RELATIONSHIP STATUS REWIND #4: THE DECISION
Pembrooke wakes at sunrise. She stretches, yawns, pieces back together last night in her mind: The Yale crew kicking it at a trendy Hamptons club almost as hard as they did when they were still at school. Slow dancing with Church to some corny 90s song and never wanting it to end. Maggie grinding on a guy who definitely had to use a fake ID to get into the place. Ben and Talia offering a constant stream of East Coast-West Coast comparisons via their L.A.-transplant perspective. Peter telling it like it is as always, providing a refreshing blast of honesty.
She sits up, gets out of bed, walks over to the window. The view is spectacular, the sun’s first rays glittering like diamonds on the water. This giant old house—which Church’s family refers to as a “cottage” even though mansion would be more descriptive—never ceases to amaze her. Ditto for the fact that it’s been passed down for generations, and is stuffed with priceless formal antiques and art to prove it.
Nothing about the Hamptons is anything like the beach vacations Pembrooke took growing up, when she and her parents would crowd into a small rented bungalow for a week in Ogunquit, Maine. She’d laze the days away at the shoreline, reading book after book and sticking her toes in the water whenever they got hot. Even in July, the ocean was often still cold enough to take her breath away. Surprising, she thinks, how well she and Church fit together having such different upbringings.
Pembrooke pads down the grand staircase to the kitchen, trying to avoid the squeaky bottom step. She knows by now her friends won’t be up for hours if left undisturbed, sleeping in always their choice whenever feasible. No matter how hard she tries, Pembrooke wakes with sun regardless of how late the evening festivities have gone. Last night it was 3:00 am. She hasn’t bothered to get dressed yet, opting to linger a while longer in the comfort of Church’s soft gray v-neck tee and her underwear. No one is awake to see her anyhow.
She takes a few scoops of coffee and deposits them into the ancient coffee maker. Fills the carafe with water and pours it into the reservoir. Flips the switch to on. The machine comes to life, burbling and bubbling obnoxiously. Pembrooke wonders why Church’s family doesn’t spring for a new espresso machine or at very least a Keurig. Her friends will not appreciate being woken up by a crappy old Mr. Coffee.
Thankfully no one stirs, despite the ruckus she’s unintentionally making. Mug of java in hand, Pembrooke heads outside to the sweeping wrap-around porch. Besides the seagulls and a few try-hards who are already out for a morning jog, she has the beach all to herself. She inhales and stares out at the horizon, fast-forwarding ten years ahead: Church the VI making a sand castle or collecting shells as she keeps a careful watch on him, bouncing little sister Penelope in her lap. She smiles to herself at the fantasy future, convinced it is more likely than not an actual depiction of what is to come.
A familiar voice interrupts her reverie. “Enjoying the morning, I see.”
Pembrooke jumps to her feet when she realizes who it is: Mr. Smith. Church’s dad. Churchhill Langhorne the IV. Who she, Talia and Maggie nicknamed Quatre—which is French for four, pronounced cat-ruh—back in college. Quatre was soon shortened to Cat and then to Fat Cat, a nickname the girls now exclusively refer to him as when Church is not around. Fat Cat has always intimidated the hell out of Pembrooke and today is no exception.
Especially since at the moment she’s wearing only Church’s shirt and lacy boyshorts. Nothing else. No bra, no shorts, no sweatpants, no sweatshirt, absolutely nothing appropriate. She pulls at the hem of the shirt to cover her underwear, which only succeeds in revealing more of her cleavage. To make matters worse, a cool breeze has kicked up, which along with Fat Cat’s typical chilly reception has given her major goose bumps. So now she has complete nipple-age along with being close to naked. Mortifying.
“Oh! Yes! It’s so beautiful here,” Pembrooke stammers, an arm across her breasts and a hand pulling the shirt as long as it will go. She guesses Fat Cat drove in from the city the night before, got in after they went to the bar, and was asleep by the time they got home. She prays he didn’t hear what went on in the bedrooms once they did. “I’m sorry, I would have gotten dressed had I known other people were up.”
Fat Cat thankfully stares out at the water and not at her over-exposed body. “Church didn’t mention I’d be here today? It’s opening weekend, Memorial Day. Haven’t missed one in years.”
“I…I’m sure he must’ve and I forgot,” she replies, insides turning to Jello. What was it about Church’s family that always makes her feel like Cinderella—a poor, unwanted waif who snuck into the royal ball?
Fat Cat gazes back at the girl his son has been dating for almost seven years now. She’s certainly pleasant enough. Pretty. Smart, too. But is she really “the one” for such a handsome, brilliant, charismatic guy? The jury is still out in his opinion. “I’m taking Church, Peter and Ben to the club for a round of golf this morning,” he informs her.