Plus, life was getting a little lonely. Eliza and Jacqui were always out, doing fun things together, while Mara was left at home with the kids. Jacqui and Eliza invited her to everything, but after one party where a guest asked if she was Eliza's assistant and another one where she bumped into Ryan and Tinker together--if you could call catching them making out in one of the cabanas at the Star Room "bumping into them"--Mara had decided it was better to stay at home with the kids or to work on her blog. When she'd first launched it, she was elated to receive a handful of hits, but as she began posting more and more of her adventures, she found her audience growing steadily.
The more time Mara spent alone, though, the more time she spent wishing she hadn't been so cold to David. If he were still in her life, she'd at least be getting texts and e-mails that let her know someone was thinking about her. But she was too proud to
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rescind what she'd written. Everything she'd said was still true-- she was hurt that he'd left her at the airport and then never even bothered to call. She blamed it on the stupid modern world. If there wasn't such a thing as texting and e-mailing, he'd have had to call her the old-fashioned way from the start, and maybe then she'd still have a boyfriend.
"Listen, I owe you," Jacqui said gratefully. "Thanks, chica." "Don't worry about it." Mara sighed. "We'll catch you later." She turned off her phone and hurried to pick up the baby, who was squalling loudly on the monitor, seemingly aware that Mara was now behind schedule.
When they arrived at the auditorium, the line to the entrance stretched around the block, all the way to the village green. The sidewalk was littered with tents, pillows, plastic chairs, sleeping bags, illegal charcoal grills, and assorted garbage, since some people had camped out the previous evening. Apart from stopping by the UN, this was the only public stop the Dalai Lama was making in the country, and people had traveled from all over the eastern seaboard to see him.
"What's that smell?" Jackson asked, crinkling his nose as they hurried past the Porta Potties the town had hastily set up to accommodate all the pilgrims.
"Don't ask," Mara said grimly as she hustled them to the front of the line.
Only a handful of tickets had been made available to the
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public, and all had sold out in a matter of minutes, but the mood was oddly cheerful and politely cooperative for the Hamptons, where scowls were regularly exchanged at Citarella over the last slice of Scottish lox. Since the holy man was a guest of the Southampton Cultural Board, where Suzy was a trustee, the kids had received VIP tickets. Mara scissored her way expertly through the crowd, waving their laminated passes over their heads, the kids clutching their prayer beads.
Many of the town's wealthy denizens were dressed in orange prayer robes accessorized with Blahnik slides and Verdura earrings, mingling with the friendly Tibetan monks. The festive air was similar to that of a fashion show, with a lot of air-kissing and josding over seats. Mara noticed that a good number of sleek scenesters were carrying elaborate floral bouquets, overstuffed picnic baskets from the Barefoot Contessa filled with imported truffles and handmade brownies, or beautifully wrapped boxes from Tiffany and Christofle.
"What's up with all the gift baskets?" Mara asked Lucky Yap, whom she spotted snapping photos of socialites demurely bending over their prayer wheels.
"Ritual offerings," Lucky explained over the click of his camera. "The uninitiated can make sacrifices to move up in rank. Food, flowers, or water--symbolized by bowls. Hence the run on crystal bowls at Tiffany. They're all gone."
"Gotcha." Mara smiled, bemused. The Dalai Lama probably didn't care if the offerings were from the supermarket or the gourmet store, but the Hamptons crowd certainly wouldn't
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dream of making a donation that was less than what could be found in their own, utterly gourmet kitchens.
After a quick goodbye, Mara found their seats up front, and the kids quietly settled in. She marveled again at how well behaved the children were being. Violet was already chanting her fifth mantra, while Jackson and Logan were intently studying the geometric mandalas they'd found on their seats. Cassidy was lulled to sleep by the low hum of the crowd. Only Wyatt was wriggling in his seat, already bored to death.
The lights dimmed, and the head of the organizing committee welcomed the Dalai Lama to the Hamptons amid an explosion of applause. Mara clapped heartily along with everyone else. The holy man walked slowly to the middle of the stage and climbed on a generously proportioned armchair that had been provided for him, which allowed him to sit with his legs crossed underneath his body.
During the hour-long lecture, the crowd was rapturously silent. Not even an errant cell phone ring or BlackBerry buzz or the sound of gratuitous sniffling broke the spell of the Dalai Lama as he spoke of compassion, kindness, and gentleness.
Mara listened intently, surprisingly moved by his wisdom. The kids were even quieter than usual when the speech was over until Wyatt tugged on her sleeve.
"What's individual reponsi . . . responti--" Wyatt scrunched up his face in frustration at being unable to pronounce the word.
"Individual responsibility?" Logan interrupted. "It means we
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can choose to be happy by helping others and the world. You know how you always hog the remote? You shouldn't do that anymore."
"Er ... right." Mara nodded, although she didn't know if that truly counted as "helping others." Still, if Logan could get Wyatt to stop hogging the remote, it would mean a lot less individual responsibility for her. But maybe that wasn't a very charitable thought.
The kids wanted to get their prayer books signed, so they joined the group congregating around the Dalai Lama for an autograph.
"That was just so . . . inspiring!" the blonde ahead of them was gushing. "I'm so glad I gave everyone donations to Tibet instead of Christmas gifts this year!"
Mara craned her neck to see who had been the Christmas Goody-Goody Grinch. That was the title her family had quickly given her older sister Megan one year, when she decided to "give" everyone notes saying that she had "donated to their favorite charity"--in the amount of five measly bucks each--instead of adding to the gaily wrapped presents under the tree. She wasn't surprised to discover she knew this particular Goody-Goody Grinch: it was Tinker, in all her blond and perky glory. She was chatting with a bunch of bald monks, her prayer beads jauntily wrapped around one arm, her orange robes styled into a sexy one-shoulder dress.
"Oh, hiii," she said, her voice practically tinkling as she spotted Mara. "Wasn't that amazing? I can't believe we were actually in the presence of the Dalai Lama!" She beamed at Mara with