by Amy Poeppel
He pushed his empty cart back to the store and then went back to the car, sitting in the driver’s seat while the ice cream went soft in its tub.
There was a time when musicians would have given their left nut to play with them, but here was this inexperienced girl acting as though she was doing them a huge favor.
The fact that they were finally working on their “brand” was a good thing, no matter who was in the trio, and for that Will was grateful. They’d gotten the kick in the pants they’d needed. Bridget had already paid a brand/logo lady, and Will had met with Jisoo’s friend Brendan from NYU’s engineering school. He asked all sorts of questions Will didn’t know the answers to, using normal words Will didn’t understand in this context (“platform,” “domain,” “content,” “host,” “conversion”). In any case, though he might not have grasped the details, Forsyth was getting a whole new website, and Brendan only charged him $300.
“Just Venmo me, dude, and I’ll get started.”
Then he had to explain what Venmo was.
Obviously, Caroline would be good for them. She would generate a new, possibly younger audience and the press attention they sorely needed. They would be playing better festivals and better venues because they had Randall doing their booking.
But chemistry mattered, too, and the chemistry with Caroline was clearly going to be lousy.
The chemistry was bad with Gavin, but as a trio, they’d been successful in spite of that. The three of them would rehearse diligently in their studio, Gavin watching Bridget, Bridget watching Will, and Will watching Gavin watch Bridget. Gavin was at least a little in love with her—that was obvious from their first days together at Juilliard. Of the three of them, Bridget was the native New Yorker, the one who could take them fun places on the subway, from clubs in Harlem to the boardwalk on Coney Island, without ever getting lost. She might have been insecure as a cellist, but she was confident in every other respect, not to mention beautiful and interesting, the daughter of a famous father. To Will and Gavin, although they never discussed it, she was perfect. On more than one occasion, Will saw Gavin ogling her, trying to flirt in his cocky, childish way, but Bridget never gave him the slightest encouragement. She was too cool for him.
Sure, the three of them had some beers and laughs together as well. Given the conversation they’d just had, it was hard for Will to imagine having a laugh or a beer with Caroline, but maybe that was okay. They would have a professional relationship, but likely not a personal friendship, and that would have to be enough.
* * *
Isabelle had told Will to “go for it,” so in spite of the melting ice cream in the backseat, he took a left out of the parking lot and drove to the nursery. Emma wasn’t in front by the parking lot where he’d seen her the day before, nor was she in the pavilion that was filled with flowering plants hanging on hooks. She wasn’t in the store either, and he nodded his head at the young guy in a Pink Floyd T-shirt standing at the cash register.
“Can I help you find anything?” he asked.
“Just looking,” said Will casually as he wandered into the greenhouse, which was damp and warm. It smelled like a tropical swamp, earth full of minerals and decay, and Will felt like he was breathing underwater. There were citrus trees, ferns, and orchids, all of which he could identify but only because of the signs. Was that her loopy, carefree handwriting?
If he played piano for her, would she be impressed by his fast, expert fingering, his precision, his concentration? Would she smile at the end of the piece—something by Rachmaninoff maybe—if he found her in the audience? He would smile back and wink.
Then again, maybe she hates classical music. Maybe she hates men. Maybe she’s happily married. He didn’t know anything except that he felt a longing, an urge to know her. Experiencing such a strong attraction was not new to him, but something about this woman made him feel they’d seen something in each other, felt something reciprocal. Will touched his finger to a cactus needle.
“Hello, again.” Emma was wearing a long-tiered skirt, a tight white T-shirt, and beaded chandelier earrings. Her leather bracelets made her wrists look small. She was leaning on a shovel and smiling at him. Her mouth was perfect. “Forget something?”
Will swallowed and felt dizzy.
Emma tilted her head. “I’m surprised to see you again,” she said. She took one of his hands and examined it, the clean nails, the smooth skin. Will’s stomach did a little flip as she ran her thumb over his knuckles. “You don’t seem to be much of a gardener.”
* * *
When he got back to Bridget’s house, Will opened the back hatch of the car to retrieve a forty-pound bag of topsoil, which he deposited next to the rhododendron. He then returned to the car to get the groceries he’d bought for dinner. A sound made him stop in his tracks, and he looked out in the field, spotting something that confounded him: there was a pack of dogs— No, there were sheep all over the place, some standing together in a huddle like they were gossiping, heads down and bleating, some off on their own. He thought he was hallucinating. He blinked and used his hand to block the sun. A fence had been erected, starting at the shed door of Batshit Barn and circling around the field, and inside the new enclosure was a flock of sheep. Will tried counting them.
Hudson was barking inside the house, but before letting him out, Will carried the groceries to the kitchen and threw the melted ice cream in the trash. Dinner was still happening in spite of Edward’s fall. He felt guilty that he’d missed Bridget’s call saying she needed the car; he’d been chatting with Emma and ignored his ringing phone. Good thing Frank had been able to drive them. Gwen had texted later from the hospital: We’ve got BIG news. There better be a whole lot of wine. He’d taken that hint and stopped at the liquor store, leaving his checking account with about ninety dollars in it. Although the ice cream was a loss, he had everything he needed to prepare a dinner of grilled chicken, scalloped potatoes, corn on the cob, and a salad.
From the breakfast room, he looked out into the field and saw a man outside working to secure the new fencing to the side of the shed. It took a moment before he could convince himself that this broad-shouldered, rugged dude was, in fact, Kevin.
Will went upstairs to the loft to let Hudson outside, and they walked together to get a closer look at the field that had somehow been turned into a corral. The sun was high. Will felt the warmth on his back and rolled up his sleeves as he walked across the field to the barn. “Hey, Kevin, what’s all this?”
Kevin, sweaty and out of breath, grinned, and took off his baseball cap. His hands were filthy, and Will was glad he didn’t offer one in greeting.
“Borrowed these fellas from my buddy,” he said, nodding his chin in the direction of the sheep and putting his cap on backward.
This response in no way helped Will understand what was going on. “Why?”
“Ms. Stratton said she wanted her lawn cut.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So… sheep,” Kevin said as if that explained everything. “Since you’re here,” he added, and he pointed to the barn, “can you give me a quick hand? The guys had to leave before we got finished.”
Will shuddered. Oh, hell no. But Kevin was looking at him as though he were issuing a generous invitation.
“Sure,” Will said. They went into the filthy barn, and following Kevin’s directions, he helped move a pile of hay from one part of the barn to another (without knowing why) using a pitchfork. An actual pitchfork! He’d never held one before. While Hudson watched, he then used a shovel to spread pine shavings in the shed stalls. When he was done, Kevin handed him two empty buckets he found in a pile of crap that included a pair of petrified boots, some empty paint cans, random pieces of lumber, and a stack of old tiles. Will ran water from the spigot by the damaged tennis court. He lugged the buckets back across the lawn, water slopping onto his shoes, and emptied them into an old galvanized metal trough. And then Kevin sent him to do it again, three more times. He showed Will how to f
ill a mineral feeder and asked him to check the fencing on each post to make sure it was secure. When they were done, Kevin clapped him hard on the back.
“Thanks, man, I didn’t want to do all that by myself. Teamwork, right?”
Will was itching from head to toe, convinced some kind of sheep lice had invaded his scalp. His left knee hurt, and his socks were damp. He needed a shower.
“Can I ask a question?” Will said and pointed in the direction of the rhododendron. “Could you help me put that somewhere?”
Kevin looked across the lawn where the potted plant sat by the front door. “It’ll bloom in late summer or early fall,” he said. “How about by the breakfast room?” He took a big shovel off a hook in the barn and started walking.
Kevin was such a good sport, and Will thought he could learn a lesson or two from him. He decided he would—starting right then—be a better sport about Caroline.
He grabbed another shovel and caught up to him. “Hey, Kevin,” he said. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
* * *
By four in the afternoon there was so much dirt packed under Will’s nails, he wondered if he would ever get them clean again. He and Hudson walked around the house and up to his room where he took a shower, followed by a bath, followed by a final rinse, and then he dried himself vigorously before putting on clean clothes.
His phone dinged, and he saw that Bridget had texted: My dad’s ok, but staying home w Marge. Gwen and I will be there by around 7. Wait til I tell you Edward’s news…
Will was curious to know what kind of news Edward could possibly have that would generate so much surprise. Selling his house, maybe. That would make sense at his age and would certainly cause Bridget to rethink selling her own. But would it make her more inclined to sell or less? He picked up a book, went out onto the splintery-wood deck off his room, and settled in a plastic lounge chair. Below him the peepers were croaking in the pond and the sheep were bleating by the barn, and Will found it all very pleasantly pastoral. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so wonderful in his entire life. Outdoor labor—so that’s what it feels like. He raised his shoulders, rolled them back, and stretched his neck, wondering if he was going to be sore the next day. Those buckets had been heavy. He examined a small, tight blister on his right palm, from the pitchfork, and felt a sharp, lovely pain in his heart, for Emma.
He wondered if Bridget knew about the sheep who’d made themselves perfectly at home on her property. And that’s when he heard what sounded like the engine of a race car.
Hudson began to bark loudly as a silver Porsche convertible, revving angrily, came to a jerky stop in front of the house. Will watched in complete surprise as the soft top of the car raised and folded back, revealing the brown-haired driver and his two enormous dogs. The motor went silent.
“Oscar?” Will said, stunned to see him there.
Oscar got out of the car, followed by his yellow Labrador, Hadley, Hudson’s littermate, and his black Newfoundland, Bear, both of whom ran around, joyful to have arrived. They caught sight of the livestock and began barking as they headed across the lawn. Matt, Will noticed, was glaringly absent from the scene.
“Oscar,” Will said again, louder this time, leaning over the rail from his perch on the upper deck.
Oscar looked up and waved limply.
“Hi,” Will said, smiling at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?”
“I could really use a drink,” he called.
“That can be arranged.” He decided not to ask after Matt yet.
“What’s with… all that?” Oscar said, pointing to the sheep.
“Lawn mowers,” Will said.
“What?”
Will pointed down to the door. “Meet me in the kitchen,” he said. “Need a hand?”
Oscar shook his head and then turned back to the Porsche. Will watched him pull out a duffel bag that had been wedged onto the floor of the passenger seat. Oscar then popped the tiny trunk and grabbed two stuffed-full, heavy-duty trash bags. Not the kind of packing one does for a weekend jaunt in the country. He clearly intended to stay a while. What on earth? Will thought. Isabelle had done the exact same thing: made a hasty departure, bringing everything she owned.
Before heading downstairs, Will got his phone and sent emails to the schools where he taught, telling the administrators that he had a family emergency and would be out for the entire week.
* * *
Will followed the deck around the house and took the stairs down to the back door, whistling Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” In the kitchen, he rinsed the martini shaker, iced the glasses, and pulled out the new bottle of gin he’d bought.
Oscar slouched in, looking dejected, as the dogs ran after him, bumping into each other and knocking into the legs of the breakfast room table, making the candlestick holders rattle. The cats jumped onto the kitchen counters and hissed.
“So,” Will said.
“So.” Oscar shrugged and held out his hands, helpless. Will put down the shaker, crossed the room, and hugged him.
9
Jackie was in the backseat of a car she’d never been in, with two women she didn’t know, going to a house she’d never seen, with a group of people she’d never met. In what felt like the longest damn day of her life, she’d been on the subway, on a train, in a so-called cab, in a seriously big-ass mansion, and now she was being driven down a deserted country road past barns and cows and fields to who knows where, and Jackie just wanted to go home.
Or at the very least she wanted to be working, and so far, she hadn’t exchanged a single word with her new boss. Did Mr. Stratton even know she’d arrived? No one had bothered to fill her in about what was going on, so when she’d left her five-star room and gone downstairs for coffee, all she could think of, when she caught sight of his crumpled body being tended to by paramedics, was every Law & Order episode she’d ever watched. Stupidly—and she really wished she could take it back—she’d asked Marge if he was dead. Even now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a murderer on the prowl somewhere in her midst.
“Estate”—the word itself was absurd. Who were these people? “I’ll find someone to carry your bag,” Marge had said. What? Like, there’s a bellhop on hand? And had she let Marge call for someone, was Jackie expected to tip that person? If there was a rule book for this “estate” somewhere (in the night table drawer, on the desk, under a magnet on the fridge), she wanted to get her hands on it. It was like she’d ended up in an episode of Downton fucking Abbey. And—oh my God—she’d curtsied when Marge left her in her bedroom. It was some reflex, a stupid little involuntary bend of her knees. She’d actually curtsied. Her face burned with the memory of it. She hoped Marge hadn’t noticed.
She was now in the backseat of a white Range Rover with two foil-covered pans Marge had put on her lap. The Stratton sisters, women twice her age with whom she had absolutely nothing in common, had insisted she come along for dinner, even though she’d been very clear about wanting to stay put. Gwen said she was going to change out of the ridiculous tennis getup she was in all day, so Jackie went to dress for dinner as well. She decided to go a step up in formality, so she changed into a pencil skirt and a blazer, carrying her heels down the stairs because of the no-shoes policy. And there was Gwen, wearing super cute torn jeans, a white T-shirt, a diaphanous pink scarf, and a linen jacket. Fuck, thought Jackie.
Marge got to stay home with Mr. Stratton. “You go on, dear,” she’d said, giving Jackie a little push out the door, “and have fun.”
They got in Bridget’s car, and for the first few minutes, Bridget, the older of the two, was on the phone, freaking out about something but using one of those fake-calm mom voices she recognized. When Bridget hung up, she said with a tone that was half overjoyed but half furious, “Well, guess what? Oscar’s at the house.”
“Yay!” said Gwen, sounding genuinely happy.
“No, not yay,” said Bridget.
Jackie didn’t k
now who the hell Oscar was, other than another new person to contend with.
“Apparently, Oscar brought both dogs and a ton of stuff with him,” Bridget said, “so this can’t be good.”
Jackie did not like dogs.
“And the cats are going completely crazy,” Bridget went on.
Jackie hated cats.
“You didn’t know he was coming?”
“No,” said Bridget. “And he’s alone. Something’s definitely wrong.”
“He never mentioned any problems or fights or anything?” Gwen asked.
“Oscar doesn’t open up to me like that.”
“I hope they aren’t splitting up,” Gwen said, “but if they are, I have a very good divorce lawyer.”
“Good God, Gwen!” Bridget said. “That’s a leap.”
Gwen—as if to say, Is it?—took both hands off the steering wheel and put her hands out, palms facing up. Jackie gripped the pies in her lap.
“Did Isabelle know he was coming?” Gwen asked.
Jackie had met Isabelle briefly when she’d come to the house with Bridget, just as the paramedics were wheeling Mr. Stratton out to the ambulance. Jackie didn’t want to like her, but she sort of did, and she was glad she’d be at the dinner so that at least there would be someone her own age to talk to.
“No. I don’t think she knew,” Bridget was saying. “Or if she did, she didn’t tell me.”
“Holy shit,” Gwen said, cracking herself up, “you’ve got both your kids living back at home, and we’ve got a surprise wedding at the end of the summer.”
Whose wedding? Jackie wondered, because if it was Isabelle, that bitch seriously had everything. Jackie could imagine the kind of Brooks Brothers–wearing, polo-playing, money-making frat boy she’d be marrying.