Duckwalk

I cannot see buds on the trees yet. They are bare and barren. It is winter still.

A whiff of warmth teased the city last weekend, enough to motivate a drive to the East End, an event in Southampton, and a weekend with The Savior, rambling around his home. For the first time this year, I could smell in the air the anticipation of sun, the promise of a warm, fragrant breeze, waiting to caress my face.

I left late, and arrived at Duckwalk Vineyards about an hour and a half into the party. The event was intended to celebrate the vineyard's sparkling white (not bad for methode champenoise), and samples from a chocolatier (dreadful gack). Perhaps because there were about a hundred and a half guests only, perhaps because of my tardy entrance, all I know is that when I came through the glass French doors, it seemed though everyone turned and stared. Vampires.

The spell broke in the next instant. A lovely blonde woman reintroduced herself to me - I had met her over the holidays, and my mind was working fast assembling its pattern recognition. My memory clicked, "Yes, yes," when my arm was pulled to one side.

Mr. Raffish pointed, "Holly, I want you to meet my date." I followed the line of his hand to see one of my girlfriends from the city. Quelle surprise. Small world. She was invited out with a bevy of twenty-something-year-old babes, an all expense paid trip, pretty faces recruited to decorate the event. The baby girls, combined with the year-rounder-women, made for a poor ratio - eight women to each man.

And I was chatting with three of them. Mr. Raffish, The Savior, and one of his funny-playboy-buddies. I didn't co-opt all their attention, but we did share insidery laughs. Like only-we-know-a-secret. Men are good that way - among the many ways that men are good.

But I wasn't interested in monopoly. I was heartened to see the swarm of babes surrounding The Savior.

"You look like a movie star," I whispered. "You always do."

The party fizzled fast and we decamped to Mr. Raffish's home, where the babes were staying the night. When the Brazillian percussion drums and instruments hit the living room - after a handful of the girls dipped in and out of the hot tub and then changed into Ambercrombie & Fitch-style sweats, the odd college sweatshirt among them - I knew it was time to get out of there. My girlfriend, a true contemporary, joined me, and we drove ten miles further east to The Savior's.

Slowing through Sag Harbor, I spied the flashing red lights of two police cars, and for a second, I wondered if the cops had set up a checkpoint. I slowed and saw a young woman, hands behind her back - cuffed - an officer leading her to the waiting squad car. Busted. I assumed that the truck with Wisconsin tags was hers. Small town, small town drunk bust. 

The next day, we stragglers attended The Savior's tennis tournament in Westhampton. He won the first match in straight sets. After the first match, Mr. Raffish took the remaining gals to the luxury-liner bus line. I stayed behind for the second, the final. The Savior won straight sets, he won the tournament. When he scored the winning point, he sought me out on the sideline, and raised his fist in victory. Excellent. Bloody superb.

We celebrated in Bridgehampton at Bobby Van's Restaurant. I like saying the whole name. Bobby Van's Restaurant. It reminds me of a line from in the film The Door in the Floor. And I ain't telling. That film should be required viewing for anyone who spends time in the East End.

That evening, we ate fried calamari, drank red wine, and watched the first episode of the last season of The Sopranos. And I don't need to tell. Badafuckingbing. Game on.