Danielle Ganek

by The Summer We Read Gatsby (v5)

  Peck had started out that morning helping me, but her curiosity waned early and she’d wandered off after dumping out the contents of one of the desk drawers all over the floor to make us coffee. “Stella. The phone,” she commanded from the kitchen at the first ring of the old black rotary that sat on a side table in the living room.

  Peck and I had differing opinions on telephone behavior in general. She was, and still is, one of those people who are so afraid to miss anything that they jump to answer a ringing phone no matter what they might be doing, eating dinner, watching a play, riding a bicycle. She would even answer the phone in the middle of sex, a disconcerting habit I’d experienced from the other end a couple of times, calling from Lausanne and reaching her at eleven in the morning New York time.

  Lydia’s land line was not a phone number I’d put into circulation as a way for anyone to reach me. Peck, on the other hand, had passed along the phone number to every single person she knew. She explained this by saying it was because her cell phone service was erratic in that area of Southampton, but then admitted to me she loved the 283 exchange, which indicated to anyone who cared about such snobbish things that the number in question had been in Southampton for some time.

  “Stellaaah!” came the reproachful cry from the kitchen when Peck realized I hadn’t immediately jumped up to answer the call. “Get the phone.”

  I did and was pleasantly surprised to hear Finn’s voice on the other end of the line. “Hey, kid,” he said with no introduction. “Aren’t there a few more things we need to cross off Lydia’s list?” I sat on the sofa and cradled the phone to my ear as I could hear Peck shouting from the kitchen, “Who is it?”

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked. “You thinking of having an affair with a man who speaks no English?”

  “Ha.” His gravelly voice vibrated through the receiver. “I slept with a girl in Abu Dhabi once who could only say, ‘Yes, please.’ Does that count?”

  “Aren’t you quite the player?” I said. “And you seem determined to have me know this about you.”

  “You intimidate me, kid.” He used a teasing tone that indicated that he couldn’t actually be intimidated by anything. “I’m trying to show off, sorry.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m sufficiently impressed. Abu Dhabi?”

  “Okay,” he said. “That wasn’t true. But I’ve never skinny-dipped in the ocean.”

  “You?” I feigned shock. “Mister Surfer Dude?”

  He laughed. “I know. It’s embarrassing. I’ve got to do something about it.”

  “And I take it you want me to help you with this?” Somehow I was able to fall into a joking banter. Was I flirting?

  “Well, I can’t go alone,” he said. “Aren’t you the one the list was for? Peck can’t possibly need to do that one. She’d skinny-dip in the Four Seasons Pool Room if she thought anyone was watching.”

  “What’s the Four Seasons Pool Room?” I normally couldn’t stand to talk on the phone, but I could have stayed on with him all day.

  Peck had appeared in the living room with flour all over her face and hands. “Who is it?” she whispered insistently when she saw me curled up happily on the sofa with the receiver.

  “The Four Seasons is a restaurant in the Seagram Building,” Finn was saying as I put my hand over the receiver and mouthed, “Finn Killian.”

  “It was designed by Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson in the late fifties,” he continued as Peck widened her eyes in excitement and then joined me on the sofa, sitting practically on top of me so she could hear what he was saying. “It was the first building of its kind, a gorgeous bronze, the best example of curtain-wall architecture ever. It’s really special. And the restaurant? Some people think it’s pretentious. But it’s such a beautifully designed space, I just really appreciate it as an architect.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” I said. “But I don’t think I’ve ever seen it. We didn’t go to New York much when I came out here.”

  Peck leaned even closer. “What? Where?”

  “The Grill Room is the power-lunch scene. That’s what people think of when they think of the Four Seasons,” Finn was saying as Peck was getting increasingly frustrated that she didn’t know what was going on. “What does he want?” she asked in an insistent whisper.

  I wasn’t sure what he wanted—to go skinny-dipping?—but he seemed to be enjoying telling me about the Four Seasons. “You walk through the Grill Room to the Pool Room, which is where I like to sit. It has this square marble pool in the center and these trees that change with the seasons. It’s considered Siberia for the power lunchers but it’s really pretty.”

  “Sounds cool,” I said. “But are you sure you’re not a power-luncher?”

  At the mention of power lunching Peck was apoplectic with curiosity. “Who? Who’s a power-luncher? Are you talking about Miles?”

  Finn let out a laugh. “I get hired by the power-lunchers. But the Pool Room is cool. I’ve always thought it was very romantic. But I’ve only ever gone there with other architects. It’s that kind of space. We all get horny over Mies van der Rohe; we can’t help ourselves.” He paused. “I’d like to take you there. If you’d like to go to New York one night. It’s kind of a landmark. A little touristy, people like to complain about the food, of course, but worth going once at least, just to see it.”

  He was rambling. Was he nervous? He always seemed so comfortable in his skin, confident to the point of arrogance. But now he was going on as if he thought he needed to talk me into this idea, as if he were just doing his civic duty, encouraging me to sightsee while I was there. “I’d love to go to the city,” I said, as my cheeks burned with pleasure.

  “The city?” Peck repeated, hardly whispering now. “You’re going to the city?”

  He paused again but it wasn’t awkward, just careful. “I was going to invite you to dinner tonight . . . I mean, that’s why I called, to ask you. I thought you might need a break from your sister. What is she doing, trying to rip the phone from your hand to listen in?”

  That was exactly what she was doing. “I thought you were inviting me skinny-dipping.”

  “Skinny-dipping?” Peck repeated, with a comically leering face. “I love skinny-dipping.”

  He laughed. “Well, dinner first. I was thinking in town. But now I’m suggesting we drive into the city for dinner at the Four Seasons. Are you up for that?”

  I was. “I’ll pick you up at five-thirty,” he said. “It’ll take about two hours to drive. Oh, and men have to wear a jacket. It’s a little pretentious, sorry. But I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I said. We almost hung up several times after that but we kept talking. Peck seemed to think she’d gotten the gist of the conversation—skinny-dipping—and realized she was going to have to wait until I got off the phone to hear any more details, so she wandered back to the kitchen to whatever baking project she’d begun earlier. I told Finn about the combination to the safe and the letters we’d found inside. He was easy to talk to, asking questions about the content of the letters and how I felt about what I learned from them. We talked for another hour, my ear aching from holding the phone to it for so long.

  When I finally got off the phone, Peck, as expected, went into a tailspin of excitement at the news that I would be going to the city for dinner with Finn. She screamed, jumping up and down, like a beauty pageant contestant.

  “The Four Seasons!” she exclaimed breathlessly, and then immediately shifted into a more serious mood. “Oh, I wonder where they’ll put you. It’s very important to get a good table.”

  “We’re sitting in the Pool Room,” I explained.

  “Of course,” she said dismissively. “Nobody sits in the Grill Room for dinner. Besides, the Pool Room is romantic. But you have to get one of the tables next to the pool.” She brushed the flour from her hands and headed immediately for the stairs. “Now, what are we going to wear?”

  “We?” I said, laughing, as I follo
wed her up the stairs. “We are not going to the Four Seasons, last I checked.”

  “It’s the royal we,” she said, amiably poking fun at herself. “And I can’t help it, I’m excited. My baby’s growing up. You’re coming out of your shell, Stella.”

  “It’s just dinner,” I said. “With someone I never liked.”

  “Well,” she said, already searching my closet, “he always liked you.”

  “No, he didn’t,” I quickly corrected her. “He was just being polite.”

  Peck inspected and dismissed everything she found in my closet. The only dress, the long white one I’d worn to Miles Noble’s party, Peck deemed entirely unsuitable for dinner at the Four Seasons. She was taking the question of what to wear on this occasion very seriously and, for a change, I appreciated her laserlike focus on my wardrobe.

  “No, no. It’s all wrong,” she said sternly. “The Four Seasons is very linear. It’s about the architecture.”

  “That’s why Finn wants to take me there.” I was enjoying the sisterly concern. “Mies van der Rohe makes him horny.”

  She gave me a brisk nod. “I get it. There are these magnificent draped chain curtains on the windows.” Pecksland Moriarty is one of the only people I know who can pull off using the word magnificent in everyday conversation. “It’s very modern. You have to wear something modern. I would say black, but it’s still a date. We want you to look soft and pretty. I’m thinking pale gray.”

  “I don’t have any pale gray,” I pointed out. My wardrobe was still very collegiate, jeans and loose tops, a few sweaters. I’d brought a couple of skirts, but they were casual.

  “You don’t have anything,” she assessed, making a face. “But we’re not going to fix that situation in time for dinner. And I’ve got the perfect solution.”

  She left me with the pile of discarded clothes and came back thirty seconds later holding a simple gray dress with a gathered waist and a swingy skirt on a hanger. “Vintage Valentino,” she said. “I bought it because it was so cheap and practically unworn. I don’t know how I thought I was going to starve myself into it but I figured it was collectible at that price. Anyway, I want you to have it.”

  “Oh no,” I protested automatically, even as I was hoping it would fit me. “I couldn’t.”

  She stared at me in disbelief. “You are, without a doubt, the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met. What the hell am I going to do with a dress that just sits there reproachfully in my closet, reminding me that eating dessert at every meal does not a size zero make? Literally, you’d be doing me a favor.”

  The dress fit perfectly, as though it were tailored expressly for me. I twirled in front of the mirror. “I’m so proud of myself,” Peck said. “Look at you. Now, what about the hair? You’re a pinhead.”

  She sat me down in her room and took a curling iron to my long, stick-straight hair. “I spoke to Miles Noble,” she announced, as she frowned at the limp lock of hair she was attempting to “volumize.” “He told me he enjoyed seeing my aunt’s house and her art collection. Can you believe that? It’s like he wants me to know he took the painting, right? Then he said I should come over to see his collection sometime. He’s taunting me, I know it.”

  “Did you ask him about the missing painting?” I asked as she pulled on my hair. “Ow.”

  “Of course I didn’t ask him about it. I don’t want him to know I’m onto him yet. Maybe I’m supposed to go over there and take something of his, you know?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  She frowned at me, but whether that was because she didn’t like my not agreeing with her or because my hair was a situation was unclear. “Well, we’re going over there tomorrow. You’re coming with me. And no advance warning either: we’re just going to stop by. Like we’re in the neighborhood.”

  “Why don’t you just tell him you want to come by?” I asked. “He invited you to see his collection. Why would we be in that neighborhood?”

  She stood back, admiring her handiwork. “Never underestimate the element of surprise, Stella.”

  While I was waiting for Finn to pick me up, I sent a group e-mail to Kelly, Patrizia, Tessa, and Julie to tell them about my date with Finn and almost immediately received four responses in quick succession, all sent “Reply All.” Kelly, married to an American, had a lot of advice about keeping things simple and upbeat. “American men are refreshingly straightforward and optimistic,” she wrote. “Yes, but he’s an architect!” was the immediate message from Tessa, whose fiancé was a famous French architect based in San Francisco with whom Tessa had been arguing, almost since they met, about where to live. “They make everything complicated, often more than it needs to be. They can’t help it.” And then she sent a follow-up e-mail almost immediately. “And they’re arrogant,” she added. Julie, who was a hopeless romantic, waxed on about destiny and one door opening when another closes, and Patrizia simply shared a bit of gossip about my editor, whom she’d spotted having lunch in an out-of-the-way café with an Italian publisher. I missed them, I realized as I attempted to describe Finn’s smile without sounding like a total sap. But even as I typed my words I recognized that our lives and our friendships were starting to shift. Kelly and Tessa were both leaning toward moving to the United States, although Tessa claimed she would go “kicking and screaming.” Patrizia had started to speak fondly of “going home,” feeling the eventual pull of many an expat. Julie had always planned to go back to New Zealand before she got too settled in Lausanne, although she’d lived in Switzerland for almost twelve years.

  I’d just closed up my laptop when Peck shouted up the stairs, “Finn’s here.”

  My heart actually skipped a beat as I grabbed my purse and hurried down. Peck was on the porch with a cigarette, her elbow clasped at her waist, as though she were the one waiting to be picked up for dinner. “A crisp white shirt,” she murmured as he stepped out of the car, wearing a navy blue jacket that set off his slight tan nicely. “Finn, you clean up well,” she called out as he came toward us.

  “You look really pretty, kid,” he said to me as I walked down the porch steps, his eyes wide in surprise.

  He walked me around to the passenger side of the jeep and opened the door for me. The Grateful Dead was on the stereo. “Stella Blue.” “This was never one of my favorite songs,” I told him, suddenly nervous. It hit me that it wasn’t a very good idea to go on a two-hour car ride on what was essentially a first date. What if we ran out of things to talk about and then had to sit through a long fancy dinner in silence?

  “Not mine either,” he said, looking at me for a beat before he closed my door and came around, giving Peck a jaunty wave before he slid in next to me. Well, that was rude, I thought.

  He pulled out of the driveway and we were quiet, listening to the music. It seems like all this life / Was just a dream. It occurred to me as he didn’t speak that I must have misinterpreted his invitation, reading romantic intentions into the talk of skinny-dipping and dinner in the Pool Room. He was obviously just being polite, taking out the family friend, the visitor from abroad, out of allegiance to Lydia. I replayed our conversation on the phone to see if I’d missed some signal, but Peck had been distracting me, and the nuances of whether the invitation was for a date or just a friendly outing escaped me as I tried to recall his words. It didn’t matter; the situation was now more than clear and it annoyed me that I’d been fooled.

  “Rough day at the office?” I asked, slightly sarcastic. I felt silly now, in my borrowed finery with my expectations sitting heavily on my chest. And what had happened to his sense of humor? He was practically sullen.

  He nodded distractedly. “Sort of. I’ve got a couple of difficult clients right now.”

  After that we talked, but our conversation was stilted and I grew increasingly annoyed with him. He made no effort to be funny and entertaining. Instead he appeared tired and it seemed suddenly ridiculous to be driving to dinner hours away with someone who didn’t even seem to like me. And
then the voice in my head kicked in, reminding me that even if there had been romantic intentions on his part, there would have been no point in reciprocating when I had so much to do and would soon be leaving this place behind.

  It was time, I told myself when we fell into another silence, to go back home and focus on the career I’d allowed to languish. In an e-mail just that day, my editor had expressed an interest in giving me more actual writing projects, rather than only translations, and I’d enjoyed thinking about turning the e-mails I’d sent him into a column. I’d been jotting down notes since I arrived in Southampton and I was excited about getting back to writing. Perhaps after tonight I could write a column about uncomfortable dates.

  “Tell me about your writing,” Finn said then, as if he could read my mind.

  “There’s not much to tell,” I said. I’d never been comfortable talking about myself or about my yearning to write.

  “When I first wanted to be an architect,” he went on, “I used to believe that my first efforts at designing something had to be perfect. When those first sketches weren’t good—of course they weren’t, they were supposed to be rough—I thought that meant I wasn’t supposed to be an architect. It was only later that I understood how the process works. I imagine it must be similar with writing.”

  I didn’t realize at the time how these words would later resonate. That night I thought he was being condescending, and I grew prickly as a result. I resented my earlier excitement at the prospect of what I’d assumed—erroneously, I now believed—was a romantic dinner.