“Hello! Everyone! Hamilton, sit. Evelyn, hello, the Fruit Stripe is sailing again this year so you won’t be helping on the rigging. You must be Scot, welcome. Nick, thank you for doing pickup. I’m on my way to the Fruit Stripe meeting and then I have to stop by the town library before it closes. Preston, will you call the librarian and have her keep it open for me until six-fifteen? And it will be drinks at six-thirty, dinner at eight.”
In Boston, where Preston’s parents lived most of the year, Mrs. Hacking had joined a highly competitive masters’ rowing team called Mildred’s Moms and had taken to doing weight lifting. She was an excellent gardener, and had recently enrolled in a landscaping course. She had a fine memory, as evidenced by her vivid recollection of Evelyn’s rigging error from years ago. She was a fierce hostess, and had been one of the top fund-raisers for Romney for Governor. The one thing Mrs. Hacking did not do was dishes.
The phone rang, and Mrs. Hacking picked it up and began arguing over how many trays of crudités the Fruit Stripe would require. Evelyn peeked into the living room, where Mr. Hacking was sitting in front of the fire with a thick hardbound book, and Bing, a hearty, doughy type, was telling a story about the Porcellian to the room, though no one appeared to be listening.
Toward the window, which looked out onto a porch and then down to the ice-calm lake, an anxious-looking red-haired woman with a thin ponytail was pacing, talking at eight-year-old Pip, who was curled up in a chair with her eyes closed. “Do you think I should practice? I’m afraid it’s going to rain. The weather report said it would rain earlier in the day, but it didn’t, and I should take a boat out, but it looks like it’s going to rain. Don’t you think it looks like it’s going to rain?” Chrissie, Evelyn knew without having to check with Preston.
Evelyn took this all in, then looked back to Mrs. Hacking, who held up one finger as she listened to the other end of the line. “Margot, there are thirty-three boats entered this year, so that’s at least sixty-six people in need of sustenance—fine, fine. Very well.” She hung up the phone, then clapped at the group. “Now, let’s see. Evelyn, you’ll be on the second floor in the writing room, and Charlotte will be just down the hall. Nick and Scot, I’m sorry to say that you’ll be in the maid’s quarters this weekend, at the back of the house; we’re simply oversubscribed.”
“Mrs. Hacking,” Evelyn said, realizing she needed to atone for the rigging error if she wanted help with PLU introductions this weekend, “I’d love to be in the maid’s room. I think it’s really charming. And it’s Scot’s first time here—he should have the view. Charlotte and I will do the maid’s room. Really.”
“All right. I can’t say anyone else volunteered,” Mrs. Hacking said, reassessing Evelyn and then leaning toward the living room to look pointedly at Chrissie. “Good. Thank you.”
Evelyn picked up her bag and walked through the kitchen, through the pantry, and into the maid’s room. She heard Mrs. Hacking saying, “Chrissie, why don’t you stop worrying about whether to sail and just sail? Yes?”
The room had whitewashed walls and two twin beds that took up nearly the entire space. A big leather duffel was at the end of one, which must have been Nick’s; she heard him clomping behind her.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks. That would’ve been gay if I had to sleep with Scot.”
“A guest’s duty, Nick,” Evelyn said, floating her hand into the air.
He grunted as he picked up the bag and left.
*
Dusk was approaching, and birds whittered and cawed, passing messages about dinner and why the nest was such a mess. Charlotte was snickering as Evelyn changed into a pair of white slacks and a navy cable-knit sweater; when Evelyn added a string of pearls, Charlotte fell back on her bed laughing. “Oh, come on,” she hooted.
“I think I look grand,” Evelyn said, baring her teeth in the mirror as she pulled the choker around her neck.
Charlotte kicked her feet in the air; her soles were dirty, as Charlotte had been chasing Hamilton on the grass all afternoon, with Hamilton and then Charlotte alternately jumping into the water to escape capture. As they had shrieked around, Mrs. Hacking shouted at her to be careful of getting the dog too riled up, and Charlotte had given a thumbs-up, then kept on chasing Hamilton. Charlotte had enough money—had always had enough money—that she didn’t have to worry about her behavior. Charlotte’s father had been one of the top marketing executives for Procter & Gamble, specializing in global markets, and Charlotte had been pulled from kindergarten in Cincinnati to live in places like Hong Kong and Russia and Chile. Charlotte was fluent in Cantonese, Arabic, French, and Spanish, decent at Turkish and Russian, and conversational in about ten other languages that she insisted on ordering in when she dragged Evelyn to outer-borough ethnic restaurants. While she’d grown up in rich expat communities, gone to sleek international schools, and had plenty of money, Charlotte didn’t think money alone made people interesting.
Charlotte’s father had gone just to Harvard B-School and was enormously proud of his daughter, the first of the three Macmillan kids to do double-Harvard. Charlotte liked the power of being a female among men, whether it was sparring with her brothers or hopping on planes with moguls or winning enormous amounts at the Belmont Stakes with her father or being the only woman on a hot acquisition at Graystone. Evelyn could guess how much money Charlotte made—somewhere between $200,000 and $400,000 a year—but Charlotte lived in an Ikea-furnished basement apartment in Midtown because it was a five-minute walk from her office, and most of her wardrobe came from the Gap.
Charlotte’s four years at Sheffield had been the longest she’d lived anywhere to that point, making Preston and Evelyn her closest friends by default. With little time to cultivate a social life these days, she ended up doing what Preston and Evelyn were doing. When they went to places like Lake James, Charlotte was fine with it. She’d spent her youth going to rich people’s events in cultures that weren’t hers and was perfectly comfortable doing so still.
“I forgot to tell you,” Evelyn said, fumbling with the necklace clasp. “Phil Giamatti, at Sheffield-Enfield? He basically insinuated Pres was gay while Pres was standing there.”
“Really?” Charlotte said. “He should’ve seen Pres sticking his tongue down that girl’s throat at Dorrian’s that one time after we spent all Saturday at the Boathouse.”
“That was two years ago,” Evelyn said.
“So?”
“So that was the last time he kissed anyone, as far as I know. I’m not sure he would come out even if he were gay, as his family has such strict ideas of what he should be—or, more to the point, he thinks they have those ideas. The thing is—” She stopped herself, noticing that Charlotte was picking at her feet and remembering that Charlotte hadn’t hooked up with anyone in a year or two, either. Evelyn flushed, feeling even more like an idiot when she remembered the unspoken Charlotte and Preston incident: In college, they had all met up one weekend in New York, and had ended up in the lobby of the Royalton after a long night of drinking. Evelyn was coming back from the bathroom when she saw Charlotte pull Preston’s face down to hers and kiss him soundly on the mouth. Evelyn froze as Charlotte leaned in for more, but Preston pulled back and, not unkindly, patted Charlotte on the head then offered her some water. When Evelyn shook off her shock and rejoined them, both were settled into the Royalton’s deep white chairs, conversing about where Preston could find cigars. Neither Charlotte nor Preston had ever mentioned it. Preston kept so much under wraps that that wasn’t a surprise, but Charlotte never talking about it made Evelyn wonder how significant that kiss was in Charlotte’s mind.
“Anyway, I’m not sure we need Phil Giamatti’s take on it. Like, thanks, thought police,” Evelyn said.
“Here, you’re going to break that.” Charlotte rose to fasten Evelyn’s clasp. “I think Preston’s just not into the whole dating thing.”
“Right,” Evelyn said. “Right.”
“Want to know my opinion of Preston’s dem
ons?” Charlotte asked. “I think it’s that he doesn’t have a real job.”
“Good work with the clasp, Char,” Evelyn said, adjusting the necklace slightly. “Doesn’t Pres manage his family’s money?”
“‘Independent investor’? I love Preston, but it’s the modern-day equivalent of flâneur or saloniste or something. What rich boys do to amuse themselves.”
“He’s so smart, though.”
“Right. He is. He’s super smart, but since he doesn’t have to work, it’s like there’s nowhere for that smartness to go.”
“Oh, the curse of money.”
“Yeah. Tough life. So, G and Ts on the boathouse porch?” Charlotte said, laughing as she slipped on her flip-flops. Evelyn headed down to the boathouse along a side path, Charlotte skipping ahead of her. The sun had finally appeared just in time for golden hour, and it perched on the crest of the mountains across the lake, lighting everything and everyone with Hollywood rose-gold. Preston stood behind a wooden bar in the corner of the porch, mixing drinks. Chrissie had made the mistake of finally deciding to take a sailboat out, but too late, which meant she would miss drinks, which meant Mrs. Hacking would be angrier with her than she already was. The rest were settling into their roles: Preston the attentive host, Nick the caustic friend, Charlotte the tough single girl, Bing the booming frat boy, Mr. Hacking the quiet intellectual, Chrissie the person they were all apparently siding against. And Evelyn, the perfectly pleasing houseguest.
“So, Evelyn, was the train up with Scot killer?” asked Nick. “I’m impressed you’re still responding to verbal cues.”
“I thought he was your friend,” Evelyn said.
“Scot’s the man Nick wants to be, basically,” Charlotte said. “Pres, can you get Ev a little something-something?”
“For fuck’s sake, Hillary, he’s not the man I want to be.” Evelyn had forgotten about Nick’s moniker for Charlotte—Hillary, after Clinton.
“Whatever. Matter of time. Scot’s much adored at Morgan Stanley, Ev—a protégé of David Greenbaum—so Nick thought he’d take him to see the sporting life for the weekend,” Charlotte said, then made exaggerated kissing noises.
“Who’s David Greenbaum?” Evelyn said.
“The head of the media group, which Nick has been trying to get into. Greenbaum’s probably going to be the next chairman of Morgan Stanley and then the next Treasury secretary someday.”
“You want to do media?” Evelyn said to Nick.
“I want to do power,” Nick said.
Evelyn widened her eyes at Charlotte. This was why she generally avoided seeing Nick.
“The kid’s from, like, Arizona and presumably has never seen a lake. I thought it might be nice. A little Fresh Air Fund,” Nick said.
“I don’t think a VP at Morgan Stanley is in need of your Fresh Air Fund, Nick,” Charlotte muttered.
“No one asked you, Hill. So you’ve been hiding from the social life, Evelyn. What’s new?”
Evelyn hated answering this question, since she rarely had much new to report—would he like to discuss whether she should get the Crate & Barrel couch in the sand or in the snow fabric? This time, though, she was prepared. “I just got a new job, actually,” she said.
“Oh, yeah? Too bad, I was going to give you a book idea. You wanna hear it? It’s on why Bernanke sucks.”
“Right,” Evelyn said. She had worked in marketing at a textbook publisher, doing research on market trends and creating presentations for buyers, but no matter how many times she had told that to Nick, whenever she saw him he offered lame ideas for business books. “The site is pretty interesting. We’re in stealth mode, so I can’t say too much.” She had heard Arun refer to the site as being in stealth mode and had thought it sounded absurd but predicted, correctly, that this would pique Nick’s interest.
“Stealth mode?” he said. “Do tell.”
“Well, I have to be careful about what I say—our backer is high profile—but think a super elite Facebook. It’s pretty restrictive in terms of membership, though—oh, excuse me for a second, would you?” Evelyn walked off, hoping she’d left Nick wanting more. Charlotte had gone to the bar, standing on her tiptoes and talking to Preston, and Evelyn joined them.
“Beer? We have Ubu, though be warned it has the alcohol level of straight liquor,” Preston said.
“Gin and tonic,” Evelyn said.
“Gin and tonic?” Preston repeated, surprised.
“Yes.” Evelyn could see Charlotte’s questioning look but ignored it. They then heard a crash, as Scot had apparently tripped and caught himself on the screen door. His face was deep red as he clung to the flimsy wood-and-screen frame.
“What’s his story?” Evelyn asked Charlotte quietly, as Preston cut into a lime and the rest of the group pretended, kindly, not to have seen anything amiss.
“Scot? I don’t really know him, but he’s really smart. Graystone would hire him in a second. Undergrad somewhere random, HBS a couple years before me, where he met Greenbaum through some professor. I can’t remember the story, but Greenbaum recruited him and made him a VP in a hot second. Single, obviously. He’s brilliant on deal analysis, apparently. Nick can’t stand him, though—Scot’s a level above him now—but he’s smart enough to get Scot on his side. Blatant suck-up-ery.”
“Hmm.” Evelyn turned to Preston. “Pres, could you make that two G and Ts?” She stepped into a pool of sunlight and put what she hoped was a placid look on her face.
Charlotte snorted when she saw the beatific smile Evelyn was displaying. “Ev, why do you look possessed?”
“Not possessed, Charlotte, dear. In recruitment mode.” PLU was going to need up-and-coming people on the site at some point. It would be smart to at least make the connection now. With the fresh gin and tonic in her hand, Evelyn approached Scot and offered it to him. “I thought you could use a drink after the long train ride,” she said.
”Oh. Gosh. Thanks. Thank you.” He wrapped his large fingers around it, sloshing some over the side onto Evelyn’s hand; she let the liquid sit there rather than wringing it off and risk making him feel even more ill at ease. “I was late because I thought Hamilton’s dog treats were cookies and ate some,” he blurted.
Evelyn gave him an it-happens-to-everyone smile.
*
At dinner, served at a long wooden table with antler candelabras, hunting-themed place mats, and stiff wooden-wicker seats, Evelyn practiced. A dinner party with old-money sorts was a series of hurdles that Evelyn had to clear if she wanted to come away from this weekend with PLU members. She remembered much of the etiquette that her mother had burned into her once they moved into Sag Neck, and as she flirt-talked with the ancient neighbors seated on either side of her, she revived her muscle memory to scoop her soup spoon away from her.
Still, she felt like an interloper. She was constantly afraid of using the wrong fork or overreaching for the salt or making some other mistake she wasn’t even aware she was making. Like Scot, on the opposite end of the table, who was failing miserably. Evelyn had assumed that he’d have gone through enough HBS and firm dinners to pick up the rules of this set, but she detected as she watched him that he didn’t know what he didn’t know. He picked up his fork for the appetizer and dug in before anyone else, prompting a loud, “I have picked up my fork,” from Mrs. Hacking several moments later. He buttered his bread in one piece; he passed the saltshaker without the pepper; he didn’t seem to have any idea what to do with the fish knife during the sole course and left it at the side of his plate.
Part of the game, Evelyn thought as she watched the rest of them separating the sole’s flesh from its spine with their fish knives, was to prove that they all knew the same code, that they’d all grown up in the same great country houses using fish knives every night. They hadn’t, of course—no one did anymore—but without any actual aristocracy in America, the best those who wanted to be upper class could do was create systems of exclusivity and codes of conduct. She wondered how well
she was passing as she used her fish knife to lift a delicate flake of sole from the spine and turned to Mr. Desrochers to inquire about how iron-ore mining had changed in the last decade.
During dessert, Scot used his spoon to break into a chocolate torte and then dumped milk into his espresso shot, earning a sharp cough from Mr. Van Borgh on Evelyn’s left.
Scot soon made himself welcome to at least Mr. Hacking, though, given the homework he had done.
“Shuh-shuh-gah is one of the great camps?” Scot was saying.
“It was once,” Mrs. Hacking said. “Split up and sold for parts when the Levelings needed money.”
“We’ll see one of the great camps tomorrow,” said Mr. Hacking, an even thinner model of Preston who spent minimal time in the great outdoors but for golfing. He was taking dollhouse-spoon-sized bites of his torte, chewing each bite so mildly and slowly that Evelyn feared they would be at dinner for hours longer. “Camp Sachem. They’re having the dinner for the Fruit Stripe.”
“I read about that camp,” said Scot with excitement. “It was a Rockefeller camp, wasn’t it?”
“Thank you for not tipping your chair,” Mrs. Hacking said to her husband, who righted himself quickly.
“No, you’re thinking of Wonundra,” Mr. Hacking said. “Sachem was owned by, among others, the Stokes family, the merchant line. A daughter inherited everything and then married into the Hennings, who, of course—”
“The Beech-Nut fortune!” Scot said, unable to contain his excitement.
Mr. Hacking looked immensely sad that his punch line had been stolen, and he gave a dour nod.
“The Beech-Nut fortune was a grand fortune,” Mr. Van Borgh opined through what sounded like ounces of phlegm; Evelyn tried to shield her torte from his spray. “Built much of the Erie Canal. And the Henning girls always married well. A Vanderbilt here, a Hunt there. Smart, I think, to limit the breeding. Kept it in the family.”
“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked.
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