Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Celia Jerome
Harbor and me than was healthy. He tried to be attentive and caring, bringing coffee and buns for breakfast, telling me how amazing everyone thought I was, what joy he heard the town took in having a successful writer, a brave heroine as one of their own, how lucky he was to know me. What a great story heâd get out of this visit.
My eyes saw his wide smile. My head saw that wriggling eel on the old table. I told him I changed my mind. I didnât want that kind of publicity. Reviews of my books were one thing, excursions into my private lifeâand Paumanok Harborâsâwere another. He wouldnât listen. Modesty, he told me, couldnât help anyone climb the ladder of fame. So I gave up a little privacy. Every celebrity did.
I replied that I had to help my grandmother at the farm.
No matter what anyone told him about me or Paumanok Harbor, they had to mention my grandmother and the genital warts. No one messed with Eve Garland.
Â
Explaining the fireworks was safe. Ragging on East Hampton Village was always fun for those of us who belonged to East Hampton Township but couldnât use the village beaches, although they could use ours. We also had to pay sky-high school taxes to the village for our high schoolers, without any say in how our kids were educated. And their tourists were snobs, their main street stores were snooty. So we were glad when their Fourth of July celebration got screwed up.
In what might be its most ordinary ritual, Paumanok Harbor always held its festivities on the Fourth, whatever day of the week it happened to be. We had a concert on the village green, then fireworks over the bay beaches. The weather always cooperated. With our resident weather dowsers, it had no choice.
As for our other near neighbors? Southampton had a big parade on the Fourth. Sag Harborâs fire department ran a carnival and a light show for three nights on the nearest weekend. Montauk, as ornery as a wild Western steer, to use my Texan friend Ty Farradayâs expression, had to postpone their fireworks two years in a row due to rain, wind, or fog. So they moved July Fourth to Columbus Day weekend when the weather was still more uncertain and a lot colder, but the fireworks companies charged less. And their Chamber of Commerce, we all figured, decided the last town on the South Fork had enough tourists in early July, but not enough in mid-October. The Montauk Library did hold a huge book fair in the center of town on the Saturday of the long Independence weekend, which clogged up the roads back to Amagansett.
But East Hampton, that beautiful elm-shaded village with its swan pond and windmills and proud colonial history, could not hold a traditional holiday celebration until Labor Day. A certain shore bird nested on the only beach deemed suitable, big enough for the masses of viewers, far enough away from the mansions. Any crowds at Main Beach could step on the hatchling piping plovers; the noise could frighten the parents into abandoning the chicks. And the endangered species regulations forbade endangering the small gray sandpipers until they were hatched, fledged, and on their way.
It wasnât the Boston Pops or a Macyâs Manhattan extravaganza, but East Hampton usually put on a nice show for the end of summer if you liked firecrackers, smoky beach fires, burned marshmallows, and parking miles away.
On our way there, stuck in traffic, Barry wanted to chat about this summerâs horse show at the schoolâs playing field. Paumanok Harbor had hosted Ty Farraday, his Lipizzaner mare, and some other entertainers in a huge fund-raiser to purchase an abandoned ranch.
âMartin said it was spectacular, but he couldnât remember how it ended.â
The equestrian show had ended with the mayor telling the audience of thousands to forget theyâd seen a prancing line of riderless, iridescent white horses rise up in majestic synchronicity, then disappear into the night sky. It
My eyes saw his wide smile. My head saw that wriggling eel on the old table. I told him I changed my mind. I didnât want that kind of publicity. Reviews of my books were one thing, excursions into my private lifeâand Paumanok Harborâsâwere another. He wouldnât listen. Modesty, he told me, couldnât help anyone climb the ladder of fame. So I gave up a little privacy. Every celebrity did.
I replied that I had to help my grandmother at the farm.
No matter what anyone told him about me or Paumanok Harbor, they had to mention my grandmother and the genital warts. No one messed with Eve Garland.
Â
Explaining the fireworks was safe. Ragging on East Hampton Village was always fun for those of us who belonged to East Hampton Township but couldnât use the village beaches, although they could use ours. We also had to pay sky-high school taxes to the village for our high schoolers, without any say in how our kids were educated. And their tourists were snobs, their main street stores were snooty. So we were glad when their Fourth of July celebration got screwed up.
In what might be its most ordinary ritual, Paumanok Harbor always held its festivities on the Fourth, whatever day of the week it happened to be. We had a concert on the village green, then fireworks over the bay beaches. The weather always cooperated. With our resident weather dowsers, it had no choice.
As for our other near neighbors? Southampton had a big parade on the Fourth. Sag Harborâs fire department ran a carnival and a light show for three nights on the nearest weekend. Montauk, as ornery as a wild Western steer, to use my Texan friend Ty Farradayâs expression, had to postpone their fireworks two years in a row due to rain, wind, or fog. So they moved July Fourth to Columbus Day weekend when the weather was still more uncertain and a lot colder, but the fireworks companies charged less. And their Chamber of Commerce, we all figured, decided the last town on the South Fork had enough tourists in early July, but not enough in mid-October. The Montauk Library did hold a huge book fair in the center of town on the Saturday of the long Independence weekend, which clogged up the roads back to Amagansett.
But East Hampton, that beautiful elm-shaded village with its swan pond and windmills and proud colonial history, could not hold a traditional holiday celebration until Labor Day. A certain shore bird nested on the only beach deemed suitable, big enough for the masses of viewers, far enough away from the mansions. Any crowds at Main Beach could step on the hatchling piping plovers; the noise could frighten the parents into abandoning the chicks. And the endangered species regulations forbade endangering the small gray sandpipers until they were hatched, fledged, and on their way.
It wasnât the Boston Pops or a Macyâs Manhattan extravaganza, but East Hampton usually put on a nice show for the end of summer if you liked firecrackers, smoky beach fires, burned marshmallows, and parking miles away.
On our way there, stuck in traffic, Barry wanted to chat about this summerâs horse show at the schoolâs playing field. Paumanok Harbor had hosted Ty Farraday, his Lipizzaner mare, and some other entertainers in a huge fund-raiser to purchase an abandoned ranch.
âMartin said it was spectacular, but he couldnât remember how it ended.â
The equestrian show had ended with the mayor telling the audience of thousands to forget theyâd seen a prancing line of riderless, iridescent white horses rise up in majestic synchronicity, then disappear into the night sky. It
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