“Alexei, Alexei Nikolaevich,” Lucie whispered as she held him, wondering why he always wanted to be called by the name of a tragic young hemophiliac prince. As her fingers ran through the soft hair on the back of Cecil’s head, she suddenly imagined she was stroking George’s silky hair while he kissed her. Wildly, slowly, as the memory of his mouth all over her came rushing back so vividly.

CHAPTER NINE

Dorset Yacht Club

Sag Harbor

The laminated sign on the brass stand discreetly placed by the members’ door read:

HOUSE RULES REMINDER

PLEASE DISCOURAGE YOUR GUESTS FROM ARRIVING IN IMPROPER ATTIRE WITH THE NOTION OF DRESSING AT THE CHECK ROOM.

THE CLUB COMMITTEE

Cecil and Lucie pulled up to the valet of the club in his recently acquired 1973 Ferrari Dino 246 GTS.fn1 The paintwork on the car was done in an exceedingly rare “Bianco Polo Park,” so Cecil insisted that Lucie wear the white Schiaparelli couture shift dress that his mother had also recently acquired for her, and he had outfitted himself in matching white sea island cotton trousers, a snow-white cashmere sweater, and his bespoke Corthay Cannes suede loafers.

Dorset was arguably the snootiest private yacht club on the Eastern Seaboard, with a membership descended from the oldest Hamptons families, and the style of the club was conspicuously shabby and its members went to great lengths to amplify this aesthetic. Dorset members might have an Aston hiding in their garages on Further Lane or Captains Neck Lane, but they drove to the club in dusty Wagoneers with towels covered in dog hair over the back seats or thirty-year-old Land Rovers with cracked rear windows and faded Mondale-Ferraro bumper stickers. The men took great care to wear only the most threadbare of their Peter Elliot seersucker blazers and faded Vineyard Vines reds, while many of the usually chic womenfolk kept special “for Dorset only” wardrobes consisting of only their frumpiest dresses from the likes of J. McLaughlin or Lilly Pulitzer and hand-me-down Jacques Cohen espadrilles.

Lucie would normally have been embarrassed to show up at the club in such a fancy car, but she was used to Cecil’s ways by now and saw no point in challenging him. Cecil, who took great pride in his sartorial efforts, would always say, “My father was a WASP, but it skipped a generation.” He emerged from behind the wheel and handed the valet his keys, patted away the wrinkles on his trousers, and walked jauntily around to escort his beautiful fiancée into the clubhouse. He couldn’t wait to take pictures of the both of them dressed so après-beach on the Insta-worthy private dock. As they entered the foyer and Lucie approached the check-in desk to sign them in, a ruddy-faced female attendant gave Cecil’s outfit a once-over and said, “He can’t go in like this, Ms. Churchill. No collar.”

“Oh, shit, I forgot. Men have to wear collared shirts in the dining room, Cecil,” Lucie said sheepishly.

Cecil stared at Lucie and the attendant incredulously. “But that’s absurd. This is a very dressy outfit, especially for an al fresco luncheon.”

“Sorry, it’s the dress code, sir. Your top doesn’t have a collar.”

“This isn’t a top. It’s a V-neck Henley designed by one of the greatest and most elusive Belgian designers, a man who hasn’t been photographed in thirty years. It’s made of the finest cashmere harvested from baby Zalaa Jinst white goats that roam free on the Mongolian steppes,fn2 and it’s hand-knotted in Lake Como by old Italian women with arthritis and varicose veins in a beautiful atelier within spitting distance of George and Amal Clooney’s villa.”

“And it doesn’t have a collar,” the attendant said simply.

“This is ridiculous! I’ve been to dinners at royal palaces more casually attired than this! I am looking into your dining room right now and I can clearly see little boys in shorts and flip-flops.”

“Wearing collared shirts,” the attendant repeated.

“Do you mean to tell me that the little boy in that shirt with the creepy snowman is more appropriately dressed than me?”

“That’s not a snowman, that’s Olaf from Frozen,” the attendant corrected.

“I don’t care if it’s Olafur Eliasson, it looks putrid.”

“Cecil, please, let’s not argue …,” Lucie began.

Cecil ignored her and continued on his rant. “How much do you make working here? I bet you my outfit costs at least ten times more than your monthly salary. I’m wearing about twenty thousand dollars’ worth of clothing right as I stand! If you want to include my Nautilus, it’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth. You’re telling me that’s not appropriate enough for this godforsaken club?”

Lucie’s face reddened in embarrassment. She could not believe Cecil just said that to the attendant.

The woman sighed. “Sir, I make fifteen dollars an hour, and I don’t make the rules here. You can go home and change into a collared shirt, or you can buy this polo tee here. If you read the sign at the entrance, I’m not supposed to let you change into this shirt at the club, but tell you what, I’ll look away this time.”

She reached under the glass counter and got out a light blue collared knit polo with the club’s rope-and-anchor insignia sewn at the breast.

“Where’s it made?”

“I have no idea.” The woman checked the label. “Myanmar.”

“Over my cold, dead bod—”

“We’ll take it!” Lucie said quickly. “Charge it to my account.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Cecil said in dismay. “I don’t want to change into a shirt from Myanmar in that sad toilet with the peeling walls and the rotting wood floors!”

“I’ll have you know our rotting wood floors are very coveted, sir. Every week some fancy decorator comes in wanting to buy up all our floors,” the attendant said indignantly.

Lucie pushed him toward the men’s room. “Please just go change, dear, and I’ll see you in the dining room. I’m sure my mother and Freddie are already on desserts by now.”

As Cecil went reluctantly to change, Lucie sprinted into the dining room and found her mother and brother seated on the outdoor terrace overlooking the club’s private marina.

“Where have you been?” Marian asked.

“Sorry, wardrobe malfunction. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about Cecil’s shirt, pleeeease,” Lucie warned as she sank wearily into one of the canvas deck chairs.

Two minutes later, Cecil sauntered onto the terrace in his Dorset Yacht Club polo tee, worn untucked over his cotton trousers.

Freddie couldn’t resist. “Cool polo, brah.”

Cecil, observing Freddie’s faded old Lacoste tennis shirt disdainfully, replied, “Thanks, I rather like it. Don’t you think it shows off my biceps, Lucie?”

“It sure does, Cecil.”

“Cecil, how smart you look!” Marian said, genuinely thinking that he looked handsomer than usual. The shirt was a breath of fresh air after all his fussy designer duds.

“Now, are we all going to do the lobster lunch buffet today?” Lucie said.

“Well, I just got a text from Charlotte. Her plane got in early so she’s coming straight from the Jitney to join us.”