The Summer We Read Gatsby Part 13

Her husband kept insisting they were simple people; they just wanted to be home with their kids and not partic.i.p.ate 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 some people. He seemed convinced. "We don't need his and hers marble bidets and a screening room-" 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 charm, as I told them, because by the time dessert was served-individual chocolate souffles 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 ident.i.ty, 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 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. 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 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 we should look at it," Marni added. "We need a new house." 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 a.s.s 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 decision," she whispered urgently. "I'm going to stay 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 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."

"Marriage?" I repeated, somewhat incredulously. "Why all of a sudden are you, of all people, interested in marriage marriage?"

"What does that mean, me, of all people me, of all people? I never said I didn't want to get married. That was you 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.

"n.o.body 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger 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 cla.s.sically 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 are an item?"

He looked over at me in surprise. "An item 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 genius."

"I get that a lot," he said, grinning. "Don't you?"

"No," I said. "n.o.body 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 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."

He looked over at me. "Are you kidding? No, sadly, there are no ladies in my life at this moment. Besides, Laurie's got loftier goals than a poor architect for hire. Miles n.o.ble is more her speed. She told me she's heard he's a leg leg man." man."

"Funny," I said. "That's what Peck said about you."

"I am am a leg man." He was still looking in my direction even though he was driving, and a small smile played at his lips. "But I'm also a foot and elbow and hollow of the neck man. I'm especially a funny bone man. I'm known for that." a leg man." He was still looking in my direction even though he was driving, and a small smile played at his lips. "But I'm also a foot and elbow and hollow of the neck man. I'm especially a funny bone man. I'm known for that."

"I've heard that about you."

He was taking the back roads and he asked, "Would you mind if we stop at my house before I drive you home? It's on the way. Sort of."

"I'd like to see it," I said, curious about his taste.

As he drove I told him we now thought he might have been right about our Fool-in-Residence and the missing painting. "It could be one of his pranks," I said. "Like he's planning a big reveal or something any day now. But we also think the painting might actually be something. Or Peck thinks so. I'm not sure. The initials on the back were J.P. And it resembles an early Jackson Pollock."

He looked understandably incredulous. "You think Lydia had a Jackson Pollock?"

I shook my head, now unsure. "It was just a thought. We have to get the painting back before we can figure it out."

"There's no way Lydia Moriarty owned a Jackson Pollock and never told any of us," he said. "J.P. couldn't be Jackson Pollock. She never met him."

"How do you know?" I asked him.

"You think she would have been able to keep it a secret if she had? How often did she tell you about the time she met De Kooning?"

He had a point. She'd loved to tell the story of how she met the famous artist through my father. "About a hundred times."

"But now that you mention it, I do remember Biggsy telling me he was obsessed with Jackson Pollock. It's one of the reasons he came out here in the first place. He went to visit the Pollock-Krasner House and he had to stay in the area."

"Pollock-Krasner House? You mean where they lived?"

He nodded. "In Springs. It's a museum now. You can tour the house and his studio. But he died in the fifties. Lydia would have been a kid. I don't see how she could have met him and had him inscribe a painting to her when she was eight or nine years old and never told us."

"I guess you're right," I said. "But it has to be something, doesn't it? Why else would anyone have taken it? Did your mother tell you anything about it when she gave you that picture?"

He shook his head. "No, but why don't we ask her? Come for Sunday dinner tomorrow on Shelter Island. You can meet the whole Killian clan."

"All four brothers?"

"And all their wives and kids. And dogs. There are twenty of us," he said. "Ten kids ranging in age from fourteen to two. My mom's the matriarch, the only sane one at the center of the vortex. You'll love her." He turned onto a narrow dirt road lined with trees. "This is my place."

I don't know what I expected; he was an architect, after all. But I hadn't given much thought to the type of house he would have created for himself. Everyone I knew lived in small rented apartments or, in the case of my editor, the top half of a house he shared with his elderly mother. I was the first of my friends to own even part of a house, and that was only due to the very generous, if mysterious, Aunt Lydia. Jean-Paul and I had shared an apartment belonging to his brother, which my ex-husband kept for himself after we split up. I didn't know anyone-except Miles n.o.ble-who lived in a house of their own design. Finn's house was beautiful, a converted barn he'd spent three years redesigning, keeping only the old planks of wood, dark with the patina of age. The front of the house retained the original barn shape. The back, though, was open, like a dollhouse, all clad in gla.s.s, with sliding doors framed in bronze. From the front door you could see out the back.

"I had no idea you were this talented," I said to him in genuine surprise as he led me in.

The first floor was an open plan with a dining area containing a long rippled table that could seat twenty and a living area with deep-cushioned sofas. The floors were bare and gleaming and there was a wall of bookshelves, stacked neatly with books, constructed from the same dark, aged wood as the floor. Everything was orderly, from the dishes on the shelves above the sink to the pens, papers, tape dispenser, stapler, and other items lined up on the desk. I guess the impossible neatness and order shouldn't have surprised me. He was an architect, after all. But I'd never been in a man's home that looked like this, not that I'd been in so many men's homes at all, really.

This one was so well thought out that every sight line offered something else that was visually arresting, and I wandered through the s.p.a.ce in awe. The energy of the house was happy, as though many generations of children had been born under its roof, though it was technically only a few years old. I couldn't imagine anyone possessing such a gift, one that allowed them to create a home like this.

"When my dad died," he said softly, "I gave my brother Seamus the lease on my apartment and moved out here full-time. I built this place with my father in mind. And I had to stay. I wanted to get away from the world. I've lived here for three years."

"I wouldn't want to leave here either," I said, gazing about with admiration and wonder.

"I hardly did. After this summer, though, my brother's moving to the suburbs. His wife is pregnant again with another boy."

"So you'll get back your old apartment?"

He nodded. "I think I'll split my time. I like to work out here. I've got an office upstairs."

The staircase to the second floor had a hand-crafted bronze railing Finn had designed himself. I knew this only because I asked him, but he did look pleased that I was so enthralled with the place. In fact, I was so busy admiring all of it, I missed a step going up and tripped over my feet.

"Am I making you nervous?" He laughed as he pulled me up, holding my hand lightly in his bigger one.

"Yes," I said, telling the truth. He was was making me nervous. He was so obviously talented, and despite my earlier conviction that there must something wrong with him that would explain why he was still single at his age, I couldn't help being drawn to him. Our eyes met and we paused there, on the stairs. The physical tension between us was palpable and I strained toward him, half expecting that he would wrap his arms around me and put his lips to mine. Why else would he have invited me to his house? After a beat or two, though, he looked away and continued up the stairs with my hand in his. I was confused, not just by his behavior, but by my own. I kept telling myself I wasn't ready to get involved with anyone at all, let alone someone who lived on the other side of the ocean from me. And yet there I was mooning up at him like a teenager in l.u.s.t. Meanwhile, he didn't seem to even notice. Was my imagination vivid enough to conjure up this kind of attraction? I hadn't thought so, but perhaps I'd been more effective at getting my creative juices flowing than I believed. making me nervous. He was so obviously talented, and despite my earlier conviction that there must something wrong with him that would explain why he was still single at his age, I couldn't help being drawn to him. Our eyes met and we paused there, on the stairs. The physical tension between us was palpable and I strained toward him, half expecting that he would wrap his arms around me and put his lips to mine. Why else would he have invited me to his house? After a beat or two, though, he looked away and continued up the stairs with my hand in his. I was confused, not just by his behavior, but by my own. I kept telling myself I wasn't ready to get involved with anyone at all, let alone someone who lived on the other side of the ocean from me. And yet there I was mooning up at him like a teenager in l.u.s.t. Meanwhile, he didn't seem to even notice. Was my imagination vivid enough to conjure up this kind of attraction? I hadn't thought so, but perhaps I'd been more effective at getting my creative juices flowing than I believed.

Upstairs, he showed me his bedroom quickly-the bed with a simple metal frame piled high with crisp white pillows, linen curtains framing the window, a comfortable leather chair, a fireplace with a box of firewood, again, all of it so neat neat-and then the second bedroom and another room for music. This one was filled with vintage guitars, hanging from special clamps on the wall. "Check this out," he said, pulling a banjo down from its spot. "This was Jerry's."

"Jerry Garcia? How did you get his banjo?"

He shrugged, holding it out so I could see it. "It was for sale. He'd given it to his driver, or so they told me."

I took the banjo. It was heavier than I expected it to be, with a faded Grateful Dead sticker on one side. It didn't have strings, so it couldn't be played. "Why do you have this?" do you have this?"

"I'm a geek," he said. "A fan. It's probably not even real. I mean, I have a letter authenticating it. The guy who had it got from the driver, or so he said. But it could just as easily be worth nothing nothing."

I gestured toward the guitars. "Play something for me."

"It's been a while," he said, but he pulled an old Les Paul from the wall and took a pick from a bowl he kept on a small table. There was a low sofa along one of the walls and we sat there. He propped one foot on the table and cradled the guitar in his lap. "How's this?" He picked out a few chords and I recognized the tune. A Bruce Springsteen song.

He sang the beginning of the song in his unique, raspy voice. "We'll walk together, side by side." He had a really good singing voice, perfectly pitched, but with a hoa.r.s.eness that made each word so s.e.xy. It was one of those G.o.d-given talents that always fascinate me in their foreignness-the ability to carry a tune.

"You're good," I told him when he stopped. I could have listened to him play all night. "Really good."

"Thanks." He stood and held the guitar at his side, looking down at me, his eyes locked on mine. My heart flipped over. Now he was going to kiss me, that was obvious. And I was going to kiss him back. That was obvious too. But then he held out a hand to help me up. "I'd better get you home," he said, pulling me to stand.

"Home?" I didn't want to go anywhere, let alone home, wherever that was. My life in Switzerland seemed small and far away at that moment.

I started to head to the door. "You're right. It's late. I have to check on the dog. And who knows what Biggsy's been up to in our absence?" I was determined not to let him know that I was disappointed, so I kept talking as he followed me back out to his car. "I met a guy tonight who collects first editions of books. Do you know that a first-edition Gatsby Gatsby with a dust jacket is the holy grail for book collectors? I've been reading Lydia's copy, an old hardcover with its dust jacket." I was babbling, but he nodded as though I were making sense and we slid into our seats in the jeep for the short ride to Fool's House. with a dust jacket is the holy grail for book collectors? I've been reading Lydia's copy, an old hardcover with its dust jacket." I was babbling, but he nodded as though I were making sense and we slid into our seats in the jeep for the short ride to Fool's House.

"Do you want to come in?" I asked at the door. I was just being polite, I told myself. His actions up to now had made it clear we would not be having a physical relationship and that was absolutely fine with me. It was much better not to be distracted by him for the rest of my stay. I decided I would go with him the next day to visit his mother, only to ask her about the painting, and then I would put him out of my mind until my flight home, at which point it would be easy, I imagined-out of sight, out of mind-to forget all about him He paused. "I do. I really do. But you'd better rest up for tomorrow. The Killians can be intense. If you have a lacrosse stick, you might want to bring it."

"A lacrosse stick?" I laughed, holding the screen door open. "What would I I be doing with a lacrosse stick?" be doing with a lacrosse stick?"

He shrugged. "My sisters-in-law will have extras. They always do." He looked around. "Are you sure you're going to be okay here alone?"

Biggsy's motorcycle was not in its usual spot, so he obviously wasn't around, but I a.s.sured Finn I'd be fine.