The Summer We Read Gatsby Part 14

"I changed my mind," he said suddenly, sliding past me into the house as Trimalchio wandered lazily in from the kitchen to greet us. "I'm coming in. In fact, I'm staying the night."

"That's really not necessary," I protested.

He held up one hand. "I insist. I'll sleep on the sofa."

"I'd really prefer it if you didn't," I replied in a sharp tone. "There's no need for misplaced chivalry." I'd moved toward the coffee table in the living room, where I remembered leaving Lydia's copy of The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby after I'd spent a little time reading that afternoon on the porch. after I'd spent a little time reading that afternoon on the porch.

Finn ignored my sharp tone. "I don't trust that guy," he was saying, gesturing through the screen door toward the garage. "You told me you thought he tripped you on purpose, didn't you?"

"I'm a big girl," I said, glancing over at the bookshelf. Perhaps I'd moved the book and didn't remember. Or had Peck put it back on the shelf in an effort to tidy up? I was distracted and annoyed that he was foiling my plan to ignore him. I don't need you to stay up on guard watch all night."

"It'll just be tonight. While Peck's out," he said, looking around as though a.s.sessing potential danger "The guy's unstable. Who knows what else he might do?"

"I think he took my book, actually. Well, Lydia's book."

"The Gatsby Gatsby?" He'd slipped off his shoes and was lying back on the couch like he was settling in for the night. Trimalchio, who'd gotten into the habit of sleeping at the foot of my bed, had hopped up next to him and curled into a ball. "That clinches it. I'm staying. I want to be here when he comes back.

I gave him an extra blanket from the closet under the stairs and got us each a gla.s.s of water before heading up to my own room, feeling very self-conscious. I thought there was no way I'd be able to fall asleep with Finn downstairs, but after a quick check of the rooms upstairs to look for the missing book, I got into bed. Within minutes I must have slept, and I didn't stir until the light streaming through my window indicated that it was already late morning.

I wandered downstairs and followed the smell of coffee and bacon into the kitchen. There I found Finn in the exact position as the last time he was at Fool's House in the morning, at the stove making omelets. "Good morning," he sang out, as if it were totally normal that the two of us should be alone together on a Sunday morning. And it actually felt kind of ordinary. I thought I would have been caught up in the strangeness of having the morning-after without the night-before, but I'd slept so well I felt as relaxed as I'd been all summer. "Breakfast on the porch in three minutes. The newspaper and coffee are already out there."

I made my way out to the porch, where Finn had set the table with Lydia's linens and put out fresh-squeezed juices and gla.s.ses, a bowl of cut-up fruit, a pitcher of milk, and the sugar bowl, as well as the pot of coffee. I poured myself a cup and hugged it in two hands as Martin s.e.xton-another musician Finn and I had discovered we both liked-was on the stereo singing fittingly about feeling happy on a Sunday morning.

He came out a few minutes later with a platter piled high with eggs, bacon, and pancakes. "Dig in," he said, depositing the platter in front of me. "I'll just grab the syrup." Then we sat on the porch with the newspaper, like an old married couple, eating and reading aloud to each other certain odd details of stories we found interesting. Finn was a politics junkie and had a lot to share about the race for president. Now, looking back, I realize something shifted between us that morning. But at the time I was only struck by the recognition that I was happy, just like the song that played like a sound track in the background. Happy wasn't a state with which I'd been familiar, not in a long time, but it felt great.

Lydia would have gotten a big kick out of this, I thought to myself as I poured us each another cup of coffee from the pot. I could almost picture her grinning with delight as she gazed down from the heavens at Finn and me around the table. There was one rainy afternoon that last summer I was there, the summer I met Finn for the first time, that now popped into sharp relief in my memory. I was in the same bedroom-"the white room"-I always occupied when I visited Fool's House, curled up with The Beautiful and d.a.m.ned The Beautiful and d.a.m.ned, which I went on to read after finishing Gatsby Gatsby, when I heard her call for me from downstairs. Finn was taking his G.o.dson to Montauk, she yelled up the stairs, and she thought I might go with them. She'd been trying to push us together all summer, I remembered now. I didn't want to go anywhere and I kept myself very still that afternoon on my bed, not answering, hoping she would think I'd gone out on my own, although I'd spent most of my time that summer reading, either on the porch or at the beach or in my room. She must have known I was in the house. It was pouring down rain, so I was obviously not at the beach. But I heard her tell him I'd probably gone to the market with Peck. He must have known that wasn't true, because Peck and I didn't willingly go very many places together that summer, but he left. And I remember feeling disappointed all of sudden that he was gone.

I was reading the Style section when I looked up to see Hamilton and Scotty making their way up the driveway, loaded down with newspapers and shopping bags and a to-go carton containing four paper cups of coffee.

"We come bearing news," Scotty called out. At least I think that's what he said. His Scottish brogue was so thick it wasn't always easy to decipher his words.

"Literally," Hamilton added, holding up a stack of newspapers. "We've brought every paper. Even the Financial Times Financial Times. I love their weekend section."

As they drew closer they a.s.sessed the scene before them: both of us with tousled hair, at the table with the Sunday New York Times New York Times spread all over it, and remnants of breakfast. "Look how cozy," Hamilton intoned with approval. "Finn and our Ca.s.sie on a Sunday morning." spread all over it, and remnants of breakfast. "Look how cozy," Hamilton intoned with approval. "Finn and our Ca.s.sie on a Sunday morning."

"It's not what you think," I was quick to say. "Finn stayed on the sofa."

They both stared down at us with suspicion. "Right," Hamilton said, clearly not believing me. "Well, we're obviously interrupting, so we'll just go in and find Peck."

"Peck's not here," I said. "And you're not interrupting anything at all. We're finished. Please join us."

Scotty looked to Hamilton for guidance on whether to sit or not. "We brought breakfast," he added. After a pause Hamilton held up the bag he was holding. "Fresh croissants," he said, pulling out one of the chairs. "And cinnamon buns. One of the great seductions of American life."

"I've never had one," Scotty explained as he took a seat, once Hamilton had indicated that they should. He piled the newspapers on top of the one we'd already been reading and handed us each a paper cup of coffee. "Hamilton took me to a place called Ye Olde Bake Shop. Isn't that charming?"

"Where's Lady Pecksland?" Hamilton wanted to know.

I repeated that she wasn't home but I didn't offer any more information than that. This, of course, would never work with Hamilton, who liked to know everything everything and wasn't ever too British to ask. and wasn't ever too British to ask.

"Not home on a Sunday morning?" He raised his eyebrows in comic fashion. "Well, we know she's not at church."

"She's at a friend's house," I said, trying to be discreet. That morning Peck had updated me via text messages that began WARNING: MAY CONTAIN TMI. (TMI = Too Much Information.) On this, she was absolutely correct. I really did not need to hear how many times Miles n.o.ble was able to get it up in the hot tub. Much as I suspected, they had had watched from behind a curtain hanging in a second-floor window until Finn picked me up. Then Miles suggested a swim in the indoor pool, which was lit with all those candles. When the houseguests attempted to join them, he suggested they swim in the outdoor pool if they were so inclined, and asked them not to disturb their host and Peck when they left in the morning. watched from behind a curtain hanging in a second-floor window until Finn picked me up. Then Miles suggested a swim in the indoor pool, which was lit with all those candles. When the houseguests attempted to join them, he suggested they swim in the outdoor pool if they were so inclined, and asked them not to disturb their host and Peck when they left in the morning.

"A friend, you say?" He'd opened the bag of cinnamon buns and pa.s.sed them around. Scotty was holding one delicately, eyeing it as if he couldn't figure out what to do with it. Finn took one too, always polite. I shook my head but Hamilton rattled the bag at me impatiently. "I didn't figure you for one of those tedious New York women who are perpetually on a diet diet."

"I'm not," I said. "But I just ate eggs, bacon, and three pancakes."

He reached into the bag and took out a cinnamon bun and handed it to me. "Don't postpone joy. It's one of my mottoes. Now, what friend friend is this of whom you speak? Might he be the friend in possession of the ugliest house in the Hamptons?" is this of whom you speak? Might he be the friend in possession of the ugliest house in the Hamptons?"

Finn was grinning. "He might might."

"If you must know," I said, in my best mocking imitation of prim, "it's Miles n.o.ble. And yes, she stayed the night."

"We may never see her again," Hamilton said, grinning at me and indicating the cinnamon bun in my hand. "Now take a bite. You'll be most grateful you did."

I did as I was told. "So, what's the news?"

"You tell me," Hamilton said. He hadn't been surprised to learn that the code to Lydia's safe was F. Scott Fitzgerald's birth date and he also hadn't been surprised to learn that the only thing contained in the safe was a stack of love letters. He had been shocked to learn, however, that Lydia had been secretly married. "I'm still disappointed that all we've had so far is the grand news of a wedding. It's so . . . pedestrian," he commented now, making a face as he chewed his cinnamon bun. "I would have expected something more dramatic. A love child, perhaps. Or an identical twin separated at birth."

"You said you had news," I reminded him. "Was it about Biggsy? That's why Finn stayed here last night. He thinks he's dangerous."

Hamilton nodded. "Finn's right. And you'd do well to listen to him. The boy is trouble. Too b.l.o.o.d.y good-looking. Those sorts of looks warp the senses."

"He's not that that good-looking," Scotty said, through a mouthful of his second cinnamon bun. "I don't think he's at all right in the head. And there's nothing attractive about that." good-looking," Scotty said, through a mouthful of his second cinnamon bun. "I don't think he's at all right in the head. And there's nothing attractive about that."

"You're a jealous little fellow, aren't you?" Hamilton fussed at him. "Now, here's what we've learned. Someone-and we suspect it was him-has been texting Giles from a cell phone with a Utah area code about selling a Jackson Pollock. I've decided we need a plan. First we have to confirm that Biggsy or Jonathan or whatever his name is does, in fact, have the painting. I suspect that he does. Then, second, we will get it back."

"Then, third, we'll get rid of him," Scotty added.

Hamilton smiled in my direction. "We? We We have to get rid of him?" have to get rid of him?"

"I think he also took Lydia's copy of Gatsby Gatsby," I told them.

"Well, we'll get that back too," Hamilton said, very matter-of-factly. "Now, here's what I propose. And I offer my services willingly. I can get the young man to tell me if he has the painting."

"How do you propose to do that?" I asked, noting the way Scotty looked at Hamilton sideways, as though he'd had a little experience with Hamilton's plans and wasn't so pleased with the direction this was going.

"The old-fashioned art of seduction, my dear," Hamilton said with a smile. "I'll take one for the team, as you Americans might say."

"What makes you think he'll allow himself to be seduced by you?" I said, half laughing. "He's straight straight."

"Straight to the next man," Hamilton scoffed. "That chap will play it any way he can."

"He had pictures of Peck in his studio," I pointed out. "I think he likes women."

"He has pictures of everyone everyone," Scotty added, speaking up suddenly. "And their houses. The insides of their closets. He told me all about it. He fancies himself the next Great American Artist, if you know what I mean."

"So what will you do after you seduce him?" I asked Hamilton.

He looked at me as though the answer were obvious. "If he has the painting, I'll play the patron, of course, and offer to help him sell it. I'll arrange a meeting with the potential client, have him bring the work, and then we'll grab it. You and Peck will be there and then you'll kick him out."

"Sounds too simple," I said.

"The best plans are always simple." He grinned at me and then pointed at the garage, where there was no sign of Biggsy's motorcycle near the door. "Is he up there?"

I shook my head no.

"He'll be back," Finn said.

Hamilton nodded, picking up his Financial Times Financial Times. "Let me know when he returns. We'll set our plan in motion." He gestured at the rest of the breakfast items. "We'll leave the rest of this for you adorable creatures. Let's go, Scotty. We must give the lovebirds back their Sunday."

Finn and I hung out on the porch for a few hours after they left, then he went home to shower and change. When he picked me up that afternoon to go to Shelter Island neither Biggsy nor Peck had returned to Fool's House.

"You're not going to spend every night on the couch until he comes back," I said, once we'd settled easily into our usual spots in the jeep, as comfortable and relaxed as if we'd been doing so for years. "Besides, Peck will have to come back eventually. She doesn't go anywhere without an extensive wardrobe."

"From what you told me, she didn't need much in the way of clothing," he pointed out.

"She's into dressing gowns and gold lame and sungla.s.ses that match. She buys vintage ballgowns and faux fur stoles. She actually wears hats. At some point she's going to need a look."

For the rest of the ride he gave me the color on the family I was about to meet: his mother, Pat, and the four brothers, Seamus, Ryan, Liam, and Dean, and their wives, Marty, Lisa, Diana, and Tina. We took the five-minute ferry ride to Shelter Island and made our way to the battered old wooden house that Finn's family had owned for many years.

The house was simple and well-tended, with a gently sloping back lawn that ran down to the water. On the lawn two extra-long picnic tables draped with red-white-and-blue-patterned tablecloths were set for the early dinner we were to enjoy with the family. There were stars-and-stripes napkins and cups and a big sheet cake decorated as the American flag with strawberries and blueberries and whipped cream.

"My mother must have gotten a discount on the red, white, and blue decorations after the Fourth of July," Finn said with a laugh as he led me down to the dock, where most of the family was gathered, watching the younger children paddle about in the water and some older ones maneuver a canoe. They were all big, or so it seemed to me, enormously tall and muscled, even the women. As we approached I a.s.sumed Finn's mother must have been inside, but then a figure that I'd taken for one of the teenagers, in loose shorts and a T-shirt, turned and greeted us with a wave and a shout. She was pet.i.te and brown from the sun, with her hair brushed casually off her forehead, and she wrapped her arms around me in the tightest hug and wouldn't let go.

"I'm Pat. I adored your aunt," she said, grinning warmly at me. The lines around her faded blue eyes were the only indicator of her age, as everything else about her was youthful in the most natural way. "I think I'm going to adore you too."

I fell in love that day. Not necessarily with Finn-that would come later-but with the whole boisterous lot of them. They were loud and friendly and opinionated and fun, the athletic brothers with their sporty wives and photogenic children, and they included me in their table discussions as readily as if I'd been there many times. They asked a lot of questions about Switzerland-"Do you have a cuckoo clock?" one of the smaller boys wanted to know-and about Lydia and Fool's House. Pat was more than eager to talk about her friend. I'd brought the photo of the two of them that Finn had given me, and I pulled it out after the cake had been devoured and the kids had run off to catch fireflies and throw lacrosse b.a.l.l.s with their dads while their moms cleared the dishes.

"She loved loved that painting," she said when I explained that it was missing and asked if she knew who the artist had been. "But she was so secretive. I remember I asked her about it once and she went all mysterious. Wouldn't tell me who painted it or where she got it." that painting," she said when I explained that it was missing and asked if she knew who the artist had been. "But she was so secretive. I remember I asked her about it once and she went all mysterious. Wouldn't tell me who painted it or where she got it."

"Do you think it could have been a Jackson Pollock?"

At first she shook her head. "Oh no. She would have told me that. She was mad for Pollock." But then she changed her mind. "But come to think of it, anything's possible. She did have a strange attachment to that painting." She took another small bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully. "I suppose it could have been. She may have had her reasons for not wanting to tell anyone. Maybe she didn't want it to get stolen. She never locked her doors."

"In her will she told Ca.s.sie and Peck that she hoped they would find 'a thing of utmost value' in the house," Finn explained. "And then they'd only been in the house a few days when that painting disappeared off the wall during a party."

"Well, she did like to talk that way," Pat said, considering the idea. "We used to poke fun at her. But it would make sense, I suppose, if she did have a Jackson Pollock she wanted you to have but didn't want to say what it was. Perhaps for the taxes. She did like to be cryptic too. She was always trying to get us to answer her riddles."

"And there was an old hardcover Great Gatsby Great Gatsby too," I added. "With a dust jacket." too," I added. "With a dust jacket."

"I didn't know anything about that," she said. "But with Lydia there was always another story to everything. First there'd be one tale, and then another. Or there'd be a practical joke involved, so the first tale was the setup for the prank. I never knew what to believe with her. It sure made it fun to be her friend, though."

We chatted for a long time as the sky grew dark and thousands of stars erupted in the inky blackness. The children were carted off after giving "Nanny" a good-night kiss, and the brothers and their wives all hugged me and Finn.

When it was just the three of us the talk turned to selling Fool's House.

"Have you buried a statue of Saint Joseph in the front yard?" she asked.

"Oh, Mom," Finn groaned. "Don't start with that stuff."

"It works," she said to him. To me she added, "Buy a statue of Saint Joseph and then bury it near the front door. I know it sounds silly. I don't usually go in for mumbo jumbo. But I've seen amazing things come from this. That is, if you really want to sell it."

"I don't want to. But we have to sell it," I said, despite the second thoughts I'd been having about letting go of Lydia's house.

Eventually Finn said it was time for him to take me home, as he had an early flight to Colorado to check on a job site, and we said good-bye to his mother. She wrapped both her arms tightly around me for the second time and said, "I'm thrilled thrilled to know you." to know you."

"Well, she convinced me," Finn said as we drove back to the ferry. "I'm starting to think that was was a Pollock." a Pollock."

"If it is and Biggsy took it, do you think he plans to sell it or keep it for himself?"

He shrugged. "Who knows? Hamilton better get it back soon."

"The man has a plan," I said jokingly. "Did you see the look on poor Scotty's face when he realized what Hamilton had in mind? Hamilton has no idea the guy's madly in love with him."

When he pulled up to Fool's House, the place was dark. Biggsy's motorcycle was not there and no lights were on in the house or the studio. "I'll be fine," I said as Finn hopped out of the driver's seat and came around to open my door. I'd already gotten out, though, and he stopped in front of me, blocking my path to the house. He looked down at me with an unreadable, almost pained expression.

"Thanks," I said. "I had a great day. And I fell in love with your family. Especially your mom . . ." My voice trailed off as I noticed that he was looking at me funny. "Are you okay?"

Suddenly he took my face in both his hands and pulled me toward him. He kissed me pa.s.sionately, leaning me against the side of the car and pressing his whole body into mine. It's a good thing he did, because my knees went weak at the contact after the physical tension that had been building between us over the ten or so days I'd been there. I melted into him and we kissed for what seemed like a very long time.

When we came apart, I'd never wanted anyone as intensely as I wanted him. I'd never felt this way before, like I needed needed his touch. his touch.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't help myself."

"Don't apologize," I whispered. "Come inside."

He shook his head. "I'm . . . I . . . I . . . want to take things slow."

"I'm only going to be here a couple more weeks," I said.

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of," he said, and then he kissed me again, gently this time, before heading back to the driver's side of the car. "See you when I get back," he said before he slid into the jeep with no indication of when that might be.

13.

I could hear the screams from the porch. By the sound of it, someone-Peck?-was inside the house upstairs being stabbed or robbed or beaten. Whatever it was, a crime was clearly taking place. could hear the screams from the porch. By the sound of it, someone-Peck?-was inside the house upstairs being stabbed or robbed or beaten. Whatever it was, a crime was clearly taking place.

It was Tuesday morning and Peck, as far as I knew, was still at Miles n.o.ble's. The Bosleys were coming to look at Fool's House, but they were not due for another half hour at least. I'd taken Trimalchio for a walk, and I should have backed the h.e.l.l out of there and called the police when I returned to hear all that racket from inside. Instead, like a heroine in a bad movie, I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find before hurrying up the stairs. Trimalchio, trotting along at my side, didn't appear at all concerned, but he was a New Yorker and thus, jaded.

The screams were coming from Peck's room. And, as far as I could tell, from Peck herself, whose one and only line as a television actress had been a high-pitched yelp that sounded exactly like the sounds emanating through the door. She was being violently attacked, that much was evident. Was it Biggsy? I turned the k.n.o.b, ready to burst in and save her-with a knife knife?-but the door was locked. Just as I was about to kick down the door like I was a character on NYPD Blue, NYPD Blue, I heard her say, "Fantastic." Actually, she practically screamed it. "Fan-tas-tic!" What I was hearing wasn't attempted murder: it was the unmistakable sound of extremely rigorous s.e.x. I heard her say, "Fantastic." Actually, she practically screamed it. "Fan-tas-tic!" What I was hearing wasn't attempted murder: it was the unmistakable sound of extremely rigorous s.e.x.