Dead In The Hamptons by Elizabeth Zelvin

of sun roof, held off the back of her head by her shoes stuck upright into the sand. Suppose the guy who wanted a baby had been Oscar. Had he made the same offer to Clea? Clea was a lot younger than the rest of them. Had she wanted children? And even if she had, would she have wanted to raise a kid with Oscar?

Chapter Twelve
    “If we’re having the meeting,” Shep said, “let’s have the meeting.”
    We all lay sprawled or propped on wicker furniture or cushions on Oscar’s back upstairs deck. It faced west, away from the ocean but toward a spectacular fiery sunset. We were all stuffed with alder-smoked salmon and strawberry shortcake.
    Barbara and I shared a piece of furniture that didn’t exactly swing or rock but jounced pleasantly. Jimmy sat on a giant cushion at Barbara’s feet, his head against her knees.
    “We need to move the chairs.” Lewis took off his Docksiders, shook sand out of them, and put them on again. He was inches too long for the wicker chaise longue. His legs were tanned and covered with golden hair that glinted almost red in the waning light.
    “Are we doing it out here?” Barbara asked. “I don’t think this rocker moves.”
    “Neither does this,” Cindy said. She and Corky were perched on a teak chest topped with the kind of cushions you sit on in boats. “What have you got in here, Oscar? Rocks?”
    “Rope. Fishing tackle. An anchor you could use for that boat I hear you’re working on.”
    “Really? That’d be great!”
    “Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “When I signed up for the maiden voyage of this ship, I thought we weren’t going anywhere I couldn’t wade home.”
    “Too late, sailor. You’ve got an unbreakable contract.” Cindy bared her incisors at me. Her eyes twinkled. I was getting addicted to that wolfish grin of hers.
    “You can anchor in shallow water,” Oscar said. “You might want to fish for fluke. I can show you on a chart.”
    “Come on, guys! Service!” Shep said. That’s program speak for “cut the cackle and let’s hold hands and say the Serenity Prayer.” I’d never done it out in the open like this. I looked left and right and over my shoulder. Dunes screened us from the houses on either side. Oscar’s property, which must be worth millions, was deep. The occasional car passing on the road could barely be heard. And twilight was falling on the beach. Most people who couldn’t get enough of looking at water shifted to the bay side at the end of the day anyway. If they wanted sunset over the ocean, they should move to California.
    In the end, everybody except Oscar took a hand in rearranging the chairs. They didn’t quite form a circle. But everybody could see everybody else, more or less, without getting a neck spasm. We started with the Serenity Prayer. Then we went around the circle with names and labels.
    “Hi, I’m Bruce, I’m an alcoholic.” I didn’t even grimace when I said it any more.
    Not everyone in this hybrid meeting was lucky enough to be a drunk.
    “Hi, I’m Barbara, recovering in Al-Anon.”
    “Stewie, gratefully recovering in AA, ACOA, SCA, DA, and various other programs.”
    “I’m Ted. Addict and alcoholic.”
    Clea’s last-but-one boyfriend had fair skin, a peeling nose, and a baby face on top of a beanpole body. I noticed he and Phil sat as far from each other as they could on the crowded deck.
    Oscar volunteered to qualify— tell his story.
    Barbara put her lips to my ear. I smelled strawberries as she whispered, “Principles before personalities.”
    One definition of anonymity. Or as my sponsor once put it, “You can get something out of anyone’s experience, strength, and hope, even if you think they’re an asshole.”
    All AA stories are the same, even when they’re different. Oscar had been clean and sober for longer than Jimmy. Before that, he’d partied with the rich and famous. He’d done his share of stupid shit. Stumbled into the closet instead of the bathroom in the middle of the night