On Gin Lane

Brooke Lea Foster

• Publisher: Gallery Books
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9781982174446
• eBook ISBN: 9781982174453
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Fiction
• Index: Literature

“Utterly captivating. What a lovely summer novel!” —Elin Hilderbrand, New York Times bestselling author

“On Gin Lane encapsulates the very best of historical fiction.” —Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author

After her fiancé whisks her off to the glistening shores of Southampton in June of 1957, one young socialite begins to realize that her glamorous summer is giving her everything—except what she really wants—in this new novel from the author of Summer Darlings.

Everleigh “Lee” Farrows thinks she finally has life all figured out: a handsome fiancé named Roland, a trust in her name, and a house in Bronxville waiting for her to fill it with three adorable children. That is, until Roland brings her out to the Hamptons for a summer that will change everything.

Most women could only dream of the engagement present Roland unexpectedly bestows on Lee—a beachside hotel on the prized Gin Lane—but Lee’s delight is clouded by unpleasant memories of another hotel, the Plaza, where she grew up in the shadow of her mother’s mental illness. Shaking off flashbacks, Lee resolves to dive into an unforgettable summer with poolside Bellinis, daily tennis matches, luncheons with her Manhattan circle, and her beloved camera in tow. But when tragedy strikes on the hotel’s opening weekend, the cracks in Lee’s picture-perfect future slowly begin to reveal themselves, and Lee must look deep within herself to determine if the life she’s always wanted will ever truly be enough.

From the regal inns to the farmland, the well-heeled New Yorkers to the Bohemian artists, the East End of Long Island is a hodge-podge of the changing American landscape in the late 1950s—and the perfect place for Lee to discover who she really is.

AUGUST

EIGHTEEN

With her floral apron tied at her waist, Everleigh tipped extra salt into the creamy chipped beef, tasting it once more. Perfection, she thought, admiring how similar her dish looked to the photo in Ladies’ Home Journal. The guiltier she felt about the business with Curtis Brightwell, the fussier her meals were becoming. Tonight featured the beef as well as a tomato salad and roasted rosemary potatoes. All this cooking wasn’t romantic as much as it was purgatory. She’d brought home armfuls of groceries yesterday, tying on an apron and working at the stove, so when Roland stepped inside, she was right where he expected her.

As the beef tips warmed, the sun shining like three o’clock even after seven on a Saturday night, the smell brought her back to Whitney’s house, where they often ate creamy beef potpies, Whitney’s favorite. She’d nearly called her a few minutes ago, a bout of loneliness overtaking her, but Everleigh didn’t know how to start a conversation with Whitney without all her other emotions resurfacing. She’d felt so abandoned by her friend at the bonfire.

Through the living room window, she spotted Roland crossing the lawn toward the cottage in a suit. When he entered the cottage, she handed him a plate of steaming meat, her nerves keeping her moving, putting napkins out, pouring claret into two coupe glasses. All her anger at him working with Opal overshadowed by the fact that she was feeling equally dishonest. “It’s been nice having dinner together, hasn’t it?”

The phone rang, a trilling that put her on edge, and Roland waited for Everleigh to rise, but she only smiled at him; there wasn’t a rule that said women had to be the ones to get up from the table. “Can you get that, Rolly?”

He huffed, his dress shoes rattling the living room. “Hello,” he said and explained that he was in the middle of dinner. “The delivery is for Friday after lunch. Not tonight… No. Friday.” She peeked in on him, watching his foot tap impatiently, and his voice became low and angry, just for a second. “No, you cannot come now. I already told you…” The floorboard creaked underneath her as she whipped back to the stove, Roland’s voice returning to its chipper tone. “I must return to dinner. Yes, Friday afternoon it is. Thank you.”

He had no sooner returned to the kitchen table, Everleigh’s blood pounding like it did when racing the hairpin curve, than there was a rapping at the back door. “What is it now?” Roland said, cranky at another interruption.

Stevie stood on the other side of the screen, his red hair freshly cut in a flattop boogie, looking like a neatly trimmed hedge on top, the back feathered and tucked into the center. He was grinning like he just won a poker game. “Hey, Rolly. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought…”

Opal appeared in the doorway, her knee-length ruffled dress tied at the waist with a violet sash, a blond braid rounding her head like a crown. “Hi, Everleigh,” she said, prancing in like they were old friends.

It was one thing to have an affair. It was another to parade it in front of your fiancée’s face.

Everleigh calmly turned to Roland, everyone suddenly registering the tension coming from her. “You need to ask her to leave.”

Opal kicked off her two-tone Chanel slingbacks by the door, then sat down at the kitchen table. “Oh Everleigh. I’ll go if you want, but—”

“There’s nothing between us,” Roland said, taking two more fast bites. Everleigh’s cheeks burned. Couldn’t they have this conversation in private?

The scent of Stevie’s aftershave overpowered the room while Everleigh considered blasting out of the house for the beach. Opal looked about, grimacing. “You’ve been living here? Has Whitney seen this place? My parents would flip if I stayed in something like this.”

Everleigh laughed, a little too loudly. “They’re not thrilled.”

“Lee does as she wishes, no matter what the cost is to everyone else.” Roland didn’t mean it as a compliment—she could tell by his snarky tone.

“Oh, Rolly, don’t be such a baby. Us girls always do as we wish.” Opal winked.

Everleigh pushed her plate away.

“Are you still coming to Sharon Southard’s party tonight?” Stevie had traded his Hawaiian shirt for the smooth cotton of a golf shirt, a linen blazer, his shoes trendy slide-ons made of canvas. On the middle finger of his right hand was a cocktail ring with a flat onyx rectangle at the top. His new look cost money that Lee certainly didn’t think Stevie had.

“What’s happening again?” Roland pushed up on the balls of his feet, rocking in his chair. If Roland left her here alone yet again—because Everleigh wasn’t going with them—she would call Whitney and pack up her things and she’d be gone.

“It’s some Boston chick’s twenty-fifth with a band and a full bar and guys in tuxes serving food.”

“You mean, it’s catered. The word is ‘catered’, Stevie.” Everleigh rolled her eyes.

Opal burst out laughing, raising her hand to her mouth. “Actually, she’s from Palm Beach, and her parents have organized a lawn party. It’s quite formal. That’s why I’m so dressed up.”

“Whatever.” Stevie shrugged.

Roland went to hand Everleigh his cleared plate, and she turned away without taking it, then stood with her back to them at the sink. Roland offered them brownie sundaes.

She raged while soaping her plate, listening as Stevie and Opal said yes, in fact, they’d love one. Opal offered to help serve, and the men went outside to the picnic table. Everleigh fished out the tub of vanilla she’d picked up at the local dairy, while Opal stood beside her, watching her struggle to scoop it.

“Rolly tells me that the terms of our agreement are unacceptable to you, that you’re uncomfortable.” Opal’s mild Dutch accent shined through, with “that” sounding like “dat.”

Everleigh placed a brownie square beside each scoop.

Opal’s voice was placid. “I want you to know that my intentions are pure, not some desperate attempt at romance. I will benefit as much as he will from this hotel.” Everleigh could tell that Opal was a woman who always got what she wanted, whose parents probably called her a “good girl,” even when she was throwing a tantrum. She moved through the world seeming sincere, a person you would vote for on Election Day even if you didn’t know their politics.

Everleigh yanked open the silverware drawer. “Then why are you here?”

“I want to make peace.” Opal smiled. “Whitney said that you’re upset, and I want you to know that I’m with someone, yes. But it’s not your Rolly. It’s Steven.”

Everleigh’s mouth fell open. “Stevie?” She returned the ice cream to the freezer, retrieved the whipped cream, and put a mountain on each sundae. Of course this was a lie, concocted so Everleigh would go along with Opal and Roland’s obvious charade.

Opal sighed. “He’s untamed, I know, a wild horse bucking, but Stevie actually listens to my opinion. He takes me more seriously than the men in our circles, and he wants to help me with my business.”

It was preposterous. “And your parents like him?”

Opal waved her off, but with the daintiness of a princess. “I’m simply making the most of a fling, Lee. I’m not marrying him.”

Everleigh and Opal carried the sundaes outside, and as she put one in front of Roland, his eyes lighting up at the confection, her thoughts turned wicked. Because if Opal wasn’t the one distracting Roland, if Roland really wasn’t stealing off to meet her, then who was he meeting? Everleigh ran through the faces of women she’d seen pass by the gallery, women who’d been at the hotel party, women Roland greeted in town or on the beach. But he was friendly to everyone.

Her mind wandered to the gallery. Starling had asked Everleigh to stay working through Labor Day when the show officially ended, and she’d agreed. She wouldn’t leave that job, no matter what happened with Roland, even if she’d just promised herself she’d ditch him if he went out. Her professional debut was in sight, too. The editor at the East Hampton Star had had her negatives for over a week now; the paper was set to run the story on Curtis in a few days.

With the sundaes finished, Roland announced he was leaving for the party, inviting Everleigh along. But there wasn’t any part of her that wanted to go, especially not as a foursome. She said she was tired, and Roland moved to kiss her goodbye. That’s when she turned away her cheek. When they all left their empty ice cream bowls for her to clean, she flashed a dirty look at the closing door. She’d leave them in the sink.

She continued to fight the urge to call Whitney.

---

When Roland left for his match at the Meadow Club the following morning, Everleigh raced into the car for her morning’s secret activity: taking pictures for Hampton Summer Life magazine’s Best of Summer Photography Contest. Starling had told her about it by clipping the advertisement out of the lifestyle pages and leaving it on the light table with a directive: “Enter!” The winner won twenty-five dollars and their photo would be on the cover of the glossy magazine.

Even though the beaches near Gin Lane were beautiful, Everleigh thought everyone would try to capture the ocean’s brilliance. Instead, she was set on taking photos of the windmill in East Hampton, and she headed there now, hoping to photograph the gallant gray arms against a clear blue sky. Everleigh parked under one of the elms on Main Street and walked to the village green with her camera around her neck, finding the windmill in her frame and snapping. She was overcome by its stature, but the more pictures she attempted, the more disappointed she became.

Crouching in the grass a moment, Everleigh wished her camera allowed her to see pictures straightaway, that she didn’t have to wait to develop them. As elegant as the windmill was on sight, it looked either too small in the frame or so large that you didn’t know what you were looking at. Some of Starling’s portraits were taken with a stunning backdrop, but they worked because there was always a person animating the foreground. It occurred to her then: she needed to find people living the carefree summer life that everyone waited for each year and capture the feeling. No, the sensation.

She made quite the spectacle, walking down East Hampton village sidewalks in her button-front, A-line pink skirt and sleeveless Peter Pan–collared blouse, snapping photographs. An American flag flapping off the bookshop (click), two teenage girls leaning against their road bikes with matching white sunglasses blowing her a kiss (click). Bubbles. Everleigh needed children’s bubbles, and she bought a bottle of bubble solution at White’s Pharmacy, using the wand to send them into the sky while taking photos of two children in sailor suits trying to pop them as she grinned into the viewfinder. Everleigh followed the kids along the sidewalk, snapping, and pausing in front of a jewelry shop to reload her film when a familiar silhouette took shape at the door.

It was Alice who stepped outside, her mother at her side. On instinct, Everleigh snapped a picture of the nearly identical women, noting the droll smile overtaking Alice’s pretty features and the smug one on her mother’s aging ones. The latter swatted at the bubbles like flies.

“Shouldn’t you be at the Bathing Corp?” Alice said, her voice full of sarcasm, like she’d caught Everleigh doing something illegal. Her mother announced she’d meet Alice at the car.

“I’m on assignment,” Everleigh fibbed, the children begging for a turn with the bubble wand. She handed it to the girl, maybe eight, who ran about with it. “Shouldn’t you be at the Bathing Corp?”

Alice held up a small, shiny black bag, satin ribbons as handles. “I had something to pick up.”

Everleigh lowered her camera, trying to stay cool, her hand reaching for the garnet necklace clasped around her neck. The locket found in room twenty-three had been one of a kind, a 14-karat gold heart with a missing gemstone in the setting, an A engraved on the front. Perhaps Alice was ordering a replacement. “I’ve been looking for a new watch for Roland and a jeweler who would engrave it, but so many shops have these terribly boring watch faces. Would you recommend this one?”

Among younger women, there was a shared distaste of housewives from the previous generation who, without access to fine fabrics and precious metals during wartime, wore jewelry made of Bakelite and plastic. Alice nodded. “I only buy my jewelry from Arthur. His prices are better than those in the city, and he does a fine job with engravings.”

In the window, there were velvet stands shaped like necks with glittery strands hanging from them. On a shelf in a window display were rows of golden locket charms of various sizes. “May I see what you have? I’m curious about the quality.”

The children handed Everleigh the bubbles, waving goodbye and rejoining their parents at a café table at the French brasserie.

Alice demurred, hunting the street for her mother’s approaching car. “Go inside and ask him to see his work. Like I said, his name is Arthur.”

“But I’d love to see what you ordered. I envy your impeccable taste. I’m looking for a necklace. Maybe a locket to house a photo of Roland and me.”

Alice stood on tiptoe. “Where is Mother? We’re going to be late for Marsha’s.”

The bag in her hand was small enough to hold a locket, but Everleigh supposed it could also hold a ring or a bracelet. “It will only take a moment.”

Alice snatched the bag closer, noticing Everleigh trying to peer inside. “I’m hardly going to take my jewelry out on the sidewalk, Lee.”

“We’re hardly in rough New York,” Everleigh raised her camera, just so she could focus on what was around Alice’s neck now: a simple gold chain with a row of emeralds forming a pendant. So she did favor gold. “Please, just a quick peek at the necklace.”

Alice sighed with irritation, holding tight the ribbon handles of the glossy shopping bag. “It’s a bracelet, Lee, and the engraving is small. You would be better going inside….”

Alice’s mother swooped up in her Cadillac and beeped its horn, causing Alice to shove her fingers in her ears. “Mommy, stop! Lee, see you at Whitney’s luncheon.”

What luncheon? Everleigh hadn’t been invited. She ignored the slight for a moment, waving goodbye.

The bell on the door dinged when Everleigh stepped inside the jewelry shop, a man in a linen vest leaving his cluttered worktable to stand behind the counter. Everleigh gave a charming smile and explained that her friend Alice Martin had just shown her the stunning piece he’d made her, and she absolutely loved it; could he make her one, too?

“Of course,” he said, asking if she wanted to mimic the style of ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Prologue
• June 1957
• July
• August
• September
• Acknowledgments
• Reader’s Guide
• About the Author
• Copyright