by Amy Poeppel
“So long as the items weren’t downstairs on that side of the house”—and he pointed to Edward’s wing—“they’re likely fine. But not much in the master bedroom made it.”
Bridget, with a lurching sickness, thought of the paintings. Her mother’s paintings, the Turner and Gainsborough landscapes, were gone. That realization was especially painful, and Bridget realized she, too, was about to cry.
Her face must have shown her sense of loss because the fireman put his hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s tough,” he said, “but you got really lucky today. People over possessions, that’s what I always say.”
“Yes,” said Bridget, trying to pull herself together. “Quite right.”
He walked off to his truck, giving them a wink as he climbed in.
“I know he’s got a point that we’re all okay,” said Jackie, “but if it was my nice house and all my fancy shit that got burned up, I’d lose my freaking mind.”
* * *
Bridget called Kevin as soon as the last fire truck headed down the mountain. He arrived within minutes with a group of guys who were now carrying an armoire and pedestal table, the only two pieces that survived with minimal damage, from the master bedroom into the living room, placing them on wood pallets to dry out, while Marge barked orders at them.
Finding a quiet place to talk wasn’t easy, so Bridget went into the butler’s pantry to call Gwen and tell her the news about the inferno and the arrival of Lottie and the three composers.
“Thank God everyone’s okay,” Gwen said for the third time.
“They’re fine.”
“And Lottie? What’s she like? And don’t be all diplomatic. I want the dirt.”
Bridget was tempted to mention that Lottie was being irritatingly positive through this crisis but felt guilty saying something bitchy. She looked out to the back porch, where Lottie was pacing back and forth, gesturing as she talked into her phone. “Hans keeps calling and calling. I don’t know what his problem is.”
“Oh, brother. That seems so Hans, doesn’t it? And I mean that in a bad way.”
“It’s like he doesn’t trust us,” Bridget said.
“Burning the house down probably didn’t help our case. Is he going to sue us for negligence? Pain and suffering? I wouldn’t put it past him.”
Bridget decided not to mention the soaking-wet rugs and the burned antiques. And she couldn’t bring herself to talk about the two paintings she loved, masterpieces, gone forever.
“You’re sure that Dad started the fire?” Gwen asked. “He must be mortified to have done something so careless. How do we know it wasn’t Lottie?”
“Lottie and Dad are sleeping in separate rooms.”
There was a pause. “Why?”
“Who knows. Propriety? Romantic anticipation? Closet space? In any case, we’ve got all five bedrooms in use upstairs now. Dad had to move into Jackie’s room, and Lottie’s taken yours.”
“My room?” she asked.
“Sorry.”
Gwen sighed. “Sounds too chaotic. And what are we going to do about the elephant in the room?”
Bridget didn’t know which elephant she was referring to. The paintings? The broken glass? Hans?
“Dad and Lottie obviously can’t get married in a house that’s half burned to the ground,” Gwen said.
The wedding hadn’t even entered Bridget’s mind until then. “It only a quarter burned to the ground, but… I see your point.”
They were quiet for a moment, Bridget wondering if they could move the whole event outdoors.
“There’s an obvious solution,” Gwen said.
“Find another venue. An inn?”
“An inn?” Gwen said, sounding appalled. “God, no, inns are so provincial. You host it.”
Bridget started to laugh. “I hardly think my house is the kind of setting—”
“Not your house. Your barn. You fixed the roof already and got the floors refinished. You have that nice architect working on the walls and windows. It’s a gorgeous place to have a wedding.”
Bridget closed her eyes and tried to imagine Batshit Barn as a wedding venue. “Lottie would not want to get married in my barn.” Looking out the window, Bridget could still see her talking on the phone.
“Don’t be negative,” Gwen said. “The barn is perfect. And it would go so well with those ridiculous dresses she sent us. I tried mine on, by the way, and I look very sexy, like Teri Garr in Young Frankenstein. ‘Roll, roll, roll in zhe hay,’ ” she sang. “I can’t think of a better place to wear a dress that shows that much cleavage—”
Bridget didn’t feel like mentioning her own humiliating struggle with her dress, the hooks refusing to come within an inch of the eyes. “My barn’s not ready—”
“Oh, come on. You’ve got three weeks: that’s more than enough time to do some landscaping and lighting. Throw money at the problem. It’ll be perfect. Marge already has a caterer and whatever else you need. It’ll be a cinch.”
Bridget had her doubts. “You haven’t even seen the place. Can you come up?”
“The next few weeks are absolutely crazy for me,” she said. “I’m interviewing Steve Martin.”
Bridget barely even registered the impressive drop of another big name. “When you do come,” she said, “you can stay in the loft at my house. It’s too crowded over here.”
“I don’t want to displace Will,” said Gwen.
“Will,” Bridget said, feeling like so much between them was changing, “would be happy to stay with Emma when you’re here.”
“Lucky for me that Will fell in love with a local,” said Gwen. “Synchronicity, am I right? Otherwise I’d be stuck in an inn.”
Is he in love? Bridget wondered.
After they hung up, Bridget followed the sound of hammering into what was now the ruins of Edward’s bedroom. She took in the sad sight, watching Kevin and his friends, who were nailing plywood over the broken window panes.
The rest of the house, oddly enough, was perfectly fine, and as she walked around, she thought that if it weren’t for the smell of smoke in the air, she could have pretended nothing had happened.
* * *
The skittish composers (the Russian in a modest red polka dot one-piece and bathing cap, the Frenchman in tight belted swim trunks, and the Greek in a tiny royal blue Speedo) went to the pool. Bridget wondered what the musicians were talking to each other about as they paddled around. Would they divulge to people in the music world what had happened? Bridget could imagine the Russian woman gossiping at a cocktail party in a mean whisper: One minute I’m working on my experimental opera, and next thing I know, my score almost went up in flames. The Greek boy showing off to his peers with a judgmental tone: If you ask me, the old man needs a babysitter. And the Frenchman whining to his mentors with Sorbonnian privilege: He could have killed me, mon dieu! Was it too late to require them all to sign a nondisclosure agreement?
Edward, relieved that his library had been spared any damage, was there having coffee with Lottie and Marge.
“What happens now?” Jackie asked. She and Bridget were sitting on stools in the kitchen, eating Marge’s chicken salad out of a Tupperware container. “Do you think the composers will decide to leave?” she said, sounding concerned.
Bridget looked up at her, wondering why that would be a bad thing.
“I mean, they just got here,” Jackie said. “It would be a shame if they had to leave already. Mr. Stratton would be so disappointed.”
The door swung open, and Marge came in, looking harried. “Edward wants to get a contractor in here right away.”
“He can’t,” Bridget said. “Not with everyone staying here. Can you imagine how disruptive that would be?”
“They’ll just have to endure a little background noise,” Marge said. “I can imagine worse conditions.”
Bridget thought the shock of the fire was keeping Marge from thinking clearly. “The floors need to be torn out, new drywall put in. Windows replaced
. No one will be able to hear themselves think, much less write music. If he wants to fix everything, then he should cancel the retreat.”
Marge scoffed. “He has no intention of canceling anything.”
“I hope they stay,” said Jackie. “Mr. Stratton could fix the house in the fall.”
“Exactly,” said Bridget. “What’s the rush? Board up Edward’s side of the house and put off the renovation until after the summer when everyone’s left.”
Marge was not amused. “I do not approve of postponing repairs,” she said.
“I postponed repairs for twenty years,” said Bridget, almost with a sense of pride. “The problems don’t go anywhere, I can promise you that.”
“I agree with Bridget,” said Jackie. “Salvage the retreat.”
“It’s the Greek one, isn’t it?” Marge asked her.
“Stavros?” said Jackie. “What about him?”
Marge, noticing their forks sticking out of the chicken salad container, brought them plates, napkins, and a proper spoon to serve themselves. “You’re enamored.”
“You can tell?” said Jackie. “Am I that obvious?”
Bridget smiled; Marge could be so perceptive.
“The urgency with which you swapped his down comforter with a synthetic-fill one was remarkable,” said Marge, “and downright heroic.”
“Well, I doubt any of the composers will stick around after this debacle,” Bridget said.
Marge was still focused on Jackie. “In any case, we’ve got to put you somewhere tonight, and we’re out of bedrooms.”
“I could sleep in the pool house,” Jackie suggested.
“You’d be scared to death out there,” said Marge. “All those doors and windows facing the woods? No, you can stay with Bridget.”
Bridget certainly wasn’t expecting Marge to volunteer her house, but she didn’t mind. “Sure,” she said. “The upstairs is empty now that Oscar’s gone.”
“I don’t want to impose,” said Jackie. “How would I get back and forth—?”
“I’ll arrange all that,” said Marge. She straightened up suddenly. “And what about the wedding?” she said. “We’ve got a couple hundred people showing up here for a party in three weeks.”
“We could have it outside,” said Bridget.
“A tent’s not elegant enough,” said Marge. “High heels on grass? Bugs everywhere? And what if it rains? Absolutely not.”
If that was her reaction to a tent, Bridget could only imagine her reaction to a Batshit Barn wedding.
“I can look into other venues in the area,” said Jackie. “Country clubs or restaurants?”
“I think there are better options in the city,” Marge said. “MoMA maybe. Or the Whitney.”
“Isn’t it too late for that?” Jackie asked. “Places like that will be booked already.”
“Maybe Gwen knows someone who could help,” said Marge. “I’ll ask her.”
“Actually,” Bridget said casually, “Gwen was saying we should have the wedding… in the barn.”
Marge looked confused. “What barn?” she said.
Bridget shrugged. “My barn?”
Marge suppressed a smile. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, toots,” she said, “but your place isn’t— That wouldn’t exactly be Edward’s and Lottie’s style. They want, you know, valet parking, champagne flutes in the foyer, not livestock wandering around.”
“The sheep left ages ago. I have nice, newly finished floors, and I’m getting the walls whitewashed. I replaced all the broken windows and I even have electricity in there. And while it hasn’t been tested yet, I don’t think the roof leaks anymore.”
Marge looked at her and then started to laugh.
“What?” said Bridget, feeling offended. “You haven’t seen it.”
“Edward and Lottie are expecting press,” Jackie said, trying to make this point seem like a non sequitur. “I guess the New York Times is sending someone with a photographer.”
“Look, I know my barn was a mess, but it’s not anymore, and I don’t know what other options we have.” Bridget felt an inkling of excitement. “You’ve already got everything cued up, so send the caterer, the florist, and everyone else to my—”
“Emma’s the florist,” Marge said.
“Perfect,” said Bridget, “she already knows where to find me. Send them all over to my place instead, and I’ll make it work.”
“Edward’s going to say no,” said Marge, shaking her head. “Lottie is most certainly going to say no. And I have serious doubts of my own.”
“How can Lottie possibly object to a barn?” said Bridget with a laugh. “She’s literally outfitting the whole family in costumes for a hoedown.”
By the look on Jackie’s and Marge’s faces, Bridget could tell that Lottie was standing behind her. She was about to explain, apologize even, when Lottie smiled at her and said, “Exactly right, Schatz. The dirndl is traditional Landhausmode, inspired by country living. Now, vat is this you vere saying about a barn?”
Looking at Lottie all neat and tidy in her white ballet flats and smooth linen slacks, Bridget decided that Marge was probably right: Lottie would not appreciate what Batshit Barn had to offer.
* * *
That evening, Jackie arrived with her suitcase, apologizing for the intrusion and offering to help with anything in the house.
“It’s great you’re here,” said Isabelle, who’d spent most of the afternoon with her head in a book. She was wearing jeans with an oversize flannel shirt that looked like it might belong to Kevin.
“No apologies,” said Bridget. “Make yourself at home. We’ll have dinner in about an hour.”
“Kevin’s coming, too,” Isabelle said as she left with Jackie to get her settled in upstairs.
Bridget studied the contents of the fridge, which were abundant thanks to Isabelle and Kevin, who had made a trip to the farmers’ market. She wished Will were there to cook with her; she missed him the whole time she was arranging cheeses and ham, a bowl of olives, and smoked salmon with little triangles of pumpernickel bread onto a board. She threw together a bowl of orecchiette with shrimp and pesto and made a salad with chopped tomatoes and arugula. She sliced up a baguette and put salted butter in a small stoneware crock. She opened the rosé and found a cold bottle of sparkling water. Ta-da, she thought, and then she set the table on the porch and lit the candles.
Jackie, Isabelle, and Kevin came in and saw the spread.
“Delicious,” said Isabelle. “But what if moving forward, we change things up a bit. Try something completely different.”
Rather than ask what Isabelle meant by that, Bridget got everyone seated and started passing the pasta and salad. Isabelle stood back up, as if to make a presentation.
“Please, Isabelle,” said Bridget, “the pasta’s getting cold.”
“I’d like to introduce you all to this”—and she showed them the cover of a self-help book: Ancient Practices, Modern Life. It had a sunshine-yellow cover with a photo of a woman doing a pose of some kind, standing on one leg with her arms out in front of her, a bright red apple in the palm of her hand.
“I’ve decided,” said Isabelle, “that for the rest of the summer, we should go on a health kick and follow the steps outlined in this book. It could be life-changing. All the alcohol we’ve been drinking will evaporate, the carbs and fat banished. Our brains will sharpen, and our bodies will say thank you. This book guarantees we’ll notice a difference in wellness as early as the first week.”
“Can we talk about this after dinner?” asked Bridget. She hated the word “wellness.”
Isabelle sat down while maintaining her enthusiasm. “Sure. And we can start tomorrow, of course, after this awesome last supper of sorts. But I’m really excited about this program and think we should all get on board.”
“What do we have to do?” asked Jackie, looking nervous.
“It’s not a diet; it’s a lifestyle,” Isabelle explained, flipping through
the book. “We drink yerba maté tea instead of coffee. We increase our movement and eat healthy, unprocessed foods, mostly nuts and berries, and for dinner we have salads made of raw vegetables and heirloom grains. There’s a variation of yoga poses we’ll practice every night before bed for strength and relaxation, and the television will never be turned on.”
They all looked at each other.
“Starting tomorrow,” Isabelle said again.
While Jackie, Bridget, and Kevin filled their plates, Isabelle read aloud from the preface of the book, which made claims about weight loss and brain function that sounded too good to be true. “You see,” Isabelle said, “this book has the answer to all that ails us.”
“And what if nothing’s ailing me?” said Kevin, as earnest as a six-year-old asking for concrete details about the tooth fairy’s job.
Bridget had a thing or two ailing her, so she listened while Isabelle told them about the author, Juliette Stark, a blond Californian with a PhD whose perfect skin in her picture on the cover revealed her good health and glowing happiness.
Isabelle went through the rules, which were insanely strict, saying the regimen was designed to boost metabolism and rid them of all manner of toxins. “We have to follow Juliette’s program religiously, to the letter, or it doesn’t work. It’ll be so much more fun if we do this together.”
Bridget was going to take a hard pass, and she was about to say so when Jackie said, “I could try. But do I have to give up tea at Mr. Stratton’s?”
Isabelle flipped through the book. “You can’t eat scones,” she said, “or cookies, or anything with sugar, but tea’s okay.”
Jackie looked disappointed.
“I know how you feel,” said Isabelle. “I won’t be allowed to eat the muffins at the café where I work anymore. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. What about you?” she asked Bridget. “Are you ready for a life-changing, mind-body makeover?”
It hadn’t escaped Bridget’s attention that summer would be coming to an end, and so far, she’d drunk gallons of rosé and eaten her weight in cheese, two things she would hate to give up. “Does it help with frayed nerves?” she asked.