Through the high sea grass that lined the deck ahead, the young woman completed the artistry with her expensive mouth. She then ran back to the party, her short silk romper outlining her curvy legs and water balloon breasts, as the man disappeared to the darkened beach below.
Luke said, “All good, all fine.” The men walked up the stairs, while the guards muttered to themselves.
“I think we should figure out who the guy was,” said Kona. “I got a nose for bad stuff and I’m telling you . . . sicko preppy pervert.”
On the expansive deck overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, a sea of kelly green and Tweety-bird yellow now greeted Luke and Kona, as if they had suddenly walked onto a life-size board of Candy Land. Orange and pink weather balls were strung across the pool. Waiters meandered through the throngs with cantaloupe mojitos curated to match the guests.
The guys didn’t know where to move first, as wealthy summer people converged in tight, impermeable circles. On the couches, a media CEO who had just merged his company with a telecommunications giant pontificated gleefully about spineless antitrust legislation. And inside, a black artist, dressed in a Gucci bomber jacket, track pants, and snakeskin Balenciaga high-tops, mesmerized a crowd about his blockbuster show in Chelsea. While waxing on about cultural signifiers, his devotees jockeyed to secure one of his tar-covered sculptures they knew would triple in value by next summer.
Luke and Kona walked strategically around the herd of partygoers toward the bar, the drink less important to them than their dire need to look occupied and purposeful. This kind of money would make anyone nervous. Luke tapped his toe impatiently. “Like I predicted, we don’t know anyone.” The wind turned slightly, and they got a whiff of the wood burnt pizzas the celebrity chef created in the Chases’ new outdoor pizza oven.
“Relax, man,” answered Kona, grabbing a slice with heirloom baby artichokes and truffle shavings. “We look fine, professional.” Of course “professional” to these two meant they had “a job,” such as running a water sports venture in summer. In winter, Kona worked as a Hawaiian landscaper and Luke, a part-time marine biology teacher. To everyone else at the party, “a job” meant “own, run, or be the majority stockholder in a multinational conglomerate.”
“C’mon,” whispered Kona, glaring into the crowd before him. “Let’s nail the lecherous guy in the grass.”
Luke and Kona waded around huge floor pillows covered in Mexican tapestries, an attempt by Julia Chase to make the “intimate” affair for one hundred and fifty guests seem thrown together and casual. The party planner had charged the Chases a twenty-eight-thousand-dollar design bill just to get the “bohemian” décor on paper, fifty-five thousand dollars for a tent complete with Latin American planters flown in from Belize, and a sixty-four-thousand-dollar food and beverage bill that included a shellfish taco bar with several handsome servers hacking open stone crabs flown in from Florida. The Kobe beef sliders and the hip-hop Pandora station pumping in the background helped boost the Chases’ bourgeois self-delusion that they were playing it down.
“C’mon, Luke, let’s cop some drinks,” Kona demanded, suddenly fed up with feeling inferior. He grabbed two pink, girly shot glasses from a passing waiter who looked annoyed they considered themselves guests.
“Doesn’t it look like an airport hangar, all the glass and steel?” Luke asked, noticing how the ten-thousand-square-foot house lit up the sky. “If I had fifty million dollars, I think I’d build something that looked like a home where people actually watch TV, fuck, and sleep.”
Kona elbowed Luke, saying, “Hot babe at nine o’clock.” On their left, a married mother of four brushed her butt into a best-selling author’s side, as she gobbled her meal for the night, three radishes from the crudité tray.
Minutes later, Julia Chase spotted Luke and Kona lying back on loungers by the pool, several black cod ceviche crisps they’d hoarded balancing on their thighs. As they chomped, she appeared before them like a Missoni mermaid, with a long knit skirt in shades of peach that strategically matched the setting sun. A slinky white silk tank top left no one guessing as to her nipple size and shape: half-dollar sized, coffee-with-cream in color, and showing the beginnings of chilly air.
“Kona, Luke, there’s so many people who want to meet real surfers!” Julia’s blond curls framed her beautiful, angular face, and her lips were permanently poised as if to whistle. “Let me introduce you.” She blew out her breath slowly.