The High Season

by Judy Blundell

  There was a whole world around her in this blessed landscape, with these beautiful people, that took these exquisite things as a given. Something painted out of anguish could sit on a wall and be worth fifty times her house, something purchased for ornament on a wrist could change a life. This was the stuff of revolutions, she supposed. But that never worked. This was the way of things. Money was the golden square. The fulcrum of the turning world.

  If you held the thing that could change everything, if it could ease your anguish, repair what had been broken…if it could give you exactly what you wanted…would you just toss it back in a box?

  She pushed the slider again. Ding ding ding…She heard the music of time marked, and even as she listened, she felt it pass.

  Out the wide window, she finally spotted her family. Finally, there they were, her people. They stood talking to Adeline on the lawn. Strange how she’d been to two parties with Adeline and had yet to have a conversation. Ruthie was always on the opposite side of the gathering. Mike slung an arm around Jem as he laughed at something Adeline said. Sunlight on blond heads, a sky like a vault, a shimmering sea. Gold and blue.

  Ruthie felt a wave of displacement take her over, and she placed her hands on the glass. She had a sudden urge to beat against it. The connectors to Mike, to Jem, already stretched (divorce, adolescence), now vibrated in her chest, close to a snap. Heart strings, she thought. She felt as fragile as paper, the fishmonger’s daughter gazing down at royalty so fine it could only be envied, not overthrown.

  It was only a moment, only a trick of the eye. It was this dappled buttery light, this ravishment, this ridiculous overripe Renoir in a rich man’s garden, everything a stroke of pure pigment. It was not a premonition, she thought at that moment, though later, of course, she knew it was. Poor Ruthie! That pretty summer afternoon, she thought it could be happiness.

  17

  ALL JUNE, RUTHIE heard about Adeline. Adeline was enchanted by the yacht club and wanted to join, even though she didn’t sail. Adeline had bought an old bike and was spotted cycling down Narrow River Road. Adeline had asked when scallop season started and was startled to hear it was fall.

  She read about her, too. Everyone did. They all clicked on the links. Her split with Daniel Mantis—that dramatic photograph of her holding up a hand, as if to hold him off, and Mantis looking like a thug—was splattered among the tabloids, but it was counted as a mark in her favor. She’d split with a billionaire!

  They caught glimpses of her, driving into town, or her arms full of lavender walking down Village Lane. They liked her baggy shorts and Chucks. They liked how she made an effort to be just folks, even if she didn’t socialize with more than a wave.

  Ruthie was always struck by how Adeline moved radiantly through the world as if it were arranging itself around her. It was either Botox or inner peace. She never got close enough to tell.

  * * *

  —

  THE VILLAGE WAS filling when Ruthie arrived for the Heritage Day parade. People streamed out of their houses, holding coffee mugs and dog leashes, everyone dressed in various combinations of red, white, and blue. The parade was forming at the end of the street, beribboned tractors and wagons and kerchiefed dogs and children on bikes trailing streamers. It was a day when bunting had its moment. The annual reading of the Declaration of Independence would be followed by hot dogs in Poquatuck Park. Today no one cranked about politics; they were happy to celebrate America.

  As Ruthie walked and waved, she pondered. An ominous email had slithered into her inbox that morning, and Ruthie was still anxious about its significance. It was the Fourth of July weekend. It was time to call in the French.

  Ducking down a side street, she dialed the phone, and relief flooded her when Carole answered. She hit her with the information in a sputtering barrage like a faulty artillery gun—Mindy had asked for a meeting with Gloria and Helen to discuss “the next phase,” what the hell. She had a bad feeling. Did Carole know about this?

  “Merde,” Carole said. “No idea. Things were going so well. Let me call her and I’ll call you back. Or maybe I should call Gloria. Oh, God, don’t make me call Gloria. Never mind. I’ll call someone and call you back.”

  Ruthie walked back to watch the parade. She listened to the Declaration of Independence and petted dogs and spoke to neighbors and ate a muffin, all the while waiting for the hum in the pocket of her shorts that would signal Carole’s call. When it finally arrived, she almost missed it. She said hello while ducking down a driveway.

  “Okay,” Carole said. “Here’s the thing. Mindy and Gloria have a majority on the exec committee as it stands right now.”

  “What?”

  “She got to Helen.”

  “Helen?” This was bad.

  “After some hand-wringing she admitted that Mindy has her totally confused but she’s going to vote her way. Mindy keeps blabbing about ‘making the Belfry the MoMA of the East End’ and ‘strong new leadership.’ There’s an emergency meeting of the executive committee on Monday. Which usually means some kind of vote. I can’t call in, I’ll be in the Hebrides. We leave in—oh my God, an hour.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going on this tour with the kids, and it’s a totally screen-free vacation, so I won’t have my phone. Or email. Insane, right? But Dash and Arden are addicted, so I promised I’d do it if they’d do it.”

  “But you’re an adult. You can cheat.”

  “I promised them I wouldn’t.”

  “But, Carole. You could be the tie-breaking vote! Or talk them out of it.”

  “I never break a promise with my kids. It would undermine our whole relationship! I’m a mother before I’m a person. Did I tell you about this? We’re taking a boat to this island and sleeping in tents and they bring cots and stoves and everything…it’s fabulous. It’s roughing it, but, you know, with mattresses and a chef. Think Out of Africa except in the North Sea. Dash is just obsessed with anything Neolithic. Look, just go tomorrow and see what they say.”

  * * *

  —

  SHE WOULD HAVE called Mike for advice, but there was a coolness between them. They’d argued about Jem a week ago and hadn’t talked since. His June had been busy and she’d barely seen him. Whatever current had been stirred up between them the day Adeline arrived had been absorbed into the daily activity of staying afloat. One day he’d come by to pick up Jem; Adeline had offered to bring Jem to Roberta Verona’s Sagaponack house to help her test recipes. Jem was a gifted and intuitive cook, and she had come back (two hours late) with a new energy that had resulted in some amazing dinners, so how could Ruthie complain? Something had happened, some separation from Meret and her crowd, but Jem wasn’t talking, content to bake a variety of breads in the early morning and head off to her shifts at the farm stand.

  Then a week ago Ruthie had received a call from Roberta’s office asking for Jem’s Social Security number. Apparently she had been hired by Roberta as a kitchen helper.

  “Imagine my surprise,” she said to Mike when she called him.

  “Roberta was really impressed with her, and she needs some extra help. She’s working on a new cookbook.”

  “Adeline should have checked with us.”

  “She did. I mean, she mentioned it to me while I was fixing that leak by the French doors. I might have said we could work it out, I guess. My schedule is pretty light right now, and we could alternate—”

  “But you said yes without checking with me first.”

  “Adeline was trying to do a good thing. I thought it was generous. As long as we’re talking about it, what do you have against it?”

  “She made a commitment to the farm stand. It’s a small operation. She could really mess them up if she walks out. Penny got her the job.”

  “Oh, come on, there’s plenty of kids who can ring up corn.”

  “That’s
not all she does, she oversees the whole CSA program!”

  Mike sighed, as if this point was drearily practical. “This could be good for her,” he said. “Have you noticed how shut down she’s been since school let out?”

  “She needs a little time. Meret dumped her, apparently.”

  “She needs a bigger world. This could be that thing.”

  “It’s hours away! Two ferries. Traffic. Or is Roberta going to send a launch?”

  “Why do you always bring up obstacles right out of the gate?”

  “Because they exist, and they have to be dealt with.”

  “If you’d just…just…”

  He hadn’t finished the sentence, but he didn’t have to. If you’d just be…not you was implied. Should she just wear the pink shirt everywhere, to convince everyone she was a more fun version of herself?

  “Look,” she said, “I want her to be happy and have a glamorous job, but this is kind of crazy.”

  “Well, who would want to be crazy,” Mike said, and a tidal wave of rage carried her up and over the wall. She wanted to say everything that had rushed up like blood to the head, hammer him like a prosecutor. She said nothing.

  From: Jemma Dutton

  To: Mom

  I called Adeline to thank her for help w the job w Roberta and she said you said no why

  From: Mom

  To: Jemma Dutton

  It’s impractical. I have no idea how we’d get you there and back. It’s at least ninety minutes coming and going. Plus ferry lines. etc

  From: Jem

  To: Mom

  Lucas said he could take me sometimes

  From: Mom

  To: Jem

  We hardly know him. So no.

  From: Jem

  To: Mom

  This is unbelievable

  From: Mom

  To: Jem

  Maybe you could do it sometimes on your day off. Most important you made a commitment to the farm stand and to Penny who got you the job.

  From: Jem

  To: Mom

  Dad said yes

  From: Mom

  To: Jem

  I say no.

  From: Jem

  To: Mom

  I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN

  * * *

  —

  FOR A MONTH she’d used product in her hair, worn new shoes, borrowed linen and crisp cottons from Carole’s closet, taken notes in meetings, gently prevented Catha from utilizing her usual habit of taking credit for things she had little to do with. Carole had sent her messages of encouragement: Heard you did a fabulous job at the board meeting! The Garden Club loves you! I really think you’ve got this.

  In the afternoons she would look out into the humming hive of the office, Tobie at the computer, Vivian getting a cup of coffee, Mark hurrying by with supplies for the art camp. She looked beyond them out the window to the trees outside, to the road to the village, and her neighborhood, and her friends, and her daughter, and the boards and nails and walls and windows of her house. That’s what kept pounding in her brain, in her heart. I can’t lose this.

  18

  JEM’S PHONE

  From: Annie Doyle

  To: Jemma Dutton

  Mr McManPants looking for you

  From: Jemma Dutton

  To: Annie Doyle

  He’s amazing right

  From: Annie

  To: Jem

  Yeah but. Sorta skeeves me the way he keeps buying fruit from us. Actually you. He never gets on my line

  …

  btw sorry about group chat drama going on w Meret just so you know. what is this #mayflower thing

  From: Jem

  To: Annie

  Dropped out of group chats canceled my Snapchat so I don’t know and don’t care tra effing la

  I’ve got bigger things than high school on my mind

  But she is bitch queen, no lie

  From: Annie

  To: Jem

  seriously if this was “The Lottery” she’d be the kid w the rock

  19

  THE THING ABOUT dating Lucas was, you were never alone. Parties, groups, restaurants, phone. Even during sex Doe felt a crowd. At a certain point he would stop kissing her, considering the job done. His tongue would lie like a slab of Spam in his mouth, and she knew, on top of him, that she’d lost him to the porn in his head.

  Despite that, the sex was good. A workout. Didn’t matter anyway, because her head was full of Lark.

  There had been long lunches at Sant Ambroeus in Southampton, there had been a beach walk, and there had been a kiss that Doe still thought about while Lucas was thinking about porn. It fizzed inside her. Snap crackle pop. Lucas had spent most of June in the city, except for weekends and Mondays. Daniel Mantis flew out on the weekends, so Lark was always unavailable then, which made Doe suspect that Daniel didn’t know that Lark preferred women.

  Doe had rules. After three weeks, she knew if it was going to last six. After six weeks, she knew it would be three-months-worthy. After three months she didn’t know, because past that was an unknown country. She always had a backup, someone in the wings. She never went exclusive until someone asked her if she would. That was fine, but they had to ask. Simple rules. She should write a book. Only problem was, success depended on the possession of instinct and cunning. Most people were like Shari, they went into a relationship with hope and amnesia. Every fucking time.

  “Good philosophy,” Lucas told her when she explained why it didn’t bother her that he was constantly texting other girls. “That’s why you’re my favorite.”

  She did not add that she knew he asked her out because of proximity and laziness, because he was stuck at Adeline’s and needed company on the ferry. Not so much for the ride over but the ride home. He was always disappointed on the way home. The party was never what he thought it would be. It always sucked.

  Yet he never said no, and he was invited to everything. Doe no longer needed to put a wineglass in her purse, or jam her bike in a hedge. She’d been boosted to the top-tier parties. She herself could be spotted in various Instagram accounts thanks to Lucas, along with comments like “hawt!” and “yesss deedy” and “omggdamn.”

  In only a month she’d been able to sell enough of her own pictures to float her through July at the Doyles’, and at summer rates. Seekrit-hamptons was up to 678,000 followers, and there was an online buzz about who could possibly be behind it. It had been mentioned in Hamptons Magazine right next to “Trendy Workouts You Need Right Now,” and a lively speculation about who was running it had taken up a column in Dan’s Papers. Who had that much access and style? Rumor flitted from models to bloggers to famous wives, and Jessica Seinfeld was trending.

  Adeline had leased Lucas a white Jeep for the summer. He rarely stayed on the North Fork; all of their dates had been in the Hamptons. They’d just been to a brunch party for two hundred in Montauk to celebrate the opening of a sunglass pop-up shop, and Doe was tired and wanted to go home. For the last hour they’d played “if you were an emoji what would you be” with a table of at least twenty people, all drunk, and when Doe had said “an exploding star of sorry to be here,” Lucas had laughed and jingled his car keys.

  “Mind if we run an errand before we go back?” Lucas asked her. “It’s on the way.”

  To Doe, an errand meant picking up toothpaste or dry cleaning, but Lucas drove to a semi-industrial section north of the highway and pulled into the parking lot of a storage unit company.

  He sat behind the wheel, not getting out.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a big fucking pain in the ass,” he said. “My nightmare dead mother.”

  “That sounds like something I’d stream with popcorn
.”

  “It’s beyond.”

  Simone Fischer Clay. Doe had looked her up. A poet. Beautiful. Peter’s second wife. An alcoholic who moved to Italy and drowned. Maybe suicide. Lucas had gone to boarding school—more than one—and had bounced among Simone and Peter and Adeline during his childhood. In the summers he’d been on European bicycle trips and sailing trips and pre-college programs at fancy universities. It was sad in that way that the childhood of a rich kid can seem lonely, but you still have to think, Wow, I wish I had that.

  “She packed up the Sag Harbor house and left stuff here,” he said. “Just a couple of boxes I think. She sold everything else. I just want to stop getting the fucking bill.”

  He rubbed his eyes and kept his hand there. Fantastic. The guy was about to cry like a…well, like a guy who can’t help crying even with a girl in the car. How many cocktails had he had? She didn’t know him well enough to go through this kind of drama. Not in her job description. But when he took his hand away she was relieved to see his eyes weren’t all misty. They were as sharp and pale as ever.

  “You can wait in the car,” he said, opening the door.

  “That’s okay. I’ll give you a hand.”

  She followed him while he checked in and borrowed a hand truck. He led her down a hallway of blue doors. He hesitated again, holding the key in the lock. And just like that, looking at his hand on the knob, not turning, she wanted to leave. Nausea twisted her stomach. She tried to catch her breath, like she’d been knocked off a stool and had hit the ground hard.

  She was back in that hot hallway, her hand on the knob, counting breaths, afraid to turn it.

  She had to do it when Shane died. Shari couldn’t deal. Clean out his room, his pajamas still with his smell, his Finding Nemo sheets. It’s your fault so you have to do it I’m his mother nobody can expect me to do it you do it and don’t let me see anything

  She’d been eleven.