Marni did not seem at all pleased that her husband was expressing so much interest in our painting, but it was time to eat and Miles and the unpleasant blond butler ushered us down the two flights of stairs. Dinner was served by a whole slew of black-clad waiters—all men, all very young and all very, very good-looking, as though a casting agent had been involved. “Eye candy,” Marni declared them as we made our way onto the wide patio at the back of the house. “Like you, honey,” she said to her portly husband. You’re my eye candy.” He seemed to believe that she found him pleasing to the eye as he nodded in agreement.
We were warmed by four standing heaters, the kind I’d only ever seen at outdoor restaurants, and we were individually offered cashmere blankets in assorted colors that hung over the back of our chairs to fight the slight summer chill.
Peck, whether because she was simply doing what came naturally to her, or because she sensed she was auditioning, took on the role of the cohost, helping Miles direct his guests to their seats, making sure that the wine was served, and suggesting the good-looking men offer the choice of both flat and sparkling water. She encouraged Miles to dim the two enormous lanterns filled with lightbulbs that hung off the back of the house and cast the terrace in too-bright near-daylight and asked the blond butler to bring out more candles.
Miles looked enthralled by her involvement. “I told you, lots and lots of candles,” he called out after the man hurrying into the house.
We were all sitting by then, and we pulled the blankets around our shoulders and started the first course, smoked salmon with caviar and sour cream on potato pancake as big as Frisbees.
Heather, mother of four, an identity she continually tossed into the conversation, much the way her husband seemed fond of adding a dash of Harvard, was suddenly chatty. She used the word heinous often, and incorrectly, about a dress on someone named Serena, about the breath on a bond salesman she’d been forced to talk to, and about the night of sleep she’d gotten without the benefit of the white noise machine she relied on. She was an expert on everything, it seemed. Most especially she was a parenting know-it-all. As none of the rest of us except Gordon and his grown-up kids had any children, it seemed an odd conversational tack. And yet on she went, offering her opinion about bedtimes, mealtimes, and naptimes and getting into the best nursery schools. “It was brutal this year, especially for boys,” she informed us, as though we’d been requesting the inside scoop. In particular she was fanatical, she said, about reading. “You have to read to them from the instant they come out of the womb. And then you have to continue to do it every night.”
On this, I agreed. But nobody else could get in a word. Miles ignored her, carrying on his own conversation with Gordon, while the rest of us learned about something called Ferberizing, which seemed to involve letting a baby cry him- or herself to sleep or something equally depressing.
Gordon was sitting next to me, glumly picking at a hard roll. “So, what kind of books do you collect?” I asked him when Miles turned his attention back to Peck, and Marni was telling the others they were shopping for a new house. Gordon had seemed to droop visibly at the idea of spending money—“I mean, has anyone looked at the Dow lately?” I heard someone saying—but as I expected, the question about the books invigorated him noticeably. He tilted his head, as though he were about to tell me something in confidence. “Mostly I buy first editions of novels I’ve enjoyed reading.” He spoke softly so I had to lean in to hear him. “I have a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird: that’s probably my most valuable piece. I have an inscribed Catch-22. A whole series of Agatha Christies. I like detective novels—those are fun to own.”
His whole demeanor shifted when he talked about his books. I got the sense he enjoyed this version of himself, the sort of quirky intellectual who might troll antiquarian book fairs looking for treasures for his bookshelf, rather than the version Marni seemed interested in promoting, the rich man with his toys.
“Is there one book you wish you could own?” I asked him.
He nodded, accustomed to the question. “A first-edition Great Gatsby. Signed. With a dust jacket. That’s the holy grail of book collecting, in my mind.”
I thought of the hardcover I’d found at Fool’s House. It wasn’t signed but it had a dust jacket, and I’d wondered about it, having heard somewhere that such details were important to collectors of books. “Is that hard to find?”
“Almost impossible,” he said with a grin that indicated he knew the market for such things very well. “It would cost in the neighborhood of a hundred grand or more. That’s if you can get one. They just don’t come up.” He went on to tell me about the mistakes that would indicate a first-edition Gatsby to a rare books dealer or collector. “The mistakes get corrected in later editions. That’s why they’re important. And a dust jacket, that’s extremely rare. The first-edition game is all about the dust jackets.” He was getting himself all worked up, saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth. I wondered if he’d ever discussed The Great Gatsby with his new wife. “In 1925, when the book was published, dust jackets were simply wrapping paper. They were tossed in the garbage when the person received the book. There was a mistake on the original dust jacket, a lowercase j where it should have been uppercase. That’s one of the things that would mark something as a first edition.” I made a mental note to check Lydia’s copy of Gatsby I’d been reading.
The smoked salmon was followed by thick grilled steaks with vegetables and risotto with truffle oil and French fries. Even the competitively thin Marni, who apparently never ate—“I never eat!” she exclaimed more than once—popped a few fries in her mouth.
Peck ate as she always did, with gusto, and I followed her lead. That-Awful-Jean-Paul had turned out to be fussy about food, a bait and switch that took me entirely by surprise after a whirlwind courtship during which he professed to be a foodie and took me to some terrific restaurants. Then, after we were married, he allowed me to see the real him, a neurotic eater with incessant stomach ailments—ulcers, intestinal diseases, and fictional-sounding diagnoses that grew increasingly closer to cancer the more he repeated them—who hated to spend money on restaurant food.
Marni was on my other side, and when Gordon turned back to Miles I asked his new wife if they lived nearby. That seemed to be her cue to tell me all about her newly acquired stuff—the house “down the road” they were going to sell for a better house with water views, a place on the Intercoastal in Palm Beach, an apartment overlooking Central Park, the plane, a boat, even the new watch her husband had just bought her that afternoon, which she extended a skinny wrist to display.
I heard Finn Killian’s name from the other side of me, in a conversation between Miles and Ollie, and I strained to hear what they were saying about him. From what I could glean, Miles was advising Ollie, the Harvarditis victim, on how to deal with architects. “No architects,” Ollie kept repeating. “No work. If we buy anything, it will be ready to move into and cheap.”
“Don’t you say that word,” his wife teased. “Cheap is not in my vocabulary.”
“Oh God,” Marni squealed. She seemed to be getting drunk, although I hadn’t seen anything pass her lips other than the few French fries and a sip or two of water. “Me too. Don’t utter that word in my presence!”
“Just buy her a house,” Miles said to Heather’s husband. “Buy her anything she wants. It’s cheaper than divorce. Take your lessons from Gordon.”
Heather flashed him an uncertain smile and Marni made a face. It was hard to tell if Miles was kidding.
“I don’t want anything fancy,” Heather continued defensively. “A country house,” she clarified. As in “We desperately need a country house.” They wanted something with charm, she went on to explain, as if charm were a totally unique and esoteric thing to want, as if they were the only people ever to use that word, as if nobody out here knew what she knew about the subject. They wanted a place that would reflect who they were as a family. A farmhouse or someth
ing like that, she said. It didn’t have to be big; Heather didn’t want to lose her kids, as she apparently kept doing in Miles Noble’s palace. And no pool; she wanted to be able to sleep and not worry that one of them was going to drown. But it had to have charm. “I’m a deeply creative person,” she said earnestly. “I have to be inspired by my environment.”
Her husband kept insisting they were simple people; they just wanted to be home with their kids and not participate in the social scene. They weren’t trying to make new friends, since they didn’t even have time to see the ones they had. And they weren’t trying to make a statement, like some people. He seemed convinced. “We don’t need his and hers marble bidets and a screening room—”
“—of course we don’t. We can come here when we want to see a movie,” his wife interjected. “Right, Miles?”
A joint was making the rounds. Heather took a deep drag and tried to launch a discussion about kids and drugs. “You have to talk to them about pot.”
“Sure, you do,” Ollie called out. “They have all the best sources.”
“I have a house for you.” Up to that point I hadn’t talked much except to ask questions of the Littles on either side of me, and they all stopped to listen. “We’re selling exactly the house you just described.”
I must have done a pretty good job talking them into Fool’s House, a place that was all about creativity and charm, as I told them, because by the time dessert was served—individual chocolate soufflés with enormous dollops of fresh whipped cream—they were practically ready to make me an offer. I described the supposedly famous creative energy of the place, the light on the lawn, the crumbling tennis court, and, of course, the gregarious porch. “It’s not just any house, Fool’s House,” I heard myself saying. “Not just a structure with rooms in which to sleep and bathe, but a lifestyle, an identity, a destination.”
They ate it up. It was a strange feeling, to be in possession of something to sell. I’d never thought of myself as a salesperson. At the magazine, the editorial team and the sales staff were kept totally separate, and the sales people always seemed so other to me. But that night, I enjoyed the experience, spinning a tale I knew they wanted to hear. It wasn’t difficult to make Fool’s House sound appealing. I’d grown to love the place.
“My sister fancies herself a writer,” Peck called out to them in warning. “She tends to embellish.” But she didn’t seem to mind the sales angle and even added in a bit about Lydia’s ghost and the unfinished backgammon game we’d returned to the porch to find played to an end.
“When can we come see it?” Harvarditis wanted to know.
“Maybe we should look at it,” Marni added. “We need a new house.”
Heather glared at her as her husband seemed to grow nervous at the thought of buying a house. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Is this a time to buy? Or should we rent? What do you think, Miles? You seem to have the Midas touch.”
The whole table of people looked to Miles for a decree on the economy. Miles propped his feet on the table, taking a deep drag of the joint. He seemed used to being asked the question. He was a rich man, after all, the sort of alpha male who was in the habit of giving his opinion. “Don’t think you’re going to steal their house on the cheap. Real estate out here is gold. I had an offer on this place just the other day that would make your ass squinch.”
This made Harvarditis laugh so hard he kept gasping for breath and banging on the table. He laughed for what seemed like hours, and eventually the dessert wine was finished, after-dinner cigarettes had been smoked, and it was time to go home. We all got up at the same time and headed into the house.
Peck pulled me aside as we stepped through the door, allowing the others to move on to the front of the house without us. “I’ve made a decision,” she whispered urgently. “I’m going to stay.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t rush into anything,” I suggested. “I thought you were never going to fall in love again.”
“I’m not talking about falling in love,” she said with a coy smile. “I have no intention of doing that again. But at the same time, you can’t fight destiny. I’m talking about marriage.”
“Marriage?” I repeated, somewhat incredulously. “Why all of a sudden are you, of all people, interested in marriage?”
“What does that mean, me, of all people? I never said I didn’t want to get married. That was you.” Her voice had gotten louder, like she wasn’t afraid of anyone overhearing her. “Anyway, I’ve called Finn to pick you up.”
“You did what?” I stared at her. “I don’t need Finn to pick me up. He’s not a chauffeur.”
“He was out here anyway, at a client’s house for dinner just down the road,” she was quick to say. And then she launched into one of her observations, intended to distract me from what she’d done. “People are always having him for dinner. He’s what’s known as the extra man. He’s tall, he went to Princeton, he has a job. That’s enough to get a guy in this town invited anywhere. It’s one of the great injustices of our social system.” She paused and then added, with a mischievous smile, “I wanted him to see you in that dress.”
“You’re crazy.” I was half dismayed and actually half pleased that she’d summoned Finn on my behalf.
She grinned. “Runs in the family. Based on how quickly Finn agreed to drive over here, he certainly didn’t mind.”
“What about Laurie?”
“The praying mantis?” she scoffed. “Not likely.”
“Who’s a praying mantis?” Miles wanted to know as he came up behind Peck and threw one arm casually around her shoulders.
“Nobody you’d care to know.” She smiled at him. “My sister’s getting a ride home. She’s going to look after Trimalchio.”
“And I’m going to look after you,” he said, kissing her on the ear. She leaned back, tilting her head.
They walked me out to the front of the house and Miles patted my shoulder. “Behave,” he said, as though I were one of those three girls who’d graced his deck with their miniskirted presence earlier in the evening, the kind who had a tendency to get naughty.
“Namaste,” Peck whispered as she wrapped her arms around me, enveloping me in a cloud of Jo Malone fragrance and hair.
12
When Finn’s jeep pulled into the courtyard, the muscles in my stomach clenched involuntarily from nerves. I stood and took a deep calming breath, telling myself it was just a ride home and to stop being such a ninny. For some reason this was the word that popped into my head—ninny. It wasn’t one I’d ever spoken aloud. Finn stepped out of the car as I moved from the stone bench where I’d been sitting toward the passenger side. He caught my wrist to stop me. “Don’t you look nice.”
I was tempted to dismiss the compliment in my usual fashion. Instead I simply said, “Thank you.” And then I added, channeling some of Peck’s regal graciousness, “Thanks for coming to pick me up. I didn’t know Peck was going to impose on you like that.”
He gave me a funny look as he opened the passenger door and helped me in. “I was happy to do it.” He went around to the driver’s side and I caught a whiff of his now-familiar soapy scent as he slid in next to me. I wished he didn’t have such an effect on me.
“Is this Brett Dennen?” I thought I was being so casual, chatting about the music, but my mouth was dry and my voice cracked slightly. “I thought I was the only one who knew about Brett Dennen.”
He laughed. The planes of his face, in profile, caught the moonlight, and I was struck, not for the first time, by how much I liked his looks. He wasn’t classically handsome in a way that was too pretty or called attention to itself, but his face in profile, with its straight nose and strong jaw, was striking. He looked, well, nice, but I guessed there must be something wrong with him, some dark secret, a syndrome whose symptoms wouldn’t manifest themselves until one had known him awhile.
“So,” I said, as nonchalantly as I could, once we’d been driving for a while. “You and Laurie Poplin ar
e an item?”
He looked over at me in surprise. “An item,” he repeated with a laugh. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?”
“You know what I mean, Killian.” I was trying for the bantering tone that had come naturally at first, but my words sounded too weighted, like I was interrogating him.
Finn, on the other hand, seemed able to banter just fine. “I don’t have any idea what you mean,” he said with another laugh. “Laurie Poplin is selling one of my houses. Is that what an item is?”
“You know what an item is.” I wanted to be offhanded and clever but it all came out too heavy. “She says you’re a genius.”
“I get that a lot,” he said, grinning. “Don’t you?”
“No,” I said. “Nobody has ever called me a genius.”
He smiled. “Your aunt Lydia did. But what about you? No cozy male friends waiting for you back in Lausanne? Any Swiss boyfriends?”
“Not Swiss,” I said, thinking of Maurizio, the Italian friend of Patrizia’s who’d invited me to dinner a few times, and Lorenzo, the new salesman at the magazine who’d been making eyes at me at our last meeting. “Italian.”
“Italian? You have an Italian boyfriend?” He looked over at me again with a disgruntled air. I was almost certain he was just being charming. This is the way he was with everyone he met, I suspected. He was a guy who was used to being popular. Peck had just told me that he was often the “extra man,” invited to social engagements precisely because he was available. His charm had a practiced air that didn’t detract from its effectiveness.
I shook my head in my own attempt at charm, trying to add a little laugh, but it came out more like a cough. “I wouldn’t call any of them boyfriends.”
“Them?” he repeated, mock horrified. “There’s more than one?”
“From what Peck tells me, Laurie Poplin is not the only woman in your life either,” I pointed out. “You’re quite the ladies’ man, I hear.”
Danielle Ganek Page 19
