by Ann Leary
“But this place is looking a little shabby,” Sally said. Clearly, she wanted to help Spin. Also, though she had been highly offended by Catherine’s Grey Gardens remark, she had long wished that Lakeside looked nicer. Why couldn’t it better resemble the grand house in the old Whitman photos, with the formal gardens and lovely, uncluttered rooms?
“You don’t notice it, Joan,” Sally continued, “because you’re here all the time. Why not let somebody come and fix the landscaping, for example? You could get a few guys to come in twice a week and mow. Tend to the gardens. Maybe pull out some of those weeds growing up near the beach. If we let them get too long, the wetlands commission won’t let us remove them.”
Joan looked at Spin and then at Sally. “I don’t think we need that. Everett and I can pull those weeds down by the beach. I just hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right about wetlands. I’m going to pull them out tonight, when it’s dark, just to prevent any commotion from the wetlands nuts. I’ll pull the weeds.”
“No, I’ll do it,” said Everett. “Hey, Lottie, will you pass the corn? Which weeds are we talking about, now?”
“But the rest of it,” Sally said. “How about getting one of the crews that work on some of the neighboring properties? And, well, I think it would be a good idea to have a cleaning person come in once a week. Maybe that woman who works for Ethel. Just to help you with the heavy stuff, you know, washing the floors and the bathrooms.”
“No, I don’t want any strange person in the house,” I said. “I’m happy to do the floors, it’s good exercise. The bathrooms, too. And we don’t need a landscaping crew. Everett does a lot around here. It might not be that obvious, but he’s always mowing and fixing things. There’s just a lot to do. I think you’re being ungrateful to Everett, Sally.”
I passed Everett the corn and he mouthed, “Thanks, babe,” and gave me the little dopey smile that he knows I love.
I kicked at Sally under the table, and when she looked up, I shook my head and scowled. What was the matter with her? Strangers coming in to clean. It was bad enough having Laurel here.
“I don’t want people wandering all around the place,” Joan said definitively.
When I saw Sally catch Spin’s eye and shrug sympathetically, I realized that she had told him she would speak to Joan about the condition of the place.
“You two haven’t left yourselves much time for all the wedding preparations,” Joan said cheerfully, changing the subject. “Will it be in Ketchum? I’ve never been to Idaho.”
“We’re not planning on having a very big wedding,” Laurel said.
“Mostly family and close friends,” Spin added.
“Right,” Laurel said. She was twisting her engagement ring around her finger and biting her lip.
“That sounds lovely,” Joan said. There was another awkward silence as Laurel gave Spin a pained look.
They don’t know how to tell us we’re not invited, I thought. Marissa doesn’t want us at the wedding.
“Joan … Spin and I were wondering—of course we’ll understand completely if this is something you don’t want, but—we were wondering if we could have the wedding here. At Lakefront,” Laurel said.
“Lakeside,” Sally said. “It’s called Lakeside.”
“Oh, sorry,” Laurel said. “Lakeside.”
Joan smiled, but her eyes revealed a mounting panic. “A wedding? Here?” she said. “What a lovely idea! But you’re right, the place isn’t in shape at all. I mean, I don’t know how we could possibly get the house in order in such a short time.”
“We want to do it all outside, under a tent,” Spin said enthusiastically. “A laid-back country wedding. Nobody would even need to go in the house. We’d be down in front of the lake.”
“But Laurel, what about your folks? Don’t they want to have the wedding there, where you have family?”
Laurel’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down at the table.
“Um, well, my family’s had some problems. After my sister died, my parents split up.…”
Spin reached over and placed his hand on hers.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, Laurel,” Joan said. “I know that’s not terribly uncommon after a tragedy like that.”
“It’s a lot more involved—I won’t bore you all with it. I’ve had to detach from my family in recent years. I had to do this for my own strength and…”
I was tearing up at that point, fully ashamed of my own selfishness in not wanting Laurel here. She’d been through so much at such a young age.
“We don’t have to talk about this now,” Spin said.
“No,” Joan said in a thin, strained voice. She’s not good with emotions—she doesn’t cry, and she gets very confused when others do. She just wants it to stop. “I’d love it if you two had the wedding here. What a lovely idea, Spin, really, but is Marissa okay with this? She hasn’t been up here since before you were born. I just would’ve thought she’d want it in the city someplace, you know, where she has more friends.”
“Actually, she’s fine with it,” Spin said. “I mean, she’d love to help arrange the caterers and everything. The house would be like, you know, just a venue.”
“A venue?” Joan said.
“No, obviously, it’s more than that. I want to do it here because it’s my family’s home. It’s our home. But my mom is looking at it like it’s just a space—a very scenic space. That’s the only way she can be comfortable with it.”
“Well, now I see why you’re so keen on having the place fixed up,” Sally said to Spin. “I actually thought you were trying to help Joan.”
“But Sal,” Spin said, “I was.”
He paused, as if trying to find the right words. “You know, Joan, we do need to maintain Lakeside … a little better. We can’t let it fall apart.”
“It’s hardly falling apart, dear,” our mother protested.
“I’m going to go down and look at those weeds,” said Everett. “I can pull them up now.”
“Wait now, Everett. I have my irises coming up there, I don’t want you to pull those,” Joan said. “Those are transplants from my aunt Sis, so don’t start pulling everything out of the ground.”
That was the whole problem. Joan really can’t stand having anybody change anything; that was why the place looked the way it did.
“I know which are weeds and which are irises,” Everett replied, grinning at the rest of us. He grabbed his beer and then started down the slope of the lawn toward the lake. Joan jumped up and followed him.
“Now, Everett, just wait. I’ll help you.”
We watched Everett break into a little run, and then Joan started to chase him.
“She runs five miles a day, Everett!” Sally called out.
“I have to go out and do some water temps this evening,” Spin said. “Why don’t you come along, Laurel?”
“That sounds like … hell,” Laurel said, laughing. “Don’t get me wrong. I love looking for algae as much as the next guy, but I have some work to do.”
She was a good sport. I liked her more and more. We’re uptight. How was she supposed to know that we don’t run around hugging people or asking about who pays for what? It must have been hard for her to feel at home with us. People are much more easygoing out west, everybody knows that.
“There’ll be a beautiful sunset tonight, Laurel,” I said, smiling at her.
“Maybe another night. I have too much writing to catch up on.”
“Yes, tell us about your book, Laurel,” Sally said. I hoped Laurel hadn’t picked up on her sarcastic tone.
“It’s a novel,” Laurel said.
“What’s it about?” Sally asked.
“Oh, it’s too boring. Really, if I started describing it, you’d all fall asleep. Charlotte, did I hear you made a pie?”
Joan and Everett couldn’t have picked many weeds; they were back before we’d finished clearing the table, and we all enjoyed the pie. It was the peaches that made it so delicious. Joanie had
bought them at the farm stand.
When we finished dessert, Everett stood, stretched, yawned dramatically, and then announced that he was tired.
Fuck him.
I wasn’t going to go over later; he didn’t need to hint that I shouldn’t. Out all night the night before. I wasn’t going over to his house. Everybody said good night to him, but I couldn’t, I was carrying all the dessert dishes back into the kitchen.
THIRTEEN
“She’s not at all like I thought she was going to be,” said Joan the next morning. She and Sally and I were having coffee on the porch. Laurel had gone out sailing with Spin. “I think she’s very sweet.”
“She’s nosy,” said Sally. “She wants to know everything about us, but I ask her one thing about her book, and it’s like it’s classified information. Nobody’s allowed to know. Her life is top secret.”
“I didn’t get that from her,” I said. “It’s boring to describe your writing to others; she just didn’t want to bore us.”
“I hate when people talk about anything they write,” Joan said. “It’s like when people tell others about dreams they’ve had. There’s nothing more boring. I consider it a sign of very good breeding not to talk about yourself all the time.”
Sally and I just stared at each other, grinning.
“You did not just say that, Joan,” I said.
“I wish there was coffee in my mouth so I could spit it out,” Sally cried.
“What?” Joan asked. “I don’t know what you girls find so funny. When I was at Princeton, I took a creative writing class. My professor told me that I had great promise, but I was so bored having to read everybody else’s stuff.… What? What on earth is so funny?”
* * *
Laurel and Spin returned around lunchtime; Laurel stayed at the house, while Spin headed out with Harry Noyes to inspect the lake further. Sally announced during lunch that she was going into the city for the night. Her roommate had found someone to rent her room, so Sally needed to get the stuff she’d left behind or it would go out with the trash. She said that she was glad to go: It would help her to think about her work while she drove. She was planning to return the next day and promised not to come in through the dog door if she arrived during the night.
“Just wear a gas mask if you do,” I said.
“What’re you guys talking about?” Laurel asked.
“Oh, the other night—wait, I forgot, Laurel, you’re part of this story. You’re the one who told us to use hornet spray for protection,” said Joan.
“Laurel told you to do that?” Sally asked, and she got that dark look. Sometimes you can almost see the circuits in her brain get crossed, you can almost hear the chaos of sparks and little pop-rock explosions in her temporal lobes or wherever it is that your moods form. “It was Laurel’s idea to have you almost blind me?”
“Not you, of course, Sally, don’t be absurd,” said Joan.
“We were all worked up about Mr. Clean,” I said. “Listen, Sal, it’s really hot in your room—I was in there earlier looking for a towel. Do you want to move to Perry’s old room for the summer? I think you should.”
This changing of the subject seemed to work. Sally and I went upstairs to sort out her stuff, and by the time she drove off an hour later, her mood had improved.
I went up to the attic to work on my blog. I heard Joan drive off a few hours later (golf), and I wandered downstairs to the porch. Laurel was there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open in front of her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting your writing.”
“No, not at all.”
It was a perfect afternoon, no humidity. I thought I might go for a swim later, when it got darker.
“Is Sally moving back in here for good?” Laurel asked.
“She does this occasionally—takes a break from the symphony schedule,” I said. “She’ll probably just stay for a few weeks, maybe a month.”
“Watching you and Sally makes me miss my sister. I can tell how close you two are.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, I know about your accident. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks,” Laurel said. “I was closer to her than anybody. We were Irish twins—eleven months apart.”
“Oh, that’s really close. Sally and I are fourteen months apart. Who was older, you or your sister?”
“I’m the younger one,” said Laurel. “Marcie was the superstar of our family. She was the golden child.”
“Really? She was the golden child? Was she actually in the Olympics, or was she a Rhodes Scholar, or what?” I said, but then immediately added, “Oh, I hope that didn’t sound insensitive.”
“No, not at all. You’re hilarious, Lottie. Sally’s the golden child in this family, but I can tell that you’re actually the smartest.”
I said, laughing, “No, Sally’s not the golden child, that would be Spin.”
“I think he’d argue that it’s Sally. Or maybe that was when he was growing up. Maybe when his dad was alive.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’ll go back inside—let you get back to your work.”
“Philip told me that his dad adored Sally. And you, too, of course, but especially Sally.”
“He did.”
“She was the favorite, according to Philip—I mean Spin,” Laurel said.
I had stood up, intending to go back inside, but now I sat back down and turned to face her.
“Whit didn’t have favorites.” I was trying to hide my sudden anger in his defense. “He wasn’t like that. I think he just felt less responsible for how Sally and I turned out.”
“Oh,” said Laurel.
“I think he was able to let us be who we were. He put more pressure on Perry and Spin.”
“Oh, okay,” Laurel said, but she said it in a doubting tone. What the fuck had Spin told her?
“I mean, he was really fond of Sally,” I admitted. “I never knew Spin picked up on that. Because we all loved Spin the most. He was just the best kid. Always everybody’s favorite. I think Whit had a little bit of guilt when it came to him. I can’t believe I’m talking about this. I’ve never really discussed this with anybody.”
“Well, let’s change the subject,” Laurel said. “What’s the story with you and Everett?”
Now I was speechless. I leaned over and examined a frayed piece of my sandal, so she couldn’t see how red my face was.
“There’s not really a story.”
Laurel laughed. “Oh, there’s a story. Why is it such a big secret that you two are involved?”
“We’re not really—involved. Not anymore. It’s just sort of an old thing. We used to be together.”
“But you’ve known him all your life, right? That’s so romantic,” Laurel said.
“It is?”
“Totally. Yes. Have either of you dated other people?”
“Yes, of course. Well, Everett has. Actually, he still does. We’re not really in a relationship anymore, not an exclusive relationship. We were. He lived with Sally and me in the city when we were going to school there.”
“I knew Sally went to Juilliard, but I didn’t know you also went to school in the city. Where’d you go?”
“Columbia. But I didn’t really enroll. I just took some courses there.”
“You must have done well in high school to have been accepted.”
I wasn’t sure if she was toying with me here. It seemed likely that Spin would have told her that I barely graduated from high school, since I skipped so often, especially my senior year, when Sally first moved to New York.
“No,” I said. “When I say I took courses at Columbia, I mean I literally took them.”
Laurel was intrigued.
It’s no big secret. Spin, Whit, my mom—everybody knew I did it. Actually, they all sort of got a kick out of it. I missed Sally when she went to Juilliard and I was always taking the train down to see her. After my last day of high school, I went to the city
and just stayed. Sally had received a full scholarship to Juilliard, but, as I said, I didn’t get the best grades. I wanted to be with Sally. So I used some of the hacking skills I’d learned at Holden, and then later on some online forums.
“You’d be surprised how incredibly lax the IT security is at most schools.” It was nice to have someone to tell this to, again. Someone to impress. And Laurel was lapping it all up. “In my experience, the most prestigious, most heavily endowed schools are the sloppiest. MIT? The easiest to hack into, from what I’ve been told. You’d think it’d be the hardest, with all the techies there, but it’s not. I have a few online friends who are serious hackers; I’m just a lightweight. I was able to print out college IDs for both Columbia and Barnard, get student registration numbers, the whole deal. I never officially enrolled, of course. The IDs just got me building access and I only took courses that were in large lecture halls, so it’s not like I took a seat that somebody else had paid for. These lectures always have empty seats. I know I’m not the only one who did this. You can use the ID to take online courses, too. You can’t get credit, though. You have to pay to actually get your grades and a diploma, but you can take all the courses and get the same education.”
“That is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard,” said Laurel. “I love a good scam, and that school is so heavily endowed. You must have felt great when you walked through those halls, knowing you hadn’t paid a cent, while all those other chumps had taken out loans.”
Actually, I used to feel a little guilty, certainly not great, when I thought of the sacrifices others made to attend college. I explained to her again my rationale about the lectures—all the empty seats.
“But you had a student ID. You must have been able to get yourself on a food plan, use the cafeterias.”
Now I knew Spin had told her.
“They throw away tons of uneaten food every month at Columbia. There was a piece in the Columbia Spectator that revealed how much food they waste,” I said. “Actually, I wrote it.”
Laurel laughed and said, “I love it! You were on the school newspaper?”