The High Season

by Judy Blundell

“Hey,” she said. “I know this is rough.” It was the first real thing she’d said to him. She knew how to order his coffee—cortado, extra hot—but she didn’t know anything about what he felt until now.

  “You have no fucking idea,” he said, and pushed open the door.

  The room was the size of Doe’s garage apartment, pretty much, but there were only three boxes sitting on the ground. The tape was loose, and Lucas opened one, then another, cursing steadily.

  He held up a frying pan, then a pale-peach silk nightgown. “Can you believe this shit? It’s full of crap. Dish towels. Poetry books. Jesus. What was she thinking?” He balled up the nightgown and tossed it back in the box, then kicked it. “Thanks, Mom. You fucking cunt.”

  Doe hovered by the door. She did not interrupt if a man was in a rage. She’d learned that the hard way, like most women. She let Lucas stack the three boxes on the hand truck by himself.

  It started to sprinkle rain as they emerged. “Great,” Lucas snarled. “Now it’s fucking raining.” He shoved the boxes into the back of the Jeep. She waited in the car while he returned the hand truck and the key, still scowling like a little boy.

  Which he was. A little boy with car keys.

  He got back in the car and reached under the seat. He took a swig from a flask.

  “Let me drive,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, just took another long swallow, his throat working.

  “Look, you’re upset, you want a drink, fine,” she said. “But let me drive.”

  “I’m not fucking upset, okay?”

  “I’m getting out, then,” she said. “I’ll get an Uber.” But she didn’t know if they had Uber out here, or even where she was.

  He stepped on the gas. Driving fast, driving like an idiot in afternoon traffic, passing people on the Sag Harbor Turnpike, driving on the shoulder, hitting the brakes like a jerk.

  “My parents,” he said. “What a fucking pair. My father, most famous artist of his generation, right? Guess what he left me? Shit nada squat. My mother gets half of what he had, and she spends every fucking dime in ten years. He leaves me nothing until I’m thirty, like I’m a kid. I get an allowance from Adeline. And a fucking American car.”

  Oh, poor you, she wanted to say. You went to Brown, your stepmom bought you an apartment and gave you a job. “It’s only eight years away,” she said.

  “But it’s mine!” he screamed. “Not Adeline’s!” He slammed the steering wheel. “I’m not a fucking child!”

  Arguable, but. “Lucas, cut this the fuck out,” Doe said. “I mean it. You just passed a Ferrari, for crap’s sake.” She knew she was scared, because she was talking in her Florida voice.

  Suddenly he swerved, cutting across the traffic, and made a sharp turn toward a housing development under construction, a string of McMansions. He pulled up sharp in the dirt, jerking Doe forward. Relieved, she held her hand out for the keys.

  But he just opened his door and disappeared. Doe got out. Lucas lifted one box at a time out of the back and shook out the contents. Items flew in the light rain, the quickening breeze, slender books, a lace tablecloth, a small embroidered pillow, a set of silver spoons tied with a ribbon. The nightgown was tossed by the wind, pirouetted, and landed in mud. Lucas turned the boxes over, shaking out every last thing. He was right. It was mostly crap. Just household stuff, nice stuff, but stuff.

  “Fuck you, Mom!” he screamed to the gulls.

  He was crying. Really crying, with heaving sobs. What to do. He didn’t want her comfort. He didn’t want her here at all.

  Turning and angling her body, Doe checked her texts.

  From: Shari Callender

  To: Doe Callender

  I know u said u were working stuff out but im bad off here can you call?

  if u can it wld be yahoo

  if u cant it would be no sadder than today

  u r breaking every heart in my body

  Lark twinkled in.

  i miss you wanna sleep over

  Lucas’s back was to her, his shoulders heaving. How long did she have to wait until she told him she had to go?

  20

  HELEN BROUGHT COOKIES to the meeting in Ruthie’s office. Gloria came with her own thermal mug of iced coffee. Mindy arrived late. All three women were dressed in variants of red, white, and blue, an All-American firing line that would shortly be aiming their muskets right at her.

  “You brought us where we needed to go,” Helen said. She tucked her gray hair behind her ears and leaned forward. “There is no question of that. We’re all so fond of you, Ruthie. But when things change, we have to change or die. Even old ladies like me. There’s a new world out there—I don’t understand it, but Mindy is talking about rebranding and the cyber media. Tapping the new people who are coming to the North Fork.”

  Mindy, her eyes on Helen, nodded through this speech, keeping time like a proud parent at a piano recital.

  “We’re all agreed,” Gloria said. She looked as happy as Ruthie had ever seen her. Maybe it was delight at being part of a cabal. Ruthie felt a tiny spurt of compassion. She’d known Gloria for so many years of meetings and lunches and dinner parties. Gloria always showed up, her shoes shined and her jewels in her ears, and there had never been a person in the room who greeted her with joy. That must curdle a person.

  Gloria was speaking, and she’d missed the beginning. “…was lovely, but the old North Fork is over. I’m not sure that this No Helipad movement is right. I mean, the journey here from Manhattan is ridiculous, and it gets worse every year.”

  “The Belfry has built a reputation that we can capitalize on if we think outside the box,” Mindy said. “What do you think is outside the box, Ruthie?”

  “Well, it’s summer,” Ruthie said. “Hot air?”

  “Rebranding in a thoughtful, active way that will maximize our impact,” Mindy supplied.

  “Our membership grows every year.”

  “Oh, Ruthie,” Gloria said, “you tried.”

  “No, I succeeded,” Ruthie said. “Since I took over, membership has grown by fifty percent.”

  “But who comprises that membership?” Mindy asked, placing her hands on a closed Moleskine. “It’s wonderful how you connected to the community here. To the local people, and children, and schools, and the retirees. But in the end, what did it get us?”

  “A well-loved institution with award-winning programming that connects with the community?”

  “Well. Now we have different needs. Financial needs if we’re going to grow.”

  “There is something to be said for how perfectly we do what we do,” Ruthie said.

  The women exchanged a glance.

  “This is the problem,” Gloria said. “Vision.”

  “I have a vision,” Ruthie said. “It’s just not yours.”

  “Exactly!” Mindy glowed. “You need to share my—our vision! We need to professionalize our best practices to be impactful in a transformational way.”

  “Well said,” Gloria said.

  “But I am a professional,” Ruthie said.

  Mindy flushed deeply, grew florid. She snapped the band of her Moleskine and opened it. She fished out a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “You’ll receive a three-month evaluation in September.”

  Ruthie’s head buzzed as she read. “What do you mean by ‘find and develop new revenue streams’?”

  “Revenue streams are income, but in this case, novel, new ways—”

  “I know what they are, I’m just asking specifically considering the realities of a small nonprofit.”

  “Well, admittedly you’ve raised money, but it’s not a continuing source of revenue.”

  “Revenue streams for museums mean a café, or an online store, or annuities…”

  “We were thinking of a café
,” Gloria said. “Light fare. Salads.”

  “We have town restrictions, first of all,” Ruthie said. “Second, we don’t have the attendance numbers to justify it.”

  “Well, that’s not my job to figure out, is it,” Mindy snapped. She had lost her sound of joyous authority and was suddenly petulant.

  Ruthie consulted the list again, barely able to read it through a film of rage. “I outlined all the reasons the budget target wasn’t hit, including the insurance hike and your fundraiser in the city that went over budget—”

  Mindy grew sulky. “It was a fabulous party, everyone said so.”

  “Fabulous,” Gloria said.

  “I loved those little crab cakes,” Helen said. “Let’s focus on the positive.”

  “Is the positive on this list, Mindy?”

  “This isn’t how we want this meeting to go,” Helen said with sudden firmness. “Mindy wants to do more regular check-ins with you, that’s all. We’ve always done things so informally here. She wants to put some basic structures in place. It’s like an engine check! If you wait too long, you run into problems. The light goes on while you’re on the expressway!”

  “I’m not a Toyota,” Ruthie said. “You want to fire me, and you’re setting up a case. Do you think I’m an idiot? I refuse.”

  Mindy was now bright red, having gone beyond florid into maroon. “You can’t refuse. You serve at the pleasure of the board. The board has a right to set the parameters of your employment.”

  “Does the full board know about this?” Ruthie asked.

  “The executive committee reports to the full board,” Mindy said.

  “I’m aware of how the executive committee functions. But it’s not an answer to my question.”

  “Well, that’s not an appropriate question to ask.”

  Helen stirred nervously. “This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition. We’re all friends here.”

  “Helen, does Mindy have a plan to fire me?” Ruthie turned and looked Helen in the eye. Helen looked away.

  Ruthie pushed the paper back toward Mindy with such force that it knocked the Moleskine to the floor. A piece of paper fluttered out. Ruthie put her foot on it.

  LEADERSHIP TRANSITION PLAN

  By Catha Shand-Lugner

  Step One. Stabilize staff. Ensure smooth transition by reaching out to local publications outlining my position as new cultural leader of the North Fork.

  Step Two. Set up coffee meetings with board members in descending order of annual donations.

  Slowly, Ruthie picked it up.

  “That’s mine!” Mindy cried. She snatched it out of Ruthie’s hand. “It’s a confidential document!”

  “You’re secretly grooming my subordinate to take over my position!”

  “It would be irresponsible not to have plans in place if, in fact—”

  “It is irresponsible and unethical to maneuver a director to resign while you secretly conspire with her subordinate! Who, by the way, has no museum experience outside of the Belfry.”

  “She has good ideas,” Gloria said. “And a master’s degree. She went to Cornell!”

  Ruthie stood. “Are you asking for my resignation?”

  “Ruthie, nobody said that.” Helen reached out to her, a cookie in her hand. Ruthie was tempted to bite it. “Please sit down.”

  “This is not on the timetable,” Mindy said, flustered. “We’re not absolutely prepared to negotiate your departure right now in a way that—”

  “When the game is rigged, only a chump stays at the table,” Ruthie said. It was a saying of her father’s and possibly the first time she’d quoted him in her life, aside from Slice it paper-thin and thank you sir. “I can stay through the gala and leave in August.”

  Mindy smoothed the Leadership Transition paper. “I don’t like to make a decision quickly, but I think it’s better if you leave and clean out your desk this weekend. Why prolong it?”

  Ruthie came back to herself and realized that she was standing and that nobody was urging her to reconsider. She had fully expected Helen to smooth it all over so that eventually she could sit down and eat a cookie.

  “Mindy, that’s crazy. Do you know what will happen?” Ruthie asked. “I’ve been here for ten years. People will talk. There will be pushback. Gossip. We’re in the middle of our season right now. Let’s do this in a way that’s best for the institution.”

  Mindy raised her chin. “I’ll decide what is best for the institution. We’ll pay out for the rest of the summer. I’ll have my father’s attorney draw up an NDA.”

  “A nondisclosure?” Ruthie’s head spun. “For what? This isn’t the CIA.”

  “Is this really necessary, Mindy?” Helen asked. “This is going so fast.”

  Mindy turned to Helen. “This is standard best practices.”

  “Of course,” Gloria said. “Mindy is so thorough.”

  “But we aren’t this way,” Helen said, giving the two women a sharp glance. “We’ve never been this way. We should give Ruthie time. This should be done right.”

  “We can discuss the details in private,” Mindy said. “I consulted my father’s attorney. This is standard.”

  “You already consulted an attorney?” Ruthie turned to Helen. “Helen, you brought me aboard. My last review with you and Carole was excellent. You said I was doing a magnificent job. You used the word magnificent, Helen! That was less than two years ago! How can you support this?”

  “They didn’t use the right metrics,” Mindy said. “The review was not pro forma. Legally we’re in the clear.”

  “I don’t know how this turned so acrimonious,” Helen said. “I brought such delicious cookies.”

  21

  HELEN FOLLOWED HER out to her car. She wore a chunky necklace made of resin blocks strung on colorful coated wire, and it rattled against her clasped hands.

  “I feel terrible about that meeting,” she said.

  Ruthie fished for her keys. She couldn’t make sense of her purse; it was like she was sucked into space and her hand was in a black hole. “I’m sorry you feel terrible, Helen. I’m the one out of a job, though.”

  “I know how it must rankle, but—”

  “Rankle? Rankle?”

  Helen took a step back. “We’re in the heat of the moment right now. But Ruthie, you’re so good. People recognize that. We both love the Belfry and it will have a life beyond both of us, after all. It will continue to serve the committee—I mean, the community! Isn’t that the most important thing? That we meet the future with confidence?”

  Ruthie looked at Helen, amazed. Her life was in tatters and Helen was giving her a chamber-of-commerce speech? She’d actually heard Helen say that last bit at the Spring Festive Fling a few months before. Helen looked supremely comfortable, or as comfortable as a person can be with three tons of resin strung around her neck.

  Behind Helen’s head rose the pure white form of the Belfry. Ruthie felt her throat constrict. She knew everything there was to know about the building. She knew the condition report. She knew she had to fix the air handler next year. She knew how the voices of the children echoed up from the education wing to the offices. She knew how cooling the breeze could be in late September. She knew that when she brought in food the platter could be cleared in fifteen minutes flat. She knew her employees, how Vivian needed to be encouraged, how Tobie was dealing with a husband with chemo, how Mark needed just a little room to spin before he came up with a brilliant idea.

  There had been jobs that she’d liked, jobs she’d tolerated, jobs she’d loathed. She’d never had a job she’d loved. Standing here now, it felt as though something had moved through her and scoured out her insides.

  Her hand found the keys. She clicked the lock open and swung behind the wheel. The car was a furnace. She started the engine and opened the window. To her dismay Hele
n didn’t step away. She leaned into the open window, her necklace clanking against the car.

  “I tried to protect you,” Helen said. “But nobody says no to Mindy.”

  Ruthie’s head swiveled. “What?”

  “My doctor said, ‘You have to stop the oppositional stress. Give in or be dragged!’ ” Helen fingered her resin. “Anyway, there’s no use looking back. We have to move forward.”

  “But I’m the one under the wheels, Helen!”

  “And just for the record, I was very much against holding that meeting with Catha.”

  “There was a meeting?”

  “I thought it was…unseemly. We can do better.”

  The air-conditioning blew in her face, and she welcomed the blast. “Helen, please step away from the car.”

  Helen hung on to the car door. “We are still friends. I am going to continue to be a part of your life because I want to. You’re so gifted. I can see you taking your skills to the next level, maybe working with artists?”

  “Where?” Ruthie asked.

  Helen waved a hand, and cookie crumbs went flying. Some of them stuck to her shirt. “So many wonderful nonprofits in the area,” she said.

  “Yes, I know all of them, and I know all of their directors. Most of the ones on the North Fork are cutting staff. I will have to move, Helen. Sell the house. Leave my community, my friends, take Jem out of school…” Ruthie fought against the thickness in her voice. “Do you realize that? When directors lose their jobs, they have to move!”

  Helen looked down and adjusted the ring on her third finger so that the stone, pale yellow, slid to the exact center. “Catha thinks we should drop the ‘the.’ We might change the name to just Belfry. Or BM.”

  “That is a terrific idea,” Ruthie said. “Do that!”

  “I’m on the naming committee.”

  Ruthie gripped the steering wheel, afraid she’d push the pedal to the floor. She remembered how when Jem was a toddler, she had to force herself to speak softly when she was thick with frustration and sticky with spilled juice. The titanic rage of mothering a toddler was nothing compared with this.