cole, next to him, a side leg tap.

  Maz broke up, laughing. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” He slapped Grant on the back. “My baby can take care of herself. She’s like her mama. Never trust a woman who can’t take care of herself.”

  Presley grinned at Mia, who managed a small smile.

  Grant, simultaneously terrified and awe-struck, squeaked, “Maz. I’m a huge fan.”

  “Damn straight, you are.” Maz ignored Grant’s attempt at a shake.

  Skullcrusher opened the back passenger-side door. The longest legs Mia had ever seen emerged in bright white M-Kat platform kicks. M-Kat was one of Maz’s several brands. When the legs finally ended, they were covered, barely, with Lyndon Wyld shorts. The rest of the statuesque figure revealed herself.

  “Jade,” Presley growled to Mia. “What a joke.” She might as well have had claws.

  Jade’s skin, like her dad’s, was the color of the richest café mocha. Her sensuous features and runway body were all her mom’s, Tatiana Chen, one of the world’s most famous supermodels. Why did she even want this job? Mia thought, smoothing her hair, which now seemed mousy and unremarkably wavy.

  “Can I take a pic with you, Maz?” Grant looked like a five-year-old meeting Santa for the first time.

  “No, my friend, you can’t. This is my Jade’s game.”

  “What’s up?” Jade said to the group, paying more attention to the several trunks Skullcrusher was unloading.

  “Where’s the boss lady?” asked Maz.

  As if on cue, because when Maz called the universe listened, Lyndon Wyld’s white Tesla pulled up with Grace driving and Lyndon in the passenger’s seat. Lyndon got out and with a broad smile, strode over to Maz. The seasonaires froze. Meeting Lyndon Wyld was as epic as meeting Maz. Lyndon and Maz kissed on the cheeks then embraced like family members.