Saffy said the trouble with your first time is that even if you think you know what to expect, you kinda don’t, because all of a sudden there’s this thing coming at you and it’s not stopping, and you’re like, whoa. And Meret said, I hate surprises. She wants to lose it with someone she doesn’t care about, someone experienced, like a college guy or even older, because if you pick someone you really like you can really make a loser of yourself (which was a dig at Saffy since she followed Nick around for a month and then he broke up with her) and he shows your sexts to his friends (yeah, another dig). And how are you going to be any good at it if every guy has been watching porn since he was eleven? Her point was, get it over with and get some experience. Right?
That’s when Meret said to me, Let’s do it. Let’s lose our mayflowers this summer for sure. And I laughed, and she said, But of course everybody knows you’re, like, frigid or something. The way Saffy and Kate laughed, I knew this was some kind of fun rumor. Who started it? One guess.
Now the second thing. Friday at school I stayed late for French Club and walked out past the outdoor courts, and there was Josh Frye, doing layups. I said hi, and he said hi, and that would have been that, but he tossed me the ball.
Does this ever happen to you, where you feel something in your hand, like a Polly Pocket or something, and then you’re a kid again? Like Holden Caulfield with the skate key. (Yes, we had to ask our parents what a skate key was, and you hated that book, but you will come around.)
I hadn’t played basketball in years. Not since I was on the team in sixth grade, remember? Josh and I played one serious game of HORSE. I really, really wanted to win, and I could tell he was pissed that it was so close. We were both on H O R S forever.
Skip to the interesting part you are saying.
So then I won, and I yelled “HORSE!” just as Meret was walking out the door all hair-flippy.
The look on her face.
Josh broke up with her last Christmas!
And we were just playing stupid HORSE!
She walked by, her face all screwed up into this tiny ragey fist, and didn’t say hello or anything.
I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach and two weeks of school left. I’ve texted Meret four times, all I get is crickets. I can feel it, I can feel being on the outside somehow.
This is the longest email in the world. Are you still awake.
Fellow Porcupine Slayer, I know I stopped answering your texts. Basically, I suck. But can you either send me a plane ticket to Indiana (ok, Iowa) or give me Survivel Guide tips?
Btw I’m not sending this
xojem
From: Saffy Rubner
To: Jemma Dutton
Meret said you called her a whore yesterday while you were with Josh
From: Jemma Dutton
To: Saffy Rubner
Wtf?
From: Saffy
To: Jem
U yelled out WHORE right at her
From: Jem
To: Saffy
We were playing HORSE. I yelled HORSE.
…
I had a freaking BBALL in my hands!
From: Saffy
To: Jem
She says it’s so obv cause u r frigid and jealous of her and Josh
From: Jem
To: Saffy
Wtf I don’t like Josh
From: Saffy
To: Jem
Right that’s why you called her a whore
From: Jem
To: Saffy
Joke? Because this is just stupid
From: Meret Bell
To: Jemma Dutton
so now I’m stupid, bitch?
6
TO GET TO Carole’s you turned down a hidden gravel drive shaded by an allée of maples until you burst out into air and light and an expanse of bay. Ruthie couldn’t see another house, just blue sea and the ferry lumbering its way to Connecticut. She pulled up close to the Berlinger house and shut off the car. She checked her phone. She hadn’t heard from Mike all afternoon.
They’d always been best friends. I married my best friend, they’d say, trading fond glances. Three years ago when he first confessed his misery, his need to move out, what else could she do but hold his hand and keep a painful smile on her face, as if it were jerked upward with pliers and fastened to her face with safety pins?
For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer—everybody knew that drill. But what about bearable and unbearable? You notice that’s not in the vows. Bearable is almost worse, somehow, than unbearable, when it comes to marriage. Unbearable makes choices easy. Bearable erodes.
Things happened and broke you, and you spent a lot of time putting yourself back together, and then it turned out you were the same old person, with sadness stitched in the seams. So for Ruthie, when Mike said things like We should move away or We’re family, she remembered to remember that this was the way he’d always been, saying the thing but only meaning it for the moment. Mike had always been generous with his enthusiasms, and once, one of them had been her. Then slowly there had been this draining of life and loving, and their discourse consisted of reminders and confirmations like any married couple, except without the kissing.
It was surprising how long that could go on. You noticed it, maybe even thought about how to fix it, but days rushed on. You still bought the toothbrushes and he still took out the garbage. And your child grows older and suddenly she’s not there between you, she’s in her room or out with her friends. That’s when you notice the silence and the space.
Late one night as he’s sleeping you find yourself reaching out to grab the hem of his T-shirt and rub it between your fingers, just to have contact again. That’s as close as you can get to your lover. Fabric.
* * *
—
CAROLE OPENED THE back door and waved. Behind her, the enormous shingled house loomed and rambled. One wing made a sharp turn, as if making a break for Canada. A rectangle of pool was crowned by a low, long pool house. Down a brick walkway lined with boxwood sat the converted barn that they’d be renting. Beyond it was a deer-fenced vegetable garden, nasturtiums waving a bright hello. Ruthie felt a sudden lift of her spirits. Maybe the incredible luck of having all this light and luxury would shift something, begin something, be the summer that summers always promised to be.
Unlike every other year they’d lived in Orient, this year Ruthie and Jem would have space. They’d be living like rich folks. Or at least guests of rich folks. Or, no, wait, the guests of children of rich folks, since the converted barn was “the playhouse,” where the kids held sleepovers and parties. Carole was headed to Paris for the summer with her tribe of four children and her husband, Lewis, who was expected to solve some sort of financial crisis that could lead to the crash of global capital finance. Or something like that. Imminent disaster was an old song now, nobody paid attention to the details.
“Beware!” Carole called. “It’s absolute chaos in here. Save yourself!”
Ruthie had been to the main house many times, for meetings and dinner parties and “come on over for a glass of wine” girl talk. Although every director of a museum could recite the warning “Board members are not your friends” in their sleep, Carole came as close as it got.
Carole and Lewis had hired an architectural firm in the city to build the house from scratch. The interior was so twinned that a second house could be built out of appliances alone. There were double sinks, double dishwashers, double ovens. There were double showerheads, double dressing rooms, and two laundry rooms, upstairs and down. There were two dining rooms, formal and informal, and two living rooms, same. The Paris flea markets had been scoured for lamps and tables; the showrooms of Milan for sofas and beds.
When Carole and Lewis spoke of the house, they would downplay its magnificen
ce and speak earnestly about how it was a “family” house, all designed around the kids. Who would get older, Carole would say, and need a place they would want to visit. Most parents used hectoring to get kids to visit; apparently the privileged had more seductive lures. In twenty years, the now six-year-old Verity Berlinger would heed the siren call of a forty-thousand-dollar mattress and pick up the phone to call Mom.
Carole kissed Ruthie on the cheek (“Three times, I’m practicing for Paris!”) and Ruthie followed her into the mudroom, as big as her bedroom, where blown-up photos of Berlingers hung on the walls. Berlingers dangled on Costa Rican zip lines and paddled on Peruvian lakes and glamped it up in Patagonia. Wellington boots were lined up on a copper tray and cubbies were stuffed with a rainbow array of Converses and Crocs.
Carole picked up a sheet of black poster board with rows of yellow Post-its stuck onto it. Ruthie saw directives like ANDREW: PACK INVISALIGN and VERITY: BLUE SWEATER WITH DUCK BUTTONS and DASHIELL: IPAD MINI CHARGER and ARDEN: NAVY CASHMERE CARDIGAN.
“Do you see this?” she asked, shaking it. A Post-it with DASH: CHOOSE BOOK FOR PLANE floated to the floor. “I saw it in Oprah Magazine at the dentist and had Margarita make it up for the kids. So they feel a part of the trip. They each have tasks, according to age. They are supposed to complete them and then rip off the Post-it. They’ve done none of them and we leave for the airport in one hour.”
“Can I help?”
“Yes. Make me a martini. Kidding!” Carole flung the poster board on the floor underneath a gigantic whiteboard calendar. May was crammed with Chinese lessons and tennis lessons and tutors—EXECUTIVE FUNCTION! FRENCH WITH JULIETTE!—concerts and cocktail parties and dinner reservations. A big line slashed through June and July and August trumpeting PARIS and SCOTLAND and ÎLE DE RÉ and LONDON and finally, HOME on August 31.
“And of course, Lew? He’s meeting us at the airport. He spent the day at the office. You know how it is, leaving for France for the entire summer, there are a thousand details, and I can’t find my Ambien!”
Ruthie put her hands on Carole’s shoulders and felt bone. She’d once seen a photo of her in prep school, a hearty brunette kicking a soccer ball, but Manhattan and starvation had turned her into a tiny, taut-skinned blonde. “You are going to be fine. In only a few hours you will be on the plane, and a glass of champagne will be in your hand.”
Carole shook her head. “You’re always so positive,” she said. “I love how you’re always so nice. And it’s not that you’re too nice. You’re just nice!”
Ruthie wished this particular compliment didn’t sound like Carole was refuting a charge against her. “Have a seat, I have to yell at the kids,” Carole said, gesturing at the matching sofas. “Then I’ll walk you through the deets. The beds are all made up, ready to go. The gardener comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays and random days to harvest…help yourself to flowers and produce. Um…what else. Just keep an eye on things, that’s all. And enjoy.”
Carole walked to the stairs, trim in gray pants and a white long-sleeved tee. Not pants, trousers, Ruthie amended. Trousers tailored to Carole’s body, not falling off her butt or too long or too short or slightly bagged at the knees. A paisley stole in muted colors was thrown on the back of an armchair next to a short, chic raincoat in the same gray as her trousers. On the floor sat a soft caramel-colored leather bag so delectable that Ruthie wanted to eat it like a goat.
“Margarita!” Carole shouted. “Are the kids getting ready?”
“Under control!” a voice came.
“Margarita is a love, but she has one fault,” Carole confided. “Every time I yell her name, I desperately want a cocktail.” A loud crash came from above, and Carole closed her eyes.
“Margarita!”
“No problem! Dashiell dropped his suitcase! My foot is okay!”
“Mommy! Arden borrowed your earrings without asking!”
“Shut up, Verity, you troll!”
“Oh, God,” Carole said. “Come upstairs and talk, will you? I need to keep an eye on the mayhem.”
Ruthie followed Carole as Carole followed the noise. A flash of pink careened toward them down the hallway. Verity wore a tutu over striped leggings, a sequined top, and a pretty necklace of silver beads wound around and around her neck that Ruthie instantly coveted. “Fancy!” she screamed at Ruthie.
“Sweetie, you’re supposed to be in your going-away outfit,” Carole said through her teeth.
Arden poked her head out of another bedroom. “She dumped her dress-up box all over her floor.”
“Meanie!”
“Go clean it up right now, Verity Hazel,” Carole warned. “Arden, are those my earrings? And say hello to Ruthie, you two.”
“Hello, Ruthie,” the two girls mumbled.
“I go to this incredible vintage store downtown for the dress-up clothes, I think it’s where all the drag queens shop,” Carole told Ruthie as she shooed Verity down the hall. “I can’t stand the Disney crap, can you? I keep thinking of all those Chinese girls in factories keeping their eyes open with clothespins. So I buy vintage. Anything pink, I buy. Satin. Sequins. The girls at the shop save things for me. I send everything out to my fabulous cleaners, and dump it all in the dress-up box. And when I go to Brimfield with my designer or the Brooklyn Flea—have you been, it’s divine!—I just buy tons of costume jewelry from the dealers, whole vats of it, or lots or whatever. Anyway I don’t hear from Verity for hours. I’m going to write a book of mothering tips. How to keep your kids busy so you can drink. Kidding!”
“She’s adorable,” Ruthie said. “I think I want that necklace.”
“Right? Once I found the most incredible beaded evening purse in there. I wore it on my head for the Man Ray party at MoMA. Such a headache but worth it.” They came to the end of the hall and went up a few steps into another hallway. Carole opened the double doors and they walked into the master suite.
The room was all rose and gold, a toile bedspread with a golden cashmere throw tossed on the linen-upholstered armchair, rose-colored curtains that filtered the light, an acre of carpet. Three suitcases sat waiting in a corner.
Carole opened a door and sighed. Ruthie glimpsed T-shirts on an ottoman and a gold scarf trailing out of a plastic box. Closet rods and double-hangs and shelves and transparent boxes labeled LOUBOUTIN MULES CASUAL KITTEN HEEL SILVER and MANOLO PUMPS DRESSY 6 INCH BLACK. Linen shifts and silk blouses, jeans on hangers, what seemed to be six pairs of white pants. Trousers.
Carole had already packed for a summer away, Ruthie thought, agog. This was just the stuff she left behind.
Carole folded the scarf and touched a drawer, which glided toward them in silent majesty. Silk scarves were arranged by color.
“I sense an Arden attack,” Carole said, replacing the scarf and the shirt. “She’s only twelve, but she raids my closet and Lewis’s. How do you deal with it?”
“Jem isn’t my size,” Ruthie said.
“Lucky you. You can hang on to your jeans.”
Which meant that a twelve-year-old was Carole’s size. Maybe she just shifted the need a cookie trigger to need a pair of Louboutin mules casual kitten heel silver.
“I know this is a bad time, but can we talk about Mindy?” Ruthie asked. “She called me three times today. What is this fixation on Adeline Clay? I can’t control if the woman comes to Spork.”
Ruthie had been lucky with her board from the moment she’d stepped into the job. Every director knew that a good board was a crucial part of the job, and you spent time shaping, nudging, and coddling them along. For nine years her board had written checks, applauded victories, formed committees, and stayed out of her hair. They were passionate about the Belfry but left the operation of it to Ruthie. Most of them were weekend people and lived in Manhattan. There were a few great professional women, but they didn’t run it; they were too busy with jobs and families.
That was left to the older members, the women who were primarily defined by their husbands, as in, You know Jill, she’s married to Jack, who used to be a big guy at [insert bank/law firm/hedge fund here]. The board as a whole did what great boards were supposed to do: raise money, follow Robert’s Rules of Order, and show up at parties.
Then old guard Helen Gregorian (widow of Armand, former big guy at Deutsche Bank) had declined the presidency, saying she’d prefer to be secretary. No one wanted the job of president except Mindy Flicker, who lobbied Helen and Carole to propose her. Helen decided that the board needed an infusion of “the young,” which meant, in Helen’s eyes, the forty-somethings. Ruthie had liked Mindy but not known her well, so she took Mindy on the recommendation of Helen and Carole, both of whom had taken Mindy on her own self-valuation. She was the right person for the job, Mindy assured them. She had the “energy,” she said, forever putting Helen’s nose out of joint for implying she was old. Could she start early?
The board was thrilled. Mindy came from serious money and had broken family tradition by choosing the North Fork over the Hamptons. She had a second home two towns away in Southold that she called “The Farm,” three girls in varying stages of sulky young womanhood, and a clammy condescension that masqueraded as congeniality. Her attention to “action plans” was often mistaken for intelligence by the stupid. It hadn’t taken long before Ruthie came to realize that Mindy operated around a fistula of privilege that choked off real human connection. Her first act as president was to suggest Ruthie fire her curator Tobie because she “never smiled” and had corrected her spelling of Jackson Pollock. Ruthie had laughed, then realized Mindy was serious. It had been downhill from there.
Likable and lovely Carole had assured her that Mindy was awful and that she would get no second term. Carole and Helen Gregorian, the biggest donors and the powerhouses on the board, would squeeze her out eventually. But until then Ruthie had to find “spaces of agreement.” Those spaces had been narrowing to a vanishing point lately.
The High Season Page 4