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hardworking individuals, had chosen Southampton as their summer residence twelve years ago.
    Tara was just nine when her parents bought the oceanfront house in the Hamptons, a sleek contemporary box on the beach that an architect had designed for his beloved wife, then put on the market when she left him for an artist she’d hooked up with at a cocktail party. Typical Hamptons story. Although Tara and her older siblings Wayne and Denise were not consulted about the purchase, Tara recalled the thrill of thinking her parents had purchased this house with its turquoise swimming pool and Jacuzzi tub, this land with its stubbly dunes and front-row view of the crashing ocean. That they owned a second house on the beach, well, surely this must mean they were rich and were simply feigning poverty when Tara pleaded for a television in her room and a VCR and a complete collection of Louisa May Alcott’s books.
    It wasn’t long until Tara realized the Washingtons were not the average Hamptons summer residents. Though she was only nine she’d already developed a keen sense of the world around her, the awareness that African Americans were still a minority race but a significant part of New York City’s ethnically diverse population. In Brooklyn, people didn’t stare. I belong here, she used to tell herself as she walked down along a cobbled Park Slope sidewalk to the park with Denise or went down to the pizza place with a quarter for an Italian ice. Brooklyn was her home, and it welcomed her as readily as it embraced the Chinese, Latvian, and Pakistani children in her class.
    But somehow, walking along the white picket-fenced gardens of their Hamptons neighbors, nine-year-old Tara didn’t feel the safety in telling herself she belonged here. When all the faces around her were white, the bone structure and gazes as generically smooth as vanilla pudding, her mantra lost its power, becoming just a sequence of words. Especially when the murmuring started.
    Murmured questions and curious looks. The staring waitress behind the counter in the diner. Patrons in the hardware store whispering about “passing.” Ladies who chose not to look beyond the brim of their floppy hats while strolling past the colorful awnings of Main Street.
    The probing eyes and dull whispers were unsettling, but never menacing or threatening. Whenever Tara had feared someone would swoop closer and prey upon them, her mother would lift her menu and announce, “Laurence, let’s order an appetizer for the family.” Or Serena Washington would pull a twisted brass concoction out of a bin in the hardware store with a hearty laugh and ask: “Now what in heaven’s name would you use this for?” Or she would pause at a shop window, wondering about the price of a suit and whether the color would be flattering for her skin tone.
    Skin tone . . . the bane of Tara’s existence. Although she was African American, people often assumed that she was Caucasian because her skin was light, a creamy mocha shade. Their mistaken perception was a constant source of discomfort for her. Throughout her four years of private high school, she’d overheard murmurings from the other students, speculation over whether she was black or white, mixed race, Caribbean, or a descendant of Sally Hemmings.
    Skin color was not discussed at home. Once, back in nursery school days, she had teased Wayne that she and Denise were better because their skin was lighter. They had even dumped out the bin of art supplies to search for crayons or markers that matched their skin tones—until Mama shut down the activity with a stern reminder that “we are all African American and we do not differentiate based on skin color.”
    It was the same wherever she went, high school or college or summer camp; dark-skinned girls eyed her with suspicion, Latina girls snapped at her in Spanish, and during lecture halls she noticed other students staring at