StoneDust

by Justin Scott

  “Like what?”

  “What exactly do you want out of this evening?”

  I told her.

  “To what end?”

  I told her that, too.

  “Excellent. Either way you’ll do justice. I suggest the following. I’ll invite them—”

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  “And you will spread a little white lie. Not a real lie. Just a hint that will make it impossible for them not to accept.”

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  “Of course.” Connie fixed me with her blue-eyed gaze like a buck in headlights. “What does that crowd want more than anything?”

  “Land.”

  “That’s why you want me to host your party…” She smiled with genuine affection. “You’re reasonably intelligent, when you put your mind to it.”

  “Are you by any chance patronizing me?”

  “Do you think they’ll bring cocaine?”

  “What?”

  “I’m joking, Nephew. I’ve heard drugs are not unknown in their set.”

  “I thought you don’t listen to gossip.”

  “I didn’t say I was deaf.”

  ***

  The next day I was drinking midmorning coffee outside the General Store when Michelle Fisk pulled up in her red Audi and tennis togs that revealed suntanned thighs firmer than I would have guessed. She tossed a sheet of Connie’s pale green fold-over note paper on my table and demanded, “What in hell is this?”

  “It’s a dinner invitation. I got one too.”

  Aunt Connie had had them hand-delivered, kindness of Alison Mealy’s girls-only Main Street bicycle gang.

  “What’s it supposed to mean?”

  “Dinner on Saturday night. Cocktails at seven.”

  “Why would ‘Miss Constance Abbott’ invite us? We’re not in her circle, in case you hadn’t noticed. What are you up to, Ben?”

  “She invited me, you and Duane, Ted and Susan, Bill and Sherry, and Rick and Georgia. I see a pattern. I’m surprised you don’t—and I’m not talking about your Jacuzzi party.”

  “Then what?”

  “Just because she’s old doesn’t mean she doesn’t keep up. She knows who does subdivisions in Newbury.”

  Michelle sank to the bentwood chair beside mine. “Jesus, she owns more land than God.”

  “God panicked when the market collapsed. Connie bought.”

  “But years ago we tried to buy some and her lawyer, that old judge, told us to take a hike. He wasn’t even nice about it.”

  “I don’t know what to say. She’s not getting any younger. Looking at probate. She supports a ton of charities, maybe she and the judge figure liquidating would make it easier to give it away.”

  “So where do you come in?”

  “Well, I’m a grand nephew, and I am a real estate agent.”

  “Big bucks commissions.”

  “Not if I know Connie. She’ll knock me down to three percent, if I’m lucky.”

  Michelle laughed. “Wow. Oh, wow. I hope you’re right.”

  “Hey, I’m just guessing. But when she told me the guest list, that’s what came to mind.”

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. Then, suddenly: “Ohmigod what’ll I wear? Ben, what do you wear to her house?”

  “Good question. Saturday night…Written invitation…Dining room…Four or five courses. I mean, you could wear anything neat and clean, of course, but if you want to please her…”

  “We do.”

  “Right. Well, I, for instance, will probably wear a light-colored sports coat, shoes, socks, pants, long-sleeve shirt—she hates not seeing cuffs—and a pleasant necktie.”

  “I can’t get Duane in a tie.”

  I frowned. “Similar party last year—Saturday, written invites—this artsy fundraiser showed up dressed like a janitor in a flag factory.”

  “What happened?”

  “Connie was perfectly polite. But he’ll never be invited back; and the charity he represented received a strong hint they should review their hiring practices. Last I heard, he got transferred to Minneapolis.”

  “Are you putting me on?”

  “Only a little—Hey, listen, maybe this is genuinely social. She likes young people, likes staying in touch. It could have nothing to do with her thousands of acres. But, whichever, I’ll tell you this: You’ll have a very interesting time. She’s done it all and she knows everybody. But whatever you do, don’t push the land thing. Let her do it her way.”

  Then I said something that under any other circumstances would have been just plain cruel: “She’s always enjoyed stylish women.”

  Michelle drove off, somewhat pale, and I settled back, confident the guests would arrive tense.

  ***

  “Oh my,” said Connie. “Aren’t they lovely?”

  We’d been sharing dry sherry in the living room, and debating who’d show first, when Ted and Susan Barrett came up the walk like the wholesome vision of a lost America: Ted dark and handsome, Susan blond and beautiful. They were tall and slim, dressed with the understated care parishioners put into their Sunday best, and holding hands.

  Halfway to the door, Susan stopped and faced Ted and struck the universal how-do-I-look pose. Ted stepped back and studied her. Whatever he said pleased her; he took her hand again, kissed it, and led her proudly to the door.

  “Good luck tonight,” said Connie.

  We were old hands at hosting dinner parties. Like Masai hunters tracking lion, we worked by glances, nods, and long- established understandings. She took her place, perched upright, dead center, on a green velvet recamier. I went to the foyer.

  Through the sidelight I saw the Barretts exchange wary looks that changed to party smiles as the door swung open.

  “Come in. You look lovely, Susan. Hi Ted.”

  He and I shook hands a little self-consciously, the near- murder of each other at Gill Farm still fresh in our minds. Then I took Susan’s hand.

  Most women friends I would kiss on the cheek; but Susan Barrett’s beauty could be off-putting. I would no sooner kiss her without a clear invitation than finger a Botticelli at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tonight I noticed a difference in her deep, warm eyes, a sort of shield raised by the other Susan—the nurse trained to be ice when shrapnel flew.

  I led them to Connie, who drew them effortlessly into what had to be the most interesting conversation they had ever had about the uncommonly dry weather. Susan had brought her a little bouquet of rosemary and tarragon. Before the doorbell rang again, Connie had Susan describing her garden and both Barretts enthralled by a history of the West Street cottage they had moved to when Ted filed Chapter Eleven.

  I opened the door to Rick and Georgia Bowland—Rick nervous and overdressed in a dark business suit, Georgia a little fragile in a silk blouse, a flower in her honey hair, and a whiff of expensive gin on her breath.

  “What a beautiful house, Ben. You’re so nice to invite us.”

  She handed me an antique perfume bottle filled with fresh lavender blooms. “Our nanny turns out to be a gardener.”

  She had done something very soft with her hair, perfect for a summer evening. When Rick started tugging his little mustache, she stopped him with a hand on his elbow and inquired in her pleasantly low voice, “To whom does one make lewd overtures to get a drink around here?”

  I suspected that Georgia, too, was nervous. She didn’t broadcast it like Rick, but she seemed almost frightened. What I didn’t know was whether they were anxious about meeting Connie, or swinging a land deal, or had something to hide.

  “Come meet Connie.”

  Georgia took my arm and stage-whispered, “Are there any verboten topics?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I too have an elderly aunt. We do not discuss Democrats or shopping malls.”

  “I’d avoid your ‘I Believe in Steve’ campaign, unless you want an earful about the La
Frances. She thinks the world of Vicky.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  Connie welcomed them into the living room, exclaimed over the pretty bouquet, and assured an anxious Rick that she preferred “Connie” to “Ms. Abbott.” Georgia had done her homework and Connie beamed when she dropped the name of one of her old friends from Greenwich.

  I poured white wine for Ted and Susan, gin and tonics for the Bowlands, and hurried back to the foyer as Bill and Sherry Carter and Duane and Michelle Fisk piled out of Michelle’s Audi. Duane handed over the keys and they came up Connie’s broad walk, two by two.

  Observing through the sidelight, I had the distinct impression that both Duane and Bill had been hogtied by their women to be shaved, hair-trimmed, and cravatted. Just before they reached the steps, Michelle turned Duane briskly west, straightened his tie by the light of the setting sun, and gave his shoulder a firm pat.

  Sherry did much the same for her husband, although she ended her inspection with a kiss on Bill’s nose. Bill returned a friendly swat to a behind rendered doubly intriguing by snug white slacks and a filmy jacket.

  I opened the door. “Hi, everybody. Come on in.”

  Michelle led the way. She looked alert, though not as wary as the Bowlands and the Barretts.

  “Are we the first?”

  “No, the last. Come on in.” I kissed her cheek. “Neat dress.”

  “You think so?”

  “Perfect.” I was really beginning to get a thing about her amiable roundness and snapping black eyes. She seemed confident that a dress for Saturday night at the country club, toned down, would pass muster on Main Street.

  “Duane, how are you?” His black eye was healing nicely, a lot faster than my various wounds, but then I hadn’t received mine from a considerate friend. It didn’t seem to trouble him as much as the dress code.

  “I’m fine, except this goddamned tie feels like a boa constrictor.” An O-ring of neck fat squeezed by his collar suggested that his dress shirt pre-dated his recent weight gain.

  “Hurts to be beautiful, Duane. How are you, Bill?”

  “Doing great!—Here, we all chipped in.” He thrust a magnum of Moët in my hands. “Real nice of your aunt to invite us.”

  “Come on in and tell her yourself. She’ll love your champagne.” In fact, she did not approve of extravagant hostess presents. “Hi, Sherry.”

  Sherry pranced up the steps, proud as a cat. It seemed she always put me in mind of animals—tonight a cat; an egret at an auction; a gazelle in the Grand Union. These images had less to do with my own predilections than Sherry’s unabashed delight in herself. It was just possible that she flirted out of kindness, confident she was doing men a favor. Maybe that was why Bill never seemed jealous.

  “Ben.” She gave me the secret picnic smile.

  I kissed her pretty cheek, took her hand, and said, “You look lovely.”

  “I cut my hair.”

  “Very appealing.” I was a long-hair man myself, but she had a shapely head.

  “Bill says I look like a boy.”

  “No boy I ever saw.”

  “Hear that, Bill? Ben doesn’t think I look like a boy.”

  “I didn’t mean all of you. Just your head.”

  “Come on in and meet Aunt Connie.”

  Bill lumbered after us, grinning happily, and emitted a low whistle when he caught sight of the living room. Connie’s decorating technique was, simply put, to arrange artfully loot brought home by generations of sea captains.

  She was on her feet, in the midst of the Bowlands and Barretts. (She had taught me when I was thirteen that the only reasons to ever sit during cocktails were either the insistence of your hostess or a grave need for medical attention.) I made introductions and drinks: white wine for the ladies, rye and ginger for Duane, and a beer for Bill; and topped up our sherries.

  I jump-started conversations, refilled glasses, lit candles as the night came down, and passed the skimpy hors d’oeuvres. Connie didn’t hold with the modern concept of lavish hors d’oeuvres. Green olives stuffed with pimento, peanuts, and smears of anchovy paste on cucumber had sufficed for President Coolidge and they would suffice tonight.

  It appeared she was right. The room came alive with talk and laughter. Our guests grew expansive, shedding the tensions of the work week, which began to seem long, long ago. Connie sparkled: the color rose in her cheeks; her white hair glowed like a tradewind cloud.

  Phyllis—who had served dinner for Connie since before I was born—caught my eye from the dining-room door. I nodded to Connie. She wound up an anecdote about an irascible old farmer who had sold her his pastures, and asked Ted if he would take her in to the dining room.

  Arm in arm they marched off, and arm in arm the rest of us trailed. Sherry Carter said, “Ben, this is so neat. She’s terrific.”

  “She’s having a great time.”

  “Is she really ninety?”

  “We tend not to home in on exact numbers, but my dad told me she ran away from boarding school to nurse the boys in World War One.”

  “Wow.” She squeezed me tight. “Hey, this is fun. Thanks for asking us.—Oh, God. Look at the table.”

  Connie’s dining room was ablaze in candlelight from a chandelier, wall sconces and a forest of candlesticks. We’d set placemats instead of a tablecloth for a summer night, and the polished cherry wood reflected the flames like General Washington’s campfires.

  Serious discussion had gone into the placecards. Connie sat at the head near the kitchen door, of course; I took the opposite end. She had demanded Ted Barrett on her right, insisting, “The least you can do is allow me a handsome man.” In that spirit, I had opted for Michelle and Sherry on my right and left. She took Rick Bowland on her left, because he was new to her acquaintance. That put Susan beside Rick, then Bill. Across from them, Georgia sat beside Ted, with Duane between her and Sherry.

  Phyllis served cold leek soup and then a salad the rabbits had overlooked in my garden. I helped clear, and poured red wine while she brought in the main course.

  There was a standard dinner party menu in town, which I’d always called Newbury Stew, although the actual name and recipe varied socially and generationally. The older, well-fixed crowd served up a standard—very standard—boeuf bourguignon at its parties, where talk was always more important than the food. The graying and fraying yuppie generation cooked their Newbury stew with veal and oranges and called it marengo. While if you were invited for Newbury Stew at the Chevalleys’, you’d encounter possum, woodchuck and anything else that couldn’t get off the road fast enough. Connie’s Newbury Stew was of the first variety and tonight’s had turned out characteristically dry.

  It didn’t matter. Watching our guests’ faces—the women savoring the beautiful room, basking in the glow of old silver and ancient china, the men loosening up on good wine and full plates—it struck me that this gathering of suspects had turned into the best party of the summer.

  ***

  The long clock in the front hall struck ten.

  “Well, my dears. It’s time for an old woman to go to bed.”

  Our guests rose hastily.

  “Please don’t rush off. There’s port and brandy in the library, after you sort out your designated drivers. Ben, I had Mrs. Mealy lay a fire; you’ll light it if the ladies are cold. Good night, everyone. I’m delighted you could come.”

  During the chorus of thank yous, Duane and Michelle exchanged a puzzled look that I interpreted to read, What about the land?

  “We’ll talk in the library,” I whispered to Michelle.

  She gave Duane a reassuring nod. Connie concluded a grand retreat with an ascent up her curving stair. I started herding my mob toward the library when halfway to the landing Connie turned to say, “Susan? The Dufy I was telling you about? Come up for a quick look.”

  Susan glided up the steps like a woman born to Federal mansions and boudoirs hung with renegade Impressionis
ts. Ted followed her with his eyes. He saw me notice and said, “I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in town.”

  I agreed to that. Then, worrying vaguely what Connie was up to, I guided the others into the library. “Oh, I love this,” said Georgia. “Is it okay to light the fire, Ben?”

  I opened the flue and touched a long wooden match to the newspaper Mrs. Mealy had crumpled under the kindling. The old chimney usually smoked, but tonight it was on its best behavior and the flames enveloped the logs with the thinnest whiff of sweet black birch.

  My guests had dispersed into twosomes, peering at the calf-bound volumes, inspecting Connie’s ornate Chippendale secretary, delighting over the brass fittings on her father’s old captain’s desk.

  “So what was this about brandy?” boomed Bill Carter.

  “Who’s driving?”

  “We’ll ride with Duane. Ted and Susan walked, right Ted?”

  “It’s a short crawl,” said Ted.

  “We’ll call our babysitter’s boyfriend,” said Rick.

  “Duane?”

  “I’m driving,” Michelle answered for him. “I’ll just have some more coffee, if you’ve got some.”

  I poured for her from a silver pot on a warmer and pressed brandy on Bill and Sherry and Duane. Georgia’s request for “something with a kick” elicited a worried glance from Rick.

  “I’ve got the makings of a mean Tombstone, if Duane’ll mix it for you.” Duane gave me a doubtful look and shared another with Michelle. Georgia opted for Bailey’s Irish Cream. Ted asked for port and thought Susan would have some too. She came in a moment later and joined me at the desk where Connie had arranged the bar on a tray.

  “Did the Dufy pass muster?”

  “She just needed help with a zipper. I really like her.”

  “She seemed to like you too.”

  “She invited me over for tea. It’s so funny. She’s older than my grandmother, but it’s like we could be friends.”

  “Port?”

  “Thank you.” She touched my arm. “Ben?” she said quietly. “Ted told me what happened out at Gill Farm.”

  “No problem. We worked it out.”