Making Waves Read online

  Making Waves is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Laura Moore

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  ISBN 9780425284827

  Ebook ISBN 9780425284834

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Eileen Carey

  Cover photographs: Ute Klaphake/Trevillion Images (woman), Moof/Getty Images (background)

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Laura Moore

  About the Author

  “Maniac” blared from the front pocket of Dakota Hale’s zipped hoodie. She ignored it. Whoever had invented designated ringtones was a veritable genius.

  “That’s call number four,” Rae observed, exchanging a sponge for a micro-duster. Rae was doing the Friday shift with Dakota, a marathon of house preps, errands, and inspections before the owners arrived for the long weekend.

  It was the fifth time Piper had called, and that wasn’t including the quick conversation they’d had earlier this morning, but who was counting?

  Dakota replied with a noncommittal hmm and continued stocking the Ellsworths’ kitchen from the grocery bags that were next to her sock-clad feet. Ron and Myrna and their three kids had a weakness for Doritos and huge bottles of Diet Coke. She hoped their diet was healthier in New York City than when they came out to their East Hampton country home.

  “You suppose it’s an emergency?”

  Rae Diaz, the oldest of six children, had a heart of gold.

  “Of course it is.” Dakota opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator and placed two boxes of spaghetti—never linguini, because Ron had a thing about only eating spaghetti—next to a bag of white rice. “Everything’s an emergency with Piper. She can’t find her new sunglasses. It’s an emergency. She’s forgotten her password to her favorite shopping site. A major crisis. Her favorite dress isn’t hanging where it should be. Time to call the cops.” She kept her tone light and amused as she rattled off a carefully edited list of items that Piper routinely treated as an SOS.

  “You’d think she’d figure out that Fridays are our busiest days.”

  Dakota shrugged. “The concept of work doesn’t register with her.” She placed a bag of Italian-roast coffee beans front and center on the shelf, where it would be easily spotted. “If it’s really urgent, she’ll leave a message.” She shut the cabinet door firmly. “I’m teaching her the concept of boundaries.”

  “Good luck with that, girlfriend. We have three more houses to go. She may set a personal record just to show you what she thinks of boundaries.”

  As if on cue, “Maniac” began again.

  With an I-told-you-so lift of her brows, Rae shimmied her hips, twirled her dust cloth in the air, and pranced across the ceramic-tile floor in a fairly decent imitation of Jennifer Beals to give the gleaming glass doors of the double wall oven a final swipe. Rae had been dancing a lot today.

  And Dakota had been gritting her teeth and refusing to press the answer button on her phone. The obvious solution would have been to turn it off, except then she’d have been unavailable to the people who did need to reach her—her employees and clients. Premier Service, the concierge business Dakota had started four years ago, was founded on the premise of being available to clients and providing exceptional service. If they wanted something, Premier Service was there to provide it. For Dakota, solving any problems her staff might encounter on the job was equally important. Impossible to do if she couldn’t answer their calls.

  Repeating the word “boundaries” to herself, she opened the refrigerator door and scanned its contents, double-checking that in addition to the Diet Coke there were two bottles of champagne chilling to accompany the appetizers she’d picked up at Loaves & Fishes, a gourmet food shop in Sagaponack, which sold everything from flaky croissants to boeuf bourguignon to assorted salads and sides for the beach crowd.

  Next she inspected the freezer and made sure the pints of cookie-dough-and-chocolate ice cream for the kids were fresh—no freezer-burned contents to gross out the young Ellsworths—and aligned neatly on the top shelf.

  She’d brought up two bottles of a Bordeaux from the temperature-controlled wine cellar in the basement—Ron’s pride and joy—to go with the entrée and the dessert of chocolate mousse—Myrna’s favorite.

  All good with the food and booze.

  Turning around, she adjusted one of the daisies in the vase she’d placed in the middle of the counter, then surveyed the rest of the kitchen. Everything was in its place and spotless, as with the other rooms in the sprawling home.

  “Our work is done here. On to the Morrisseys,” she told Rae.

  “Okay, boss.”

  While Rae stored the dust cloth and cleaning products in the utility closet, Dakota scooped up the empty canvas shopping totes and from her leather hobo bag fished out the bundle of keys for the day’s visits. Together they walked to the front door, where Dakota stepped into her Uggs and Rae her clogs. Then Dakota punched in the security code she knew by heart; the Ellsworths were long-standing clients. The alarm system on, Rae opened the front door, and she and Dakota stepped out of the house, whose design always made Dakota think of children’s building blocks stacked haphazardly and then held together with clear packing tape. It was not an uncommon architectural style for the Hamptons. After all, fabulous wealth didn’t mean good taste. But at least the Ellsworths’ home was hidden by trees and not sitting exposed, smack dab in what used to be a potato field, like so many other Hamptons properties.

  “Maniac” sounded again.

  “Will she never quit? You know, I used to love that song.” Rae’s tone was mournful.

  “I’ll find another one for her,” Dakota promised.

  “Don’t bother. Piper and ‘Maniac’ are forever linked. Besides, switching ringtones will only ruin another great tune.”

  I
t was one thing to ignore people who couldn’t control their speed-dial impulse. Annoying her smart, dependable employees was not good business practice, and Rae was her very best.

  With an inward sigh, Dakota resigned herself to her fate. She’d simply have to stay calm and refuse to get swept up in whatever drama Piper was currently starring in.

  Wise words, but often difficult to put into practice.

  “Right. You drive to the Morrisseys, I’ll call Piper.”

  “Excellent plan.”

  She tossed Rae the keys to her old Toyota Land Cruiser. Rae caught them and climbed in behind the steering wheel while Dakota settled herself in the passenger seat.

  “I can only imagine what it’s like, dealing with her,” Rae said. “But she does have her good points. She can be funny as hell.”

  “I know she can.” Maybe she’d luck out and catch Piper in a humorous mood. One that wasn’t cringe-worthy.

  “But,” Rae continued, “if she’s calling because she wants to wheedle another free cleaning out of Premier, you hand that cell over to me, stat. I’ll set her straight. Because that is just wrong.”

  Dakota pretended to laugh along with her.

  Since Piper often spent the day with a phone attached to her ear, she answered immediately. “Hello?”

  “It’s me. I saw you called.”

  “Dakota, I’ve been trying you for ages!”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I’m at work.”

  “Your clients, they take up so much of your time.”

  “Yeah, they can be funny like that.” Dakota stared out the window as the car sped past oak scrub with the occasional spindly pine breaking through the brown canopy. Every few thousand feet a driveway cut into the woods, a pebbled or sandy drive marked by a small white wooden sign with black lettering—hands down the Hamptons’ favorite style—and the house number. Rae was driving east. Soon she cut across Route 27 to the coveted area known as “south of the highway,” where tall elms stood and, closer to the ocean, the narrow roads were bordered by potato and corn fields, and privet hedges screened the multimillion-dollar houses within. Whether north or south of the highway, every house she and Rae passed represented potential customers. Dakota was determined to add as many of them as she possibly could and expand the business she’d built.

  But it was October. Already the Hamptons had an abandoned feel to them. While she loved the uncongested roads and quieter tempo of the off-season, the businesswoman in her worried about making payroll.

  Her mind on the upcoming slow months, she went on, “There’s nothing wrong with being busy when you run a business, Piper. It’s much better than the alternative.”

  Piper made a sound that conveyed her complete disinterest in the topic of Dakota’s work—successful or not. “Have you tried that eye cream I told you about?”

  Piper’s new favorite serum made Iranian beluga caviar look cheap. “No, not yet.”

  “I’m sure it would help. You look so—”

  Since she really didn’t want to hear how tired she looked, Dakota quickly asked, “Was there a reason you called?”

  “Oh God, yes! It’s the worst, Dakota. I can’t believe it. What will everyone say?”

  Dakota pressed the acupressure points below her brows. “And we’re talking about…?”

  “Elliott, of course. He sold the house without even telling us. Mimi’s fit to be tied. How could he do this? What was he thinking?”

  Elliott was Piper and Mimi’s older brother. Upon their mother’s death, he’d inherited the family manse, Windhaven, a six-bedroom shingled “cottage” near the end of West End Road in East Hampton that came with a guest house, pool, manicured lawns, and mature plantings. The property was further graced with sweeping views of the ocean on one side and the tranquility of Georgica Pond on the other. In the hotbed of the Hamptons real estate world, Windhaven would command top dollar.

  “Well, he did say maintaining Windhaven was becoming too time-consuming.” Which was Elliott-speak for the house being too great a financial burden. Admitting that something was no longer affordable wasn’t in the family’s vocabulary.

  “Yes, but I didn’t believe he’d actually go and sell our family home! Surely he could have come up with an alternative.”

  Not if he needed a large infusion of cash. The stock market had taken some serious hits recently, and that might have shaken the investors in the Templar Group, the hedge fund Elliott managed. If they’d grown nervous and decamped, he might have been left scrambling. But mentioning the topic of Elliott’s finances, his unlucky investment strategies, or anything that hinted at the waning of her family’s fortunes would only ramp up Piper’s agitation. Better to stick to the immediate mini-crisis at hand.

  “I’m sorry. Really I am,” she said, opting for a palliative response. “I know you liked the house.”

  “I loved it. There’s no place like Windhaven on the East End. Or anywhere. An enduring symbol of my family’s history is gone, gone forever.” Piper was obviously in a Scarlett O’Hara kind of mood. “Mimi’s beside herself, absolutely furious.”

  “Yes. You mentioned that. Do you know who bought it?”

  “Elliott may have told me. Some nouveau riche type.”

  Dakota’s sympathy dipped toward the empty mark. “Well, again, that’s too bad about the house. I’ll call tomorrow—”

  “You have to come over today. Mimi’s driving out. You know what she’s like. After five minutes I’ll be exhausted, and I have a dinner with Duncan tonight. I want to be at my best for him.” Duncan Harding was Piper’s latest lover. They’d met at the Southampton Social Club, a trendy restaurant and dance club.

  Dakota’s surfboard was strapped to the Land Cruiser’s roof. A gear bag holding her wetsuit and neoprene booties sat in the trunk. She’d been hoping to head out to Montauk after work and catch some waves.

  “Pretty please, Dakota? I need you,” Piper said with a sweetness that never failed to exasperate, since it was only employed for one purpose.

  And yet she gave in. Again. Irritated with herself as much as with Piper, she asked in a clipped tone, “What time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “I’ll try to make it.”

  “Oh, good. I knew I could count on you. I love you, sweets.”

  Even though it was expected and tacitly demanded, Dakota’s reply was nonetheless sincere. “Love you, too, Piper.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Can you pick up a bottle of vodka? Mimi will be wanting her martinis.”

  “Sure.” As Piper’s requests went, this one was easy.

  Disconnecting, Dakota stared at the blank screen and wondered how long she would have to hear about the latest family tragedy.

  Rae’s voice jolted her out of her abstraction. “So, how was Mommie Dearest?”

  The last three visits on the day’s schedule didn’t take long. At one, an indoor pool heater needed to be switched on so that the water would be at the stipulated seventy-five degrees upon the owners’ arrival. The couple also liked to have their bed turned down, fresh flowers set on each of their bedside tables, and the fire laid in the fireplace, ready for the match. Another property had several newly planted specimen trees that required watering. Then Dakota had to check that the handyman she’d hired had installed the shelving in the garage per the owner’s instructions. At the last house—a converted barn in Wainscott—all that was required was a vacuuming and dusting and for the extra glassware to be wiped with cloths and set out on the sideboard. The owners were throwing a party on Saturday night. Serious foodies, David and Nina Greenfield did their own shopping and cooking. But they’d hired Rae, along with Lupe and Jarrett, two other employees of Dakota’s, to work the party. With the Hamptons’ social whirlwind dying down, it would provide a nice chunk of change for the three of them.

  At each house Dakota left a complimentary vase of flowers for her clients, each arrangement coordinated to match the interior.

  The ease of the last three jobs made it d
ifficult for Dakota’s mind not to wander back to her mother and their conversation. Piper Hale was many things. A beautiful social butterfly, she flitted from one Hamptons scene to the next, with the odd dash into the city for a party that was sure to end up in the style section of the Times or better yet, “Page Six” of the Post.

  She was also a drama queen par excellence. But for all Piper’s over-the-top declarations, Dakota knew her mother must truly be upset over the sale of Windhaven. First and foremost, it would be embarrassing to face the inevitable questions about why her older brother had sold the house that had belonged to the Hales for generations. And it was where Piper had grown up. Its rooms, which carried the tangy scent of the sea, were also filled with memories. According to Piper, they were good ones.

  Except, of course, for the prolonged period reminiscent of winter in Siberia, beginning with Piper’s announcement that she was expecting but couldn’t name the man who’d impregnated her and continuing when she went against her parents’ wishes by keeping the baby. Even after the birth of her child, the freeze endured. Such was the wrath of the Hales.

  Since Dakota was the flesh-and-blood reminder of Piper’s filial defiance, she had no fond memories of Windhaven to mourn. No birthday parties were thrown for her by doting grandparents. Thanksgiving meant being shunted to the end of the table, yet even from that distance, her grandfather’s disapproving glare and her grandmother’s audible sniffs reached her.

  For all the lights and tinsel and cups of heavily spiked eggnog imbibed by the adults, Christmas was an equally stiff affair, with everyone in attendance—Piper and Dakota included—pretending not to notice the disparity between the single gift Dakota received and the colorful boxes with her cousins’ names scrawled on the tags. Except for its size, Dakota’s present from her grandparents never varied: a Fair Isle sweater in an improbable pink. Since they’d failed to deny her existence, they were determined to disguise her. As if having her don a preppy sweater might make her pale skinned, blue-eyed, and blond, like them.