“I made a mistake,” she said. “A big mistake. I’ll fix it. Please.” A feeling of tenderness and a sense of loss swelled, and she knew what she had to say, something she had never said before, not to any boyfriend. “I love you,” she whispered.
“How dare you,” he said, his voice barely audible. “How dare you.” He issued a bitter chuckle that was so far from his usual gentle snorts that it sounded like a new, awful side of him, a side she had excavated from underneath his sweet exterior. He rose, and she tried to walk with him. He put his hands on her arms like he was going to kiss her, but then she felt his fingers dig into her tricep muscles and she whimpered. He let go, and Evelyn wished he didn’t have to bend to pick up his shoe, as she knew it would make him feel more ashamed. He walked toward the water and Nick.
“We can talk later?” she said. Her eyes were bright and she spoke fast.
He didn’t turn around.
She stood, watching him get smaller and smaller until he stepped into a motorboat with Nick, and they went skipping along the lake, Sachem bound. His fingers had left a painful kinetic imprint on her arms, and the boats and the people moved around her, and it started to get dark, and it started to get cold. She had been looking at, without seeing, the bow of a boat, and she blinked, then blinked again. It read MILDRED’S MOMS MANIA. Clutching at her phone so aggressively she almost dropped it, she shouted into it, “Yes, do you have a listing for the Hacking residence in Lake James, on Mt. Jobe Road? Yes, please connect me.”
Bing picked up, almost causing Evelyn to drop the phone, but she instead deepened her voice. “Yes, Jean Hacking, please,” she said, not that Bing would recognize her voice.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Hacking? Mrs. Hacking, it’s Evelyn Beegan, from Sheffield. I’m well, thank you. No, no, I’m just over at the lodge with a group of people. I do, I really like the renovation. Preston? I was … I was planning on calling him, but it’s been—he’s been hard to reach. No, no, I have his cell phone. I actually hoped to talk to you. Listen, this is so forward of me, but I couldn’t resist. I heard you were organizing a group for the Fruit Stripe tomorrow, and I just wondered, I love rowing so much, and if you need a last-minute fill-in. Yes, I rowed lightweight at Sheffield. I did! I did. Sculling? Okay, sure. I can scull. I will, I will definitely say I’m a Mildred’s Mom. Really? That’s fantastic. I can’t tell you how much I miss rowing. Oh, that’s just great, Mrs. Hacking. So seven A.M. tomorrow at the marina. I’ll be there. I can’t wait.”
She pressed end. She would show them all. Scot would see her and change his mind. Camilla would see her and change hers. She had a vision of herself rowing into the dock, jumping out to claps on the back, and standing up on the porch of whoever was hosting this year and laughing as she toasted with her fellow racers, while Camilla looked on with at least interest and at most regret and Scot reconsidered. Evelyn was someone who had a rightful place in this regatta, in this world. They would all see.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Racecourse
The only room available at the Lodge at Lake James was the Moose Suite, and that cost $1,600 for the night. Though the receptionist at the Lodge had specifically asked for a credit, not debit, card, Evelyn thought it was highly possible that none of her credit cards, not even the Visa Pewter, were still working, and handed over a debit card instead, praying that there was enough cash in her account to cover it. When the woman successfully ran the card and handed Evelyn the room key, Evelyn told herself she just had to make it through the race Saturday and then she could figure everything out.
The Moose Suite turned out to have a spectacular view of the lake, but those picture windows also looked straight out to Sachem. When the glowing iris-blue sky of Lake James at dusk receded, replaced by blackness and stars, Evelyn could see the lights on the Rutherfords’ camp.
She ordered room service and found she was watching Sachem like it was television, with her carbo-loading spaghetti laid out before her. A boat left West Lake, and she followed its pilot light as it skirted closer to Sachem, wondering if it had come from Shuh-shuh-gah. A light in the top of the main house winked on and off—was that the attic, or was that Souse’s office? Then there were two more pilot lights, these from the same point on West Lake, moving toward Sachem, and she felt certain that the Hackings were headed there tonight for some pre–Fruit Stripe party, some event that Mrs. Hacking had not invited her to or even mentioned. She squinted at the lake, trying to detect movement on the island, Scot or Nick or Camilla, and opened the door to her balcony to see if she could pick up some sound over the water. She heard laughter from somewhere, and a few trumpet notes, but the acoustics of the lake made it too hard to tell where the sounds were coming from. Still, she could picture them at Sachem, lights on, fire jumping, Louis Armstrong playing, no doubt talking about her.
She felt better now that she had eaten. Her head was clearer than it had been in a while. Evelyn pulled out Camilla’s bracelet from her duffel and fastened it on her wrist, pressing the pads of her fingers against the crisscrossed gold that made up the rackets’ nets.
The next morning, Evelyn awoke at five-thirty with pillow creases on her face. She had not slept well. She trudged over to the marina, where the Mildred’s Moms boatman helped Evelyn rig the single scull and take it down to the water. Evelyn hadn’t been able to shake the sense that she was in a dream, and now, as she tightened the bolts and greased the slide and knotted her race bib, she was finding words and actions that had been gone from her physical and mental vocabulary for years resurfacing. Foot-stretcher. Oarlock. Gunwale. She looked down and saw she still had the racket bracelet on from last night. She thought of hiding it in the grass somewhere, but then left it on; it was irreplaceable, and she couldn’t risk losing it.
Then she was rowing, still fogged with dreaminess. Sheffield’s boats had been sweep boats, with each rower pulling a single oar on one side, and though the coach had the girls try sculling every now and then, flipping two oars and pulling them through the water wasn’t a natural motion for Evelyn. She forgot, too, how tippy a scull was; a bit of extra depth on the oar, and the rigger would dip to one side, threatening to drag under and eject her.
Evelyn had thought this would be like the sailing Fruit Stripe, basically an excuse for onlookers and racers to drink before noon, so her lack of recent training wouldn’t be a problem. The rowers looked meaty and intense, though, and their water bottles looked to be filled with water and not bottles of T. The implied irony she had banked on was not present in Lake James today. She heard a crackle on the shore and observed that loudspeakers on tall posts, which she had figured were for some sort of weekend concert, were actually for the narration of the race.
“Good morning, and welcome to the thirty-third annual Fruit Stripe Regatta,” she heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bob Costas say. Hadn’t she heard he had a place on East Lake?
The announcer reviewed the course as Evelyn warmed up: west of Turtle Island, another private island on the lake that was closer than Sachem, then the passage between Turtle and Sachem, around the buoy south of there, keep buoys on your starboard side, watch the rocks off Turtle’s east side. The loudspeakers boomed as the first group of boats approached the line. “Robert Stimson, known for his annual Christmas party, is a three-time winner in the masters’ doubles at Head of the Schuylkill.…” Oh, Evelyn thought. These were real rowers.
The officials were sending the boats off at two-minute intervals. The race marshal gave her a three-minute warning, and she pulled up to the line. Someone in the stake boat grabbed Evelyn’s stern, and she was doing her best to stay lined up straight via small dips with the oars, but the wind was starting to blow her sideways. She heard the announcer saying she was Jenny Vinson, a Manchester resident and mother of three, with her eldest rowing for Choate; Mrs. Hacking apparently had not updated the bios. Then she heard, “Sit ready. Are you ready? Row!”
She was trying to remember rowing strategy as she pushed her legs down and
swung her back backward. High pace at the start to lift the boat out of the water, right? Or in a head race, were you supposed to be slower and steadier?
People from some of the lakeside houses were starting to come out in boats to watch the race. One motorboat veered far too close to her, its driver apparently forgetting that the wake from the boat could send her scull onto its side, and she smelled eggs hollandaise over its gas fumes. The water felt heavy, and her body didn’t remember how to get the oars through the water. Her hands were traveling too fast on the recovery, and her legs couldn’t seem to push down correctly on the stroke. She was sweating, she hadn’t brought anything to drink, and she had forgotten how long these head races took. Twenty minutes? An hour? A boat that had started two minutes behind her started to pull closer; the rower looked like he was visiting from the 1970s with his white-and-red-striped sweatband.
“Charlie Hawley is pulling up on our Mildred’s Moms rower,” she heard from the loudspeaker.
No, he’s not, thought Evelyn. This time I’m not getting beaten.
She didn’t know whether it was adrenaline or anger, and she didn’t care. The rhythm was starting to come back to her—slamswing-handsglide, slamswing-handsglide—and her body remembered things that her mind didn’t as she almost stood up off of the footboards and cracked her hamstrings down against the fiberglass. She made the water whoosh by as she sent her oar puddles flowing forward, and she was making the boat lift, lift, lift as though she could get it out of this water, out of the water and into the air. She was flying. “Jenny Vinson from Mildred’s Moms is giving Charlie Hawley a run for his money,” she heard from the loudspeakers. “What a great race this is becoming.”
She passed the first buoy marking a turn and had to hold water with one oar and pull with the other one to get her boat angled around. She was now in the passage between Sachem and Turtle, Charlie Hawley getting ever smaller in the distance, and she slowed down her recovery a bit to gulp in a few breaths of air. Evelyn checked; she wasn’t far from overtaking the next boat. She could win this thing. Come in to the dock and raise that stupid Fruit Stripe trophy. Her hands felt hot and she could feel blisters forming, but she grabbed the oar handles tightly again and started getting her momentum back.
She heard the whine of a motorboat from the north, which didn’t seem to be joining the other spectators at the shore. It was skipping straight toward her. Evelyn felt a surge of energy. Now she really began to row, forcing the blades through the water as she slammed her knees down. She was going. She was moving. She had the rhythm now. Slam, swing, hands, glide. Slam, swing, hands, glide. Now the seat did not seem to be trying to jump the tracks. Now the oars were understanding what she wanted them to do.
“Evelyn!” she heard from the motorboat. It was Camilla’s voice, and Evelyn wasn’t surprised to hear it.
Slam, swing, hands, glide. Shorter strokes now, pick up the pace, she heard the imaginary cox in her head shouting. That’s it, you’ve got this, show them what you’re made of. Slamswinghandsglide, slamswinghandsglide.
“Evelyn!” Louder now. About to explode.
One and exhale on the stroke, two and inhale on the recovery.
“What are you doing here?” Clipped, short. (“What is she doing here?” from the boat; Camilla had brought backup.)
Evelyn saw three heads bob at her from within the motorboat.
“Evelyn, what are you doing in the Fruit Stripe?” Camilla maneuvered the motorboat closer. Camilla didn’t know yet that Evelyn was going to win this race. Didn’t know that in about twenty minutes, Evelyn would get out of her scull, sweating and victorious, and be surrounded by well-wishers, Scot and Mrs. Hacking and Souse and everyone she had met along the way.
“Isn’t that—” she heard Phoebe say loudly, and Camilla said what sounded like “The clematis is here,” which made no sense. Then a third voice said, “We should get her disqualified.” Evelyn twisted her head to see who it was, and it was Brooke. Back in. Which meant Camilla had replaced Evelyn, just as she had replaced Brooke after Brooke’s engagement, and Evelyn’s attempt to get Brooke on her side had failed. Camilla would always hold the power, and Evelyn was the new girl with the goggles.
Evelyn looked at the tip of the motorboat, which was darting closer to her, and tried to press her legs down harder. Stand up against the footboards, the invisible cox yelled. Move this boat on out of here.
“Evelyn! Who invited you?” Camilla said.
Slamswinghandsglide. Camilla, looming over the steering wheel and demanding to see an invitation as though this were a private party that she was hosting. Slamswinghandsglide, slamswinghandsglide, but now Evelyn’s back was hurting and she couldn’t swing quite as far. She pulled in her stomach muscles and tried to shore up her back with those. Slamswinghandsglide. Her legs were burning. She needed to move away from this.
“Did you know she was racing in this?” Phoebe was saying.
“Obviously she wasn’t. I mean, she was going to, with Mom’s boats, but that didn’t happen, clearly. This is some kind of insane scheme,” Camilla said.
“Where is she even staying?” said Brooke.
“Maybe she’s staying with the Hackings,” Camilla said. “Anyone who’ll take her in, right?”
Slamswinghandsglide. Evelyn had forgotten how good it felt to get a boat moving, once you got over the initial inertia. With a few heaves, she got it bulging out of the water and then half a boat length away, but Camilla followed.
“Maybe she’s having kind of a breakdown. With her father and everything,” Camilla shouted.
“Her father?” asked Phoebe.
“That trial lawyer who bribed people. It’s all over the news.”
Evelyn started to cough, then lustily hawked up a loogie and spewed it at the motorboat.
“Ew!” Phoebe cried. Camilla was saying something to the group, and Evelyn could hear that it was about her father’s guilty plea.
“I can hear you!” Evelyn yodeled, and Brooke looked up, startled; Camilla, though, seemed to be expecting this and stayed erect at the wheel.
“Evelyn, what are you doing? I thought I made it clear that you were not welcome here,” Camilla said, followed by a righteous “Hmmph!” from Phoebe.
“This is your lake?” Evelyn gulped in a breath of air, and realized this was a dumb tactical move, as it was certainly Camilla’s lake more than it was Evelyn’s.
Camilla didn’t see the opening. “This is bizarre,” she muttered to the ladies-in-waiting in the boat. “Nobody wants her here,” Camilla added, loudly enough that it skipped across the water, and Brooke bleated, “It’s crazy.”
“With Jaime—” Camilla began, but Evelyn, for what felt like the first time in her life, interrupted Camilla.
“What, Camilla’s mad about a boy? Camilla, who can sleep with anyone she wants, anytime she wants, is upset?” shouted Evelyn. “Did I disobey you? Do you get to make all the calls?”
“What are you trying to prove?” Camilla said.
“Maybe Evelyn should stop sleeping with people’s boyfriends,” Phoebe suggested.
“Maybe Jaime should stop sleeping with people’s girlfriends, too, but we don’t see him out here in the middle of ring-around-the-rosy, do we? Why do you have your little sister along for this ride, Camilla? What is this, a training session for her?” Evelyn shouted. “Maybe you should keep grown-up problems between grown-ups.”
“I’m eighteen,” Phoebe protested.
“Look, your lies about your father—” Camilla began.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I thought no one cared if people were indicted! Does that just apply to your New York circle, Camilla?”
“You lied about the donation, Evelyn. I’m sorry about your father—”
“Oh, can it, Camilla! You’re sorry about my father? You don’t give a fuck!” The “fuck” felt even more satisfactory than the loogie, popping off of Evelyn’s lips with force. “You wanted Jaime for yourself! You’re mad about a boy! That’s all!”
<
br /> “You think I’m mad about a boy? Do I look that uninteresting?” Camilla said.
“What is it, then? The dance? The three minutes that the spotlight wasn’t on you? Sorry every photo wasn’t of you, Camilla. That must have really stung.”
“You didn’t even deb, did you?” Camilla shouted. “The Bachelors’ Cotillion? Guess what? My friend Morgan from St. Paul’s was a deb there and had never, ever heard of you. Or your family. Shipping money? Really? You completely made it up. And for what? So you could be a handmaid for a bunch of teenagers? And your father? He was never going to be a donor for the Luminaries, was he? How long have you been lying?”
“You were going to eviscerate him at that lunch,” Evelyn said. “You were going to parade him in there like some sort of freak. The Southern lawyer, ladies and gentlemen of New York City. He’s so down-home that he didn’t even get he was supposed to give twenty-five thousand dollars in exchange for people making fun of him. Does the mascot dance? Does Camilla get points for being so clever?”
“Oh, please. You’re pathetic.”
Evelyn gasped for breath as she tried to get away from the circling motorboat, but Camilla was upping the throttle and the waves were knocking the oar handles into her stomach.
“Yes, Camilla, you get to set the rules. You get to be in charge of everyone and everything. I forgot. Please excuse me.” Evelyn had spent a not-insignificant amount of time reading up on where Camilla’s fortune came from and had concluded the only difference between Camilla’s money and her money was time. In her anger at being attacked, it was all spilling out. “The Hennings wouldn’t even pay fair wages during the Depression, and the Rutherford banking fortune has some sketchy roots, so if you want to talk about background—”
“Oh, ladies, we have a stalker on our hands!” Camilla said, clapping, which meant her hands left the steering wheel and the motorboat nearly hit Evelyn’s oar.
Everybody Rise Page 30
