by Amy Poeppel
“But I’d likely come alone.”
“There’s plenty of room here,” Nicholas said graciously. “Honestly, I’m rattling around all by myself.”
“I’ll figure out the details, and I’ll call you back tonight. Most likely, I’ll be on my own.”
“Lovely,” said Nicholas cheerfully. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
As Gavin drove back to the resort, Danny fell sound asleep, giving him a moment of peace. A few days with Nicholas, Gavin hoped, could provide all kinds of insight into Bridget’s family and might even shed some light on why Gavin was being included in the wedding in such an important way. Had Bridget had a change of heart about him?
And how, he wondered, could he best broach the topic with Juliette?
22
August was hot and dry; the ponds were low, the grass was brown, and Bridget’s yard did not have the youthful beauty of early summer. It looked tired.
Bridget, on the other hand, was invigorated. Isabelle must have noticed how much more time she was spending alone in the living room with her cello and was careful never to interrupt. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about the other distractions; Bridget just had to play through them. She had a team of people helping whip her once-neglected house into shape, and it was noisy all the time. Chain saws were chopping down trees and cutting off limbs, and hammers were pounding new raw shingles onto the porch roof. Elliot, who Kevin had failed to mention was an actual architect, had another set of workers in the barn who were painstakingly sanding down, bleaching, and sealing the old floorboards. Eventually, he told her, they would whitewash the walls, replace the hardware on all the windows, and paint the door a beautiful muted red. Elliot had brought over paint swatches, all of which looked identical to her, and he explained how each red complemented, in its own way, the style and age of the structure. They’d finally chosen one. Thank God, Bridget thought, they weren’t in a hurry to get the project done.
It was already hot this early in the day, and from the spot where Bridget was sitting on the floor of the bedroom, she had a good view of the barn. Having practiced for three hours, she was now confronting a mountain of clothes she’d pulled out of her dresser drawers, systematically sorting them into piles: to keep, to trash, and to give away. It was the discovery of a nursing bra in the back of her top drawer that had launched this particular cleanup of her bedroom. She’d found old moth-eaten sweaters, dozens of single socks, ratty T-shirts the mice had chewed, and jeans that, sadly, no longer fit and didn’t have any intention of doing so in the future.
As she went through the pile of clothes, she suddenly missed having Oscar’s dogs around. Normally during an activity like this one, they would have barged clumsily into her room for a visit, curious to know what she was doing on the floor. Bear would have snurffled and drooled on the threadbare T-shirts, and Hadley would have wandered away with a lone ski sock in his mouth. Oscar and Matt were together in DC, which, she kept reminding herself, was a very, very, very good thing. But she felt, irrationally maybe, like she’d been cheated, that her summer with her son had been unfairly cut short by a whole month, even if it was for the best possible reason. Oscar had been gone for over a week, and Bridget was missing everything about him, from his shedding dogs to his cereal bowls on the kitchen counter to his bad jokes.
At least she still had Isabelle to keep her company—Isabelle, who was enjoying a home-improvement binge of her own, spending much of her time walking around the house with a gallon of shiny white trim paint and a brush, touching up all the door frames, chair rails, and crown molding. There were Don’t Touch! signs taped to every window.
Once Bridget got to the bottom of her sort pile, she started to go through the clothes hanging in her closet. She found blazers from the ’80s and overalls and denim skirts from the ’90s. She had used this oversize closet as a dumping ground, accumulating stuff she should have gotten rid of in New York decades before. She took shirt after flannel shirt from their hangers, sundresses and tiered skirts, garments she would never wear anymore, and added them all to the growing pile for the charity clothing bin. By the time she was finished, there wasn’t much left: some jeans and sweatshirts, a linen skirt, and a raincoat. Clothes she could fit into a single suitcase.
And there in the spacious closet, which she could now see needed a fresh coat of paint, hanging in all its embroidered glory, was the dress from Lottie. Isabelle had already tried on her dirndl, and it fit beautifully. She walked into the kitchen one morning, looking like a Bavarian milkmaid, and Kevin had lost his ability to speak at the sight of her. “Will you be my date at the wedding?” she’d asked him. Bridget smiled as Kevin opened his mouth, put his hand on his heart, and nodded.
Now it was Bridget’s turn. Closing the door to her room, Bridget undressed, pulled the tissue from the sleeves of the blouse, and put it on first before stepping into the skirt and finally trying on the bodice, discovering right away, and quite miserably, that all the parts of the dress were a size too small. Her boobs spilled out of the blouse in a way that was sloppy rather than sexy, and the skirt squatted unflatteringly on her hips. The apron made her stomach look paunchy and the bodice was far too tight. Shit, Bridget thought. She could get it altered, she hoped—but where? She stared at her reflection, looking like she was backstage at a theater, playing dress-up in some skinny girl’s costume.
Rather than take a brisk walk or do a set of sit-ups, both of which sounded like good ideas, Bridget hung the dress back up, put on loose jeans, and carried all the giveaway clothes out to her car.
Her confidence had taken a few hits recently. Bridget had enjoyed her lunch with Randall, but he hadn’t bothered to contact her since then. Nor had he tried to kiss her when they’d said good-bye. Sure, she was living over two hours away, and yes, she’d told him she was thinking about moving to England, but they’d had a nice time together, hadn’t they? And although she’d found the courage to submit her CV and application for the orchestra position in London, along with a cover letter that had struck just the right tone—amiable and professional—she hadn’t heard anything back from them either, and it hurt her feelings. She worried they wouldn’t even give her the chance to audition.
* * *
Early that afternoon, she went outside, stretching her back as she looked across the yard. There was no sign of Henry, who’d taken to disappearing for days at a time and wouldn’t let Bridget near him anymore. In two short months, he’d gone feral, slinking away from anyone who approached, and Bridget had finally resorted to leaving food and water bowls in the garage to make sure he was eating. The idea of making him return to their cramped New York apartment was getting harder to imagine with each passing week. As she went looking for him—in the barn, in the garage, around the pond—she spotted him under a bush near the driveway, noticing with relief that his tick collar was still on. “Hi, Henry,” she said, “good kitty.” She held her hand out, fingers pinched together as though she were holding something enticing, a piece of turkey or a scrap of tuna. He took a step toward her, his whiskers twitching, but bolted away at the sound of Bridget’s phone ringing in her pocket.
“You and Gwen were right,” Jackie said before Bridget had even said hello. “They’re very high-maintenance.”
“Who?”
“The composers. The Russian woman is lactose-intolerant and gluten-free, and the Greek guy, who looks like a model, is allergic to down, and don’t get me started on the French one, who already rearranged the furniture in his room and pretty much gave Marge a heart attack when he tried to move an antique dresser on his own. Mr. Stratton wants you to come for dinner.”
Bridget gave up on Henry and walked out into the field. “You haven’t exactly sold me on the idea of coming over.”
Jackie paused and then said, “Did I mention the Greek composer is very handsome? And smart and funny. And the Russian one is…” Her voice trailed off, and Bridget heard Jackie sniffing.
“The Russian one’s what? Are you ok
ay?”
“Sorry, something smells bad. The Russian one is very weird.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw Henry dart from the row of bushes across to the barn, chasing a grasshopper or field mouse. “I shouldn’t interfere on their first night,” Bridget said. “Wouldn’t my dad rather spend time with them alone, lecturing them on principles of Schenkerian analysis or something? Why would he want me around?”
“Because…” She paused and then whispered, “Mrs. Lang is here.”
“Lottie! Since when?”
The idea that Lottie had kept her arrival a secret was odd and precisely the kind of thing Edward would do, demonstrating independence as if to prove a point.
“She got here an hour ago. She’s like a movie star. She showed up with seven suitcases, a whole set of fancy Rimowa luggage.” Jackie then whispered something completely incomprehensible.
“Say that again,” said Bridget. “I can’t hear you.”
“Hang on,” Jackie said. Bridget heard a door close, and then Jackie said in quiet voice, “She asked for her own bedroom.”
“How proper,” Bridget said. She looked up and saw Elliot coming out of the barn, wearing a pink button-down shirt tucked neatly into his jeans.
“Is that, you know, like, an old-age thing?” Jackie asked. “Also, her son has called her four times already.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but it sounded like she was fighting with him. Or maybe that’s just how German sounds.”
Elliot looked up and gave Bridget a wave. He had a kind, stubbly face that made her want to place her hand on his jaw. He was more attractive than Randall, but so soft-spoken, his voice made her sleepy. He was walking toward her now, pencil tucked behind one ear. “Hang on a sec, Jackie.”
“Sorry,” Elliot said as he approached. “We can talk later if you want.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Bridget.
“I’ve been thinking about the best way to light the barn, aesthetically and practically, now that you’ve got power over there. But it depends somewhat on how you’ll be using the space.”
Bridget hadn’t given that much thought. So far all she was trying to do was keep it from collapsing in on itself. “What are your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking rustic fixtures for the exterior of the barn,” Elliot was saying, almost in a whisper, “and I happen to know a few shops that make really cool vintage ones. Sort of industrial chic.”
“Nice,” she said. “You want me to go look at them?”
“We could go together. Say, tomorrow? Or next week if that’s better? No rush, of course.”
Before Bridget could respond, she heard her name being called from far away, urgently, loudly. She remembered the phone in her hand and quickly put it to her ear. “Jackie, sorry. Elliot’s here and—”
“Oh my God,” Jackie said frantically. There was the sound of loud, high-pitched ringing in the background. “Marge, call 9-1-1!”
Bridget pressed the phone to her ear. “What? Is it my dad? Jackie!”
“It’s the house,” Jackie said and hung up the phone.
* * *
The fire department sent two large trucks, one smaller one, an ambulance, and a police cruiser up the mountain to Edward’s estate.
By the time Bridget arrived, Edward was in the driveway sitting up on a stretcher, with an oxygen mask over his face, and there was Lottie beside him, holding his hand as she leaned over to talk to him.
Bridget ran to them before even finding out what was happening, noticing with relief that Lottie seemed perfectly calm. Her linen pants looked like they were fresh off the rack, barely rumpled, although she had probably been wearing them since getting on the plane in Munich early that morning. Her hair was silver and perfectly in place, and she was wearing her signature bold red lipstick.
“What a welcome,” said Bridget, hugging Lottie politely and kissing her dad on his sooty forehead. “Are you okay? What on earth happened?”
Lottie held Bridget’s hands. “It vas a mishap,” she said.
By the looks of things, “mishap” sounded like an absurd understatement. “Disaster” was more like it.
“How did the fire start?” asked Bridget.
“We haven’t the faintest idea,” said Lottie. “One moment we’re having our coffee, I go off to unpack, and the next sing I know, fire everyvere.” She raised her shoulders. “Vat can you do?”
“But I can’t believe this,” said Bridget. “And you just arrived. You should be resting after such a long trip, and instead…” Bridget gestured toward the flashing lights and the fire hoses.
“No, I never rest,” said Lottie. “I don’t believe in naps. And I hate to see everyone looking so glum. Here’s the good news, darling, which I told your father: everysing can be fixed.” She waved her hands as if performing a magic trick. “It only takes time and money, and the house vill be like new again.” But she wasn’t looking at the house at all; she was looking at Bridget, holding her hands up and out to her sides as if to inspect her. “You haven’t changed a bit, do you know that? To me, you’ll always be the eight-year-old girl in the Florence Eiseman dress, sitting on your father’s lap. You look so like your mother, but I suppose you hear that all the time.”
Bridget didn’t hear that almost ever, not because it wasn’t true but because her mother had been gone for so long, no one thought to draw the comparison.
There were shouts and the sound of a window breaking.
“So many memories of you. You vere such a dear little girl,” Lottie said, ignoring the shattering glass. “I’m overjoyed to see you and to be here at last.”
Bridget thought her attitude was remarkable.
As if reading Bridget’s mind, Edward lowered the mask and said, “Isn’t Lottie wonderful? I would be in despair if she weren’t here.”
Lottie smiled at him. “Leonardo da Vinci said, ‘I love those who can smile in trouble,’ so that’s vat I try to do.” Her phone rang, and she looked at the screen. “Achhh,” she said, sounding like she was coughing up a hairball, “Hans, noch einmal— You remember Hans, ja?”
“How is he?”
“He vorries about me too much; it’s getting on my nerves. He should spend more time sinking about his own problems.” She gave Edward’s hand a squeeze and walked off to take the call.
“What problems does Hans have?” Bridget asked her father.
“He’s unhappy,” Edward said with a cough.
“Are you okay?”
Edward nodded. “Go check on my scores and books.”
Scores and books seemed the least of the problems, but Bridget nodded. “I’ll be back.”
The three composers were huddled together under a tree in the courtyard, watching the drama unfold. Bridget studied them, trying to determine which one of them had lit her father’s house on fire. Was it the stocky, dark-haired woman with wire-frame glasses, wearing a scarf around her neck in August, a sheath of papers under her arm? Or was it the tall, gorgeous, broad-shouldered boy, clutching his laptop to his barely buttoned linen shirt? Or could it have been the thin-lipped, dark-haired man in rubber sandals who was (aha!) smoking a cigarette with one hand and grasping at his thinning hair with the other? Bridget put her money on the smoker.
She went over to Jackie and Marge and whispered, “Did flip-flops over there light his curtains on fire?”
Marge, Bridget realized, was crying. Bridget put her arm around her.
“Edward’s room got the worst of it,” Marge said. “I put the composers in three rooms right above his, so who knows where it started. Thank God no one got hurt.”
“How far did it spread?”
“We don’t know,” said Marge. “The alarm went off, and Jackie and I got everyone out. We all ran outside and waited for the trucks.” Marge dabbed at her eyes with a dishcloth.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Bridget said, the thought flashing through her mind that someone could have actually died in this accident.<
br />
“Those firemen are brutes,” said Jackie. “They’re breaking the windows on purpose—”
“—and they’re wearing their boots in the house,” added Marge.
“At least they’re here, getting the job done,” Bridget said.
As if on cue, the firemen came sauntering out the front door, hoses trailing limply behind them. One of them, the last to emerge, was approaching them with muscular purpose, striding across the courtyard with his helmet straps loose and a heavy axe in his right hand. His chiseled superhero face was perfectly dappled in soot, and the only thing missing from this image was a golden retriever puppy tucked under his arm. Were his shoulders really that broad, or was it an illusion caused by his uniform? And what was it about the way his suspenders looped down next to his thighs that made him look so sexy, like the rest of his clothes might accidentally slide off?
Bridget, Jackie, and Marge all took a few steps toward him.
“We’re done here,” he said. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his lovely hair. Was it slightly gray, or was that ash? Both, she decided, as a plume of dust shimmered around his head like a halo. “You’ll need the name of a good company that cleans up fire and water damage.”
“How bad is it?” Bridget asked.
“You’re lucky the fire was contained to the downstairs bedroom, hallway, and entry. I don’t know for sure, but it looks like someone dropped a shirt or something over a halogen fixture.”
He handed Bridget a swatch of burned material.
“Edward’s cravat,” sighed Marge.
“Dad’s?” Bridget asked, but she knew the answer as soon as she saw the tiny scrap of blue-and-burgundy paisley fabric in the palm of her hand. It was Edward’s. Edward’s room. Edward’s sconce. She apologized in her head to the thin-lipped smoker. “The rest of the house,” Bridget said, “the library at the back, the bedrooms upstairs, everything else is okay? My father has music scores and books that are really valuable. And a piano…”