Living and Dying in the Hamptons

Living and Dying in the Hamptons

By: T. L. Ingham

For all the people in my life who make me laugh, most especially: my husband, my children, and my closest friends- people who would willingly hide the body!

Living and Dying in the Hamptons

Published By T. L. Ingham at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Tammy L. Ingham

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free ebook, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

About the Author

Living and Dying in the Hamptons

Chapter One

Up until a few weeks ago, my life- though not exactly the dynamic existence I had anticipated after nearly five years of hard work earning my Bachelor of Fine Arts- was at least predictable. Instead of living in the city and selling my artwork to the highest bidders, I had returned home to the upstate New York dairy farm I'd been raised on. Each day consisted of the same chores sunup to sundown, and at night I waited tables at a local diner. I was at a crux: my twenty-sixth birthday was just around the corner, I had been out of school for nearly two years, and even though I had been searching endlessly, I still hadn’t managed to land an internship or any other position in a gallery, museum, or art school. I could not afford to pay my school loans, let alone rent myself an apartment. And I had long since given up on painting.

More importantly, I wasn't talking to ghosts. But I'll get to that.

Let me start at the beginning. It all began when one of my old college professors called me with a job offer. Professor Stanley is a man who travels in much grander circles than I have ever dreamed of. Nightly he sips champagne with the wealthiest and most elite families in the Hamptons and the trendiest artists and collectors in all of New York City. Naturally, when he mentioned a job prospect, I was intrigued. At the same time, I was confused as to why he would be calling me of all people. After all, I was not one of his most celebrated students. In fact, I can still quite clearly remember his devastating evaluation just prior to my graduation. ‘While you possess a unique and interesting eye for color,' he wrote, 'your command with oils is plebian at best. Your water colors, while certainly more than adequate, are hardly remarkable, although your sketches and charcoal drawings do have an eye-catching quality. In short, you might be more suited to the commerce aspects of the art world, rather than the artistic one that you may have intended.’ To say I was crushed would be a major understatement. While I had never considered myself this year’s Gauguin, I certainly hadn’t thought of myself as 'plebian.' So this offer, while it seemed like the answer to my prayers, had me baffled.

Still, I was desperate, so I jumped at the opportunity and headed to Southampton to the Darcy Stillwell Fine Art Gallery for the interview. My professor had assured me that there were no guarantees regarding my hiring, but I was still hopeful. It had been the first sincere offer I'd had not just in two years, but ever. Gathering my portfolio, filled with examples of some of the work I had done throughout my time at school, I left my house at six in the morning in order to make the just under three hour drive from the small town of Pawling, where I lived, to the gallery in White Falls. I was brimming with confidence- nervousness- nausea- insecurity. Whatever.

I was directed to the office of a very stunning lady and for the first time I questioned every decision I had ever made that had led me to this moment. This woman was glamorous in a way that only Hollywood could manage, and she seemed a bit out of place because of it. Her dark hair was so perfectly coiffed, I doubted even one hair would dare to slip out of place, and her piercing blue eyes were carefully outlined with coal black liner and mascara. The royal blue dress she wore brought out the color of her eyes, and while it was definitely business attire, it also managed to look classy and stylish in a way I could never hope to achieve. In comparison, I felt dowdy.

She strode around the desk and put out one perfectly manicured, delicate hand, which I shook carefully, suddenly hyperaware of my many calluses, blisters, and more than a few chipped nails. (Hey, don't judge me- I work on a dairy farm remember? Plus I fill in as a dishwasher on slow nights at the diner. Is it my fault these activities damage my hands?)

Her eyes swept me up and down and as she spoke in a melodious British accent, "Darling, pinstripes, really? What were you thinking?"

I glanced down at the pant suit that I had felt so confident putting on this morning. I loved this suit. This was my power suit. It consisted of slacks and a matching blazer, black with gray pinstripes, paired with a white silk blouse.

And rayon?

Okay, rayon. But it looked like silk. To me. Either way, I had felt fashionable, businesslike, powerful, pinstripey. I had felt large and in charge- until now.

She sighed. She acted as if I had personally insulted her with my choice of clothing. Looking me over once more she said, How tall are you, dear?

Looking down at her miniscule height from my towering five foot ten, (and I was wearing flats), I realized she couldn’t have been much more than five foot, because even now, (in her five inch stiletto heels) I still had several inches on her.

Five ten, without heels, I told her, feeling like an Amazon. I’m not even sure why I answered her question, other than the fact that I was completely baffled. After all, what did physical stature, or clothing choice, have to do with the job requirements? This wasn’t a modeling agency.

Or was it? Had I accidentally walked into the wrong place? No. I distinctly remembered the receptionist having had my name on her calendar of appointments. Unless- had I called the wrong number in the first place?

My dear girl, when one is as tall as you are, you should not attempt to hide it. On the other hand, you should also not flaunt it, not unless you intend to run about in animal skins and carry a spear. You don’t do you? She cocked one artfully sculpted brow at me. I couldn’t help but to compare it with my own thick, unruly ones. I made a mental note to make an appointment ASAP for a brow-waxing.

Judging by the x-ray vision once more perusing my form, I thought maybe some other waxing might be a good idea while I was at it. Did she suspect I wore pants to hide my leg hair? (It was a suspicion that I would be hard pressed not to substantiate, since lately, shaving had been the least of my concerns. The cows didn’t care, so what did I care if I sported enough hair to make a caveman blush?) Suddenly, I was convinced that she didn't just suspect; she knew.

She tsked her tongue three times against perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. (A lot of money had gone into that mouth. Certainly braces. No doubt bleaching. Possibly filing. So much for the British oral hygiene myth.) Stepping a little closer to me, she grabbed the hank of hair that hung listlessly from my ponytail. I suddenly had the image of my father inspecting horses that he was considering buying. And I didn’t like it.

How dare this perfect human specimen judge me? I was infuriated! Just because she had Botoxed her forehead and laugh lines to the point that her face had become a frozen mask of perfection. Just because her chestnut hair fell in perfect waves, framing a heart shaped face and drawing attention to the high cheekbones and rosy pink apples of her cheeks- which I had no doubt had been surgically enhanced- at her age (somewhere in her late forties to early fifties) there was no way those puppies would be so plump. She must have had some of the fat sucked out of her butt or thighs and reapplied there. Just because all of her features seemed to align in goddess-like perfection, it didn’t make my own homespun, girl next door look so bad, did it? Did it?

I yanked my ponytail from her grasping fingers, fully intending to give her a scathing lecture, when she said, Well, there’s a lot to do. But I feel confident we can work with you.

Work with me? My eyes narrowed suspiciously. What do you mean, ‘work with me?’

She had already turned away and was moving around her desk with an elegant grace I could never possess. She flipped a hand in my direction. Don’t you worry. Once we get you dressed properly and do something about those eyebrows and hair, you’ll be just fine.

I had had it up to there and then some. We, I grated, are not doing anything about my hair. And what exactly is wrong with my hair and the way I dress? I left the eyebrows out. Even I had to concede they were awful.

Her eyes widened (as much as possible past the Botox anyway). Oh, my dear girl, I didn’t mean to insult you!

"Would you please stop calling me that? That pretentious dear and darling stuff was starting to get on my last nerve. My name is Sigreid."

I’m sorry, did you say-? My word! Sigreid? Obviously stunned, she plopped- in a very unladylike fashion I might add- down into her chair. As in, ‘and Roy?’

"That’s Sig-freid. I’m Si-greid," I hissed through clenched teeth. Now my name wasn’t good enough? After my grandmother.

My grandmother was Astrid, but my parents didn’t see fit to saddle me with such a burden. I always wonder, what possesses people to do that? I mean, honestly, how many Gertrude's and Mavis’s do you meet on a daily basis? Under the age of ninety anyway.

Nevertheless, my parents saddled me with it. Apparently, they weren’t as concerned with social convention as you are.

Apparently, she agreed complacently, utterly oblivious to the admonishment. Oh, well. It is what it is, and however much we may want to, we cannot change your name. She looked at me hopefully.

No, we cannot.

No, of course not, my dear, she acquiesced, though it was apparent she was disappointed. I don’t suppose you have some sort of nickname you go by? And please, for the love of God, don’t tell me your friends call you Siggy. You know, like that cartoon man with the giant head?

It took me a minute. That’s Ziggy.

Yes, well, either way. It makes me think of a lizard.

I failed to make the connection.

The one whose name sounds like Ziggy.

I was still drawing a blank.

You know- the one on the car insurance commercials.

That’s a gecko.

No, then, that’s not it. Is it the one that changes colors?

Chameleon?

Hmmm. No.

Now for some reason, unbeknownst even to me, I was drawn into it. Salamander? Iguana? Gila monster?

No, I think it’s the dragon one.

Komodo?

Yes! That’s it!

In what world does Ziggy sound like Komodo?

Komodo sounds like Kimono which makes me thing of Geisha, which is probably where I picked up the gecko from. But anyway, that makes me think of the Geisha makeup where their faces are very round and prominent, just like that cartoon man. He could be a Geisha.

With a girdle maybe, I muttered, to which she responded, Exactly!

Uh-huh. That’s all I had.

So anyway, she said, picking up the leather binder that lay before her, what do your friends call you?

Not Ziggy, that was for sure. Most of my friends call me Reid. Not that I was currently burdened with dozens of friends. There were one or two classmates from college who still kept in touch, though their lives were so busy with their new careers that communication was sporadic at best. Oh my God, I was a loser. Pathetic.

Reid. She tried it on for size. I like it. It has a certain powerful quality. Much better than Sigreid, which only calls to mind milk and gingerbread cookies. Or maybe molasses. Then, finally changing the subject, she said, Let’s get down to business. Are you available to start today? After all, we have so much more to do than even I had anticipated.

I wasn’t sure what to say. So far I had been critiqued, insulted, and found lacking. I had encountered none of the conventions one normally experienced during job interviews: no job description, no talk about job responsibilities, salary, benefits, requirements, credentials, nothing at all aside from this preliminary examination of my physical appearance. And to be quite honest I was not at all certain that I liked this woman. Actually, I wasn’t certain that I didn’t hate her. But the thought of going back home, facing my parents, and admitting defeat once more kept me there.

Moving to the chair opposite her desk, I settled into it, keenly aware of the delicate Queen Anne frame. It made me feel even more bulky than ever. Not that I was bulky per se. I had too many years of strenuous physical activity under my belt to be even slightly fat. I was all muscle, but with my height and my Scandinavian build, I was sturdy to say the least. Not fragile like this woman across from me. Or her furniture.

Wonderful! she exclaimed, taking my motion as compliance. My name is Pia Darcy-Stillwell. My husband is Bernard Stillwell. As you must certainly already know, he is a successful businessman and investor. (I did not.) Because his various business enterprises keep him traveling quite frequently, he allowed me to open my little gallery so that I might not become bored during his absences. The gallery has been running for a little over five years now and in such a short time has accumulated a rather prestigious clientele. Certainly, some of these were referred to me by my husband’s many business contacts, but I am proud to say our exemplary reputation has produced at least as many, if not more, clients. What I am trying to say is- image is everything. It is therefore imperative that my personal assistant exhibits just as polished an image as I do. Do you see what I mean?

"Personal assistant?" I squawked.

Yeeees, she nodded slowly, drawing the word out as if she were talking to some mentally deficient person.

But- but I thought- I thought this was a... I was at a loss for words.

Spit it out, dear. You thought it was a what?

An internship?

I suppose you could call it that. But I like anyone I hire to be personally trained by me. So what better way than to start you as my personal assistant and then from there we’ll see where everything goes. Darling, I can hardly hire you as an intern when you don’t even know my personal taste, now can I?

No, I guess not. Her personal assistant. This is not what I had been prepared for. I had thought that I might start as an intern under another buyer, or even someone on the sales floor. But her assistant? Coffee girl, note-taker, photo-copier, 'Here I am at your beck and call girl?' Not prepared.

Now I thought we might begin today with a little polishing. We’ll start with some shopping, maybe some lunch, and then a quick trip to the spa. Sound good? She was already rising from her chair eagerly.

No, no, I can’t! I nearly shouted. I mean, couldn’t I just start as I am, and then kind of change things a little at a time?

Pia pinned me with a piercing stare. I thought you understood what I was trying so delicately to explain. Now I can see that I shall have to be more frank.

She couldn't have been more frank if her last name was Sinatra. She had been about as delicate as a baseball bat wielded by Barry Bonds. Everything about me was wrong. All wrong. Not even in the neighborhood of right. She couldn't have pounded the facts home more efficiently if she'd used a sledge hammer.

And yet she felt the need to elucidate. My dear, I could not possibly take you onto my gallery floor, let alone out to any public appearances, looking the way you do. You look as if you just dragged yourself off a cattle ranch.

Dairy farm, actually.

Close enough. (In her book maybe, but my father could make some pretty extreme arguments.) What you need is a complete overhaul before we can even get down to the business of, well, business. She sat back in her chair, awaiting my response.

Finally I said, "What I don’t get is, if I am so wrong for this position, then why go through all of this?