Beach Lane by Melissa de La Cruz Read Free Book Online Page B

remember to ask Madison who this Camille was and why she was sent away.
    “Don’t they have a chef?” Mara asked. She had observed enough servants around the property.
    “Uh-huh. Cordon Bleu. But he doesn’t do kiddie meals apparently. It’s probably below him.” Eliza shrugged. She was used to handling difficult help. Laurent, their former French chef, refusedto cook anything other than five-star meals. He would throw a tantrum when her dad demanded a well-done steak. Her mother eventually had to replace him with someone more flexible.
    “Hey, did anyone see the rest of the ahi?” Eliza asked.
    “There’s just this itty piece,” Mara said.
    Jacqui shrugged. She’d found a six-pack of beer underneath the soda cans and had helped herself to one. “Miller Lite?” she offered.
    Eliza shook her head. She unwrapped all the waxed paper packages in a panic, but they all contained ground meat. Apparently Anna had decided not to waste the precious tuna on the likes of them.
    The reality of her status finally sank in: she had been installed in an attic room instead of the corner bedroom. Fed burgers instead of tuna steak. She wasn’t a guest on the Perry estate. Eliza Thompson, former “it girl,” was now the help.

main beach: you can only keep eliza down for so long
    THE BEACH WAS AS CROWDED AS CENTRAL PARK DURING a Dalai Lama blessing or a free White Stripes concert. The fireworks show had begun, and as rockets whizzed up to the heavens, Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony thundered from temporary overhead speakers. Stylish picnickers popping champagne corks and feasting on three-pound lobsters sat on checkered tablecloths and sent fuzzy photos via their cell phones to provide latecomers with location coordinates. Almost no one looked up. They had better things to do, like blanket-hop to exchange effusive double-cheek air kisses and discreetly check out each other’s flowered Murakami handbags.
    The three au pairs secured a place on top of the hill, primo real estate, thanks to Eliza’s pushiness. She found them a postage-stamp-sized area bordered by two identical silk jacquard blankets and managed to expand their territory by letting Cody cry his lungs out as the rockets boomed. Nothing like an irritable toddler to motivate self-involved single Hamptonites to get out of the way.
    Mara couldn’t help but overhear some of the chatter around them.
    “How’s the black truffle ravioli?” a woman asked her guests as she handed out monogrammed china filled with plump, glistening pasta and smothered with a white cream sauce.
    “Superb. And the cervelle de canut is divine with this Reisling.”
    “Did someone bring the opera glasses?” another asked, motioning for a pair of binoculars.
    She had never seen anyone picnic like this before. Back home, picnics meant a couple of sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a liter of soda. Not a four-course menu with a different wine accompaniment for each entrée. Wresting her eyes away from the neighboring sheets, Mara turned back to her own group.
    “Madison, where did you find that candy bar?” she asked.
    Madison looked up guiltily and stuffed the entire Snickers bar in her mouth for fear of having it taken away. Mara shook her head. She would have to find out where the kid hid her stash or they were all dead. She did a quick head count. One, two, three . . . That couldn’t be right. “William! Eliza, Jacqui, have you seen William?!” she asked.
    The two shrugged indifferently.
    “You guys stay here; I’ll try to find him,” Mara said, beginning to panic. She walked carefully around the perimeter, calling his name as softly as she could. “William?” she whispered. “William? Where are you?”
    “Sorry, sorry,” she said, tiptoeing by an uproarious group ofclean-cut guys in matching khaki pants and Teva sandals, puffing on cigars as they cheered the spectacle in the sky.
    “No worries. Why don’t you join us?” one asked, offering her a plastic cup filled with