The High Season

by Judy Blundell

  It had taken him a week to absorb the news and suggest they get married. Ruthie looked at Mike, at his ardent face, and especially at his worry that she would turn him down, and felt a page in her life turn. It filled her with joy. Mike asked her in concern if she had to throw up.

  Within a month, she had left her job and moved back to New York, picking up a part-time job at the Whitney. They bought a bouquet at the Korean deli and went down to City Hall. Their friends threw them a party. She wore the baby-doll dress, so perfect for her widening waist.

  Their families didn’t come. Lou and Berte called with apologies, they were about to be grandparents any minute. Mike’s parents said they would fly down, but it had snowed heavily the day before and the roads to Logan, they said, were too treacherous to drive. Ruthie wanted to erase the twist that happened to Mike’s mouth whenever his parents came up in conversation. Mike had gone to Yale, but he’d worked his way through and come out with substantial debt. For a wedding present, his parents gave them a family heirloom, a silver bowl with a dent in it. After his parents died in a car crash—it turned out Richard Dutton was indeed a bad driver in snow, especially after a pitcher of martinis—Ruthie sold it on eBay.

  Married. With child. Stroller in the hallway, crib at the foot of the bed. Balancing blue-wrapped packages of laundry while mincing through slush. Mike out at openings while she stayed home and nursed. Mike looking trapped, Mike looking haunted. Until the September morning he was making himself coffee when an airplane flew so low overhead that he ducked.

  Orient had saved them. It had given them a common enemy, mold and rot. It had given them something to talk about and something to fight for and the sweet exhaustion of finishing a project. They had become the Duttons: such a great couple, him so friendly, her so fun, and that beautiful Jem. Look, they are planting hydrangeas, they are strolling to town, they are laughing on the porch.

  Now he was truly gone. There were letters from an attorney, there were details she would not answer but would have to, and soon. They would do the civilized things. They would not criticize each other to their daughter. They would co-parent.

  She would do those things; she had already done them for three years. Now there was the other woman. There was blood in the water. Another woman could take her place in her bed, but not in her kitchen. Not with her child.

  Adeline was used to getting her way. Adeline had a ten-year plan. She would live in the home Ruthie had created out of mildew and mice and mud, and she would invite their friends to dinner parties, and her money would make things right, make things perfect. She would erase the life Ruthie had strived to create by doing it better than Ruthie ever could.

  Unless.

  45

  IT WAS A fast-moving storm and by the time the sun rose it had moved out, leaving the lawn littered with branches and leaves, as though the world were broken.

  The causeway was flooded. Orient was cut off.

  She drove to the house. A substantial limb lay on the front lawn, blocking the driveway. She pushed her way through the hedge. The storm had left an oppressive damp heat behind. There was cleanup to do, but the house had stood through the storm, just as it had stood through hurricanes and nor’easters for two centuries. Love for it welled up inside her, tears stinging her eyes. At that moment she loved it more than a human. Way to go, house.

  She walked around to check on the patio. Lucas stood at the edge, his back to her, one hand gesticulating as he yelled into the phone. He was barefoot, dressed in shorts and a yellow button-down, shirttail flapping in the still-brisk breeze.

  “I don’t care, dude. I’m good for it, I promise you. I’m not going anywhere. I’m trapped! I’m lucky to have cell service out here. I can get it in exactly one fucking spot, and let me tell you, the view is getting boring.”

  Lucas turned and saw her, and shrugged, making a comical face. He said “Later” into the phone and put it in his shirt pocket.

  She noticed a cut near his eye, which had a bruise darkening into purple. “You okay?”

  He winced and touched his face. “I drank a bottle of wine and passed out. But first I walked into a wall. You wouldn’t have a power saw on you, would you?”

  “The causeway has been breached. There’s nowhere to go, anyway.”

  “Terrific. This place is motherfucking hell. Aren’t you sick of being trapped yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  It was like being in an unfamiliar house, in the darkness, and suddenly coming upon another person, and feeling your heart beat fast with alarm. But it was only you, the glint of you in a dark mirror.

  She held up her keys and shook them. “Shall we take a look inside those boxes again?” she asked, and Lucas smiled.

  46

  “I WONDER WHY they call August the dog days of summer,” Shari said. “It’s not like dogs are hotter than we are.”

  Doe heard the sentence as noise. She didn’t bother to answer. Much of Shari’s conversation consisted of asking questions without answers. The woman needed to discover Google.

  “Look, if you’re not going to talk to me, then forget it,” Shari said.

  Doe took out one earbud. “What?”

  “Do you want breakfast or anything, I said.”

  “No.” Doe put the earbud back in. It had been like this since Shari moved in three weeks ago. Her mother would say something, Doe would take out one earbud, say “What?,” respond to whatever it was, and put the earbud back in. You’d think Shari would get tired of talking. But not her mother, who would no doubt chat her way through the apocalypse.

  Weeks of texts at work like Is this a good interview skirt? and I think the guy at the gas station likes me and What is there to do here and So, when am I going to meet your girlfriend.

  It was August, and there were no jobs, because everyone had been hired and in September would be laid off. As usual Shari expected things to go her way when they clearly would not. She continued to pretend she was looking, but Doe had her doubts that putting on heels and a skirt while making phone calls was a workable strategy. Shari’s dreams of a job as a concierge were ridiculous. She had no experience, first of all, and she hardly had the personality. You had to be unflappable and discreet, two qualities no one would ever associate with her mother. Yet every time Doe pointed this out, Shari accused her of not believing in her mother.

  She needed to get Shari back to Florida. Shari said she didn’t have money for a deposit on a place, and she was afraid to live in the same city as Ron. It hadn’t occurred to Shari before Ron broke her nose that a man with a mysterious access to cash and a tendency to buy ten flat-screen TVs at a time was not a good bet for a boyfriend.

  Doe felt somewhat responsible, that was the trouble. Shari had met Ron through her. He’d been the big tipper at the pool, the guy who sat with his laptop every Tuesday and said he was in real estate (which was somewhat true, it turned out), the guy who said he’d grown up with Johnny Depp (which was totally not true), the guy who gave her a gift certificate to Joe’s Stone Crabs for her birthday, the guy who gave her a ride home one day and said “Who’s that?” when he saw Shari.

  Doe should have known but she didn’t. Her boyfriend the bartender was Ron’s partner. He had the swipe machine in his pocket, and when she brought the credit cards he turned his back and did his thing while she looked around at the tables, making sure everybody had their mai tais and mojitos. While the bartender swiped, Ron was picking up the numbers on his laptop. Within a few hours Ron had sold the numbers to someone else.

  At least when she got fired the manager said he wouldn’t call the police on her, but she had to go. She never saw the boyfriend again, but Ron was home with Shari when she got there.

  Shari told her Ron had confessed everything and said that he was going straight. Shari said Ron was going into commercial real estate full-time with his friend Trevor, who o
wned a motel and a strip mall. Ron just needed a stake, that’s why he got into the whole identity theft business. Ron felt terrible about what had happened to Doe. Ron had asked Shari to move in with him. Shari felt this was a good idea.

  “I’m going to make waffles,” Shari said now at the window. “Oh, goodness, look at Kimmie, she’s got a whole basket of zucchini! Do you know about sneaking zucchini on porches today?”

  “Yes,” Doe said. “It’s stupid.”

  “I think it’s fun. Everybody’s sick of zucchini by August, right? Do you want to go to the softball game with me? Zukes against Cukes! Kimmie invited me.” Shari had charmed Kim and Tim, who were suddenly friendlier, or maybe it was because Doe was finally paying full summer rent.

  Doe heard the clunk of the freezer door, the sprocketlike ping of the toaster rack sinking. Plates rattled.

  Two years ago she’d been happy to get this place. A separate room for a bedroom was a step up from crashing with boyfriends or squeezing into studio apartments. She’d boxed up the lighthouse paintings and the sunsets and the ceramic seagulls. She’d pinned up some of her photographs and bought a gray cotton coverlet at Target and tucked it into the cushions of the couch. She couldn’t take up the green carpet or change the tiles, but she’d done enough to make it hers.

  The kitchen at Lark and Daniel’s house was three times as big as her apartment, with marble counters and open shelves with stacks and stacks of white plates and bowls and sparkling glass. Custom cabinets hid the microwave and the toaster and the espresso machine. Lark’s toaster even sounded different from Doe’s merry Sunbeam, the one that disgorged toast with a ping and a pop that sent the toast jumping for joy at its release, half burnt. At Lark’s house the toast rose in a stately fashion, perfectly browned. But nobody ate toast at Lark’s house. Nobody ate potato chips or cheese. For breakfast there were bowls of sliced papaya and blueberries, egg white omelets with greens, and broiled salmon for Daniel. Perfect lattes and espressos in exquisite breakable cups appeared within sixty seconds of your arriving in the morning room, where breakfast was served.

  Since she’d left Shari’s house her goal had been to get just a little bit ahead, each time she moved. A little more secure, a little more safe. This summer in the Mantis house she’d learned what ultimate safety really meant. Not safety from big things like death or accidents or cancer—that happened to everybody—but safety from the small things that could pile up and crush you. Blown fuses, cracked engine blocks, broken appliances, rent hikes. You never had to remember to buy toilet paper or coffee or even gas for the car. Mail was invitations in thick creamy envelopes and stacks of magazines. You never saw a bill. The shampoo bottles were always full, and the soap—scented, thick, the color of honey—never diminished to a latherless disk. You were safe from the tedium of washing a shower curtain. It was a lovely way to live. It left time—time for exercise, for massages, for haircuts, for cocktails, for concerts, for dinner parties with fantastic food where people had interesting things to say.

  When Lark’s face rose up in her brain—it seemed to rise from the ground and shoot up through her body, the feel of her skin, her neck, her breasts, her breath, her laugh—she felt happy. Which was ridiculous. Happiness blinded you just when you needed to pay attention.

  Doe had always expected the end to come on Labor Day. Lark would return to her life. They would say that they’d keep in touch. Maybe they would text a few times. Doe would have no right to complain, because she’d known the ending from the beginning.

  But Lark was staying. Lark would be taking over the museum in September. Lark would be her boss. They had laughed about it, but Doe had a feeling she knew the pitfalls better than Lark.

  She had told Daniel that Lark could do anything, and then she had to follow through. No one knew the part she’d played. Doe had talked up the Belfry to Lark, complained about Catha’s cluelessness (this was not a fabrication), said how the North Fork needed a cultural landmark and someone with the taste to create it.

  “Daddy mentioned this, too,” Lark had said. “He made me have coffee with that Mindy woman who smells like paste. He wants to stick me out here in the boonies where I can’t embarrass him. The North Fork? Come on.”

  “You’re so right,” Doe said. “But.”

  “Don’t give me a but,” Lark said, frowning. “Me, living there? Run a regional museum? It’s demeaning.”

  Lark did not seem to realize that she’d just insulted Doe. But that was okay. “Look, the North Fork is changing so fast,” Doe said. “All those pockets of hip are going to merge into a thing. Something real. And you could lead the way. Quoted in every article as it all starts to happen. You’d be the influencer about more than what sandals you’re wearing, or what party you go to. Be a real agent of change. From there you can do anything.”

  “But year-round? Not to mention that I don’t know how to run a museum.”

  “That’s what consultants are for. What you’re good at is sensing the next new thing. And you wouldn’t have to spend the winter here, you could fundraise in New York. Your second does the boring work of running it while you have the vision and represent the brand. And I’ll do all your social media.”

  “Stop, you.” Lark laughed, but then she looked thoughtful.

  That was when Doe knew it would all happen, just the way Daniel wanted. But would it be the right thing for the Belfry, or the town?

  If Doe told her the truth, she’d have to explain what a museum like the Belfry really was, family day and kids’ programs and Alzheimer’s painting classes. A regional museum wasn’t MoMA. You actually had to love all that shit. You had to pay attention to people. “Community” couldn’t be in quotes. You had to care. Like Ruthie had.

  Doe hadn’t fully realized that the atmosphere at work had been nudged and fostered by Ruthie, that vibrations of good cheer could keep a workplace humming. Catha was clearly over her head and had turned into a snappish boss who spent most of her time racing out to coffee meetings with board members. Now a new boss was arriving who had even less experience running a museum. Mindy was so inflated with pride in her catch that it was amazing she didn’t expel it in a giant fart of self-congratulation. She didn’t stop to wonder if Lark was the right fit, or why Daniel Mantis would be interested in buying his daughter a job.

  Catha had made all this noise about how she was going to “partner” with Lark, but nobody was buying it and Doe knew it was wishful thinking. The staff was shell-shocked and furious. They could feel layoffs in the air, and Doe didn’t think they were wrong.

  Things were a mess, and she was sorry for Ruthie, but she couldn’t save anyone. She had learned that early.

  Daniel had a superstar realtor on deck to find a house. Daniel was secretly lobbying for limited helicopter service from Manhattan. There was a closed airfield about two miles out of town, and Daniel was talking to the right people, whoever they were. Daniel was looking into buying the house next to the Belfry, and the one on the north side, just in case expansion was in the plan. Cap Hunter, who was eighty-five and a longtime resident, was tempted, but the Beechams, in the big white house behind the screen of trees, were not.

  To kick it all off, to show the town just how much serious glamour lay ahead, Lark and Daniel had moved Lark’s twenty-seventh birthday party to the Belfry. Lark was consumed with the plans, the complexities of which had been going on for six months at least. Only the venue had changed. They did not think it strange at all that a new director would rent out the museum to throw herself a party. The staff was horrified, but it was clear that they didn’t count, and the board was busy panting to be invited.

  Lark had used an event planner but hadn’t listened to him much, preferring to pick the music, the flatware, the plates, the food, the flowers, everything herself. Doe had no idea what this must have cost, but she no longer wondered about things like that. The dress code, Lark had decreed, was “e
mpyrean.” Doe was certain that mostly everyone had to look it up; she knew she had to, in the bathroom, right after she’d told Lark what a fabulous idea it was.

  For Lark’s birthday gift, Daniel had commissioned the artist Dodge to fabricate oversized inflatables of Lark’s favorite animals—lambs, kingfishers, cats—in silver and white, her favorite colors. It was supposed to be kitschy but tasteful. Dodge had also designed a bouncy castle for grown-ups, which would be tethered to the lawn.

  Doe and Lark had driven to Dodge’s studio in Brooklyn to see the work a few days ago. The artist had totally ignored instructions and his crew had fabricated surreal hybrid creatures built out of parts of raptors, hyenas, and wolves in bright primary colors. Flashing teeth and snarling faces. The face of one creature—part wolf, part raptor—Doe immediately recognized as Daniel’s. It was shocking and demented and silly, and Doe loved it. She’d stood back, watching Lark’s face. A woman who cared enough to spend weeks deciding on what shade of apricot was pale enough but still a color would certainly combust over acid-green hyenas and a mutant animal who looked like her dad.

  Lark’s eyes had widened and she was silent for a long moment. Then she’d hooted with laughter and hurtled herself inside the pink bouncy castle—modeled, Doe learned much later, on the Camp 7 detainment area at Guantánamo Bay—to jump as high as she could, the castle leaning crazily to one side while Dodge laughed and told her to stop it, it wasn’t stabilized yet. Lark had bounced on her knees, laughing so hard she’d even snorted. “I’m inside a giant vagina!” she’d screamed.