A Hamptons Christmas Read Online Free Page A

with the cab and the money. And local Indians gathered at the Thunder Bird Coffee Shop to protest development along St. Andrews Road, which they claimed infringed on ancient Shinnecock land, culture, and heritage.
When troopers arrested five Shinnecocks, a tribal spokesman issued a stirring and eloquent objection. “This,” he said, “is literally the last buffalo.”
    People who don’t know the Hamptons imagine it’s dull out here in winter. Not hardly.

Chapter Five
    Outside, a light snow fell, the first of the season …
    That afternoon, after a day at my computer editing the book, I drove into the village to stroll down the alley past Ralph Lauren’s boutique for a Pacifico beer at the Blue Parrot Tex-Mex joint ( California- Mex , they insisted). It was staying open only through the Christmas holidays and then the boys – Lee, the majority owner, and Roland, the right-hand man—would be off surfing. This year, to Bali.
    Even out of season, a few of the regulars were already on station, occupying barstools, munching tortilla chips, and knocking back the cerveza and the margaritas, chatting with Kelly the barmaid who was so young she still had braces on her teeth (everyone chatted with Kelly the barmaid; it was required). I got a stool and a Pacifico with a chunk of lime jammed into the bottle and checked out Kelly’s braces.
    â€œThey okay?”
    â€œFine,” Kelly said. “Another few months.”
    Then she nodded toward a table against the wall near a gaudy bullfight poster promising Miura bulls (no shaved horns on those babies!) and several world-famous matadors no one ever heard of. Under the poster, at the little table, was someone who had caught
Kelly’s eye and was not at all a regular. Only person in the bar who was younger than the barmaid.
    She was a skinny little girl in shades (the sort they sell at an airport gift shop to travelers who want to look sophisticated), sitting alone at a good table (“good” tables at the Blue Parrot were in the eye of the beholder), paging through an LIRR timetable while noshing on quesadillas and sipping a Schweppes tonic water in a wide-brimmed, stemmed dry martini glass (her request, according to Kelly, being so much “neater” than an ordinary water tumbler). She was wearing a schoolgirl’s kilted skirt, a classic, shapeless Shetland sweater, knee socks, and Gucci loafers. Her matching Vuitton luggage consisted of a roomy but decidedly chic backpack, a midsized duffle, and a tote. Her parka (anorak, really, if like me you prefer the European term) was by Bogner (she would later inform us there was considerable brand-name loyalty at her school, where one of the late Willi Bogner’s grandchildren was enrolled). Kelly the barmaid brought me another Pacifico and some fresh tortillas and filled me in, superficially, on the kid. As the cerveza went down, I entertained myself by trying to read off the titles of a stack of paperbacks she’d arranged on the table for meal-time browsing: The Sun Also Rises, Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, Gatsby, and Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates by Mary Mapes Dodge. Next to them, a slim IBM laptop and a beat-up old Christmas issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine, set close at hand for easy reference.
    As I watched, the little girl lit a Gitanes and puffed smoke at the railroad timetable she was studying. You weren’t supposed to smoke in the restaurant, but no one complained. Hell, even in season the Parrot is pretty casual about rules. I scanned the rest of the room, taking note of who was around and who not—you know, was Gwyneth Paltrow in town? Brad Pitt? Senator D’Amato? Bill Murray practically made the joint his HQ during the October film festival.
    Mellish was at the bar with a margarita in his oversized paw. He had a place in Hampton Bays and was the smartest man I knew but was forever getting screwed. You know the sort. Whatever he did