After he leaves the room, you toss the paper to the side and frantically flip over the couch cushion. It reveals a 2006 Motorola Razr. Missed call (3) from Unknown.

You type in a jumble of numbers. They pick up on the second ring.

“It’s done.”

“And no one will know?” You ask.

“No one will know,” they repeat.

“What about the wire transfer?”

“Untraceable.”

You hang up. Then, you snap the phone in half.

Henry walks back in with a cup of coffee. “Mother, did you see the news about offshore wind turbines? About time the Hamptons invested in green energy,” he says. “And you must be so thrilled. With all the fundraisers you’ve thrown about the environment over the decades: ‘Don’t Bungle the Jungle.’ ‘Protect the Polar Bears.’ ‘Seas the Day.’ You’ve really dedicated your life to the cause.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful darling,” you say. “Although our view of the ocean is certainly going to change…”

He waves his hand. “I’m not bothered by the sight of wind turbines.”

You grow cold. “They’re ghastly.”

The next morning, an issue of The East Hampton Star arrives on your doorstep. “WIND POWER PROJECT IN WAINSCOTT ABRUPTLY CANCELLED,” reads the headline. “OFFICIALS GIVE LITTLE TO NO EXPLANATION.”

You sip your tea and smile.

Montauk

You say you love to surf—but your handcrafted surfboard by an artist-slash-DJ from Bali has made more of an appearance on your Instagram story than it has Ditch Plains. At night, you drive your Ford Bronco to dinner at Crow’s Nest. The hostess says there’s a two-hour wait. “But I’m like, best friends with the Macphersons,” you say, crossing your Ulla Johnson-sleeved arms. She’s not buying it. In a huff, you go back to your house that you bought from a fisherman in 1998. (Well, not his house exactly. You razed that two-bedroom shack as soon as you got out of escrow.)