The Summer We Read Gatsby Part 9

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. "n.o.body sits in the Grill Room for dinner. Besides, the Pool Room is sits in the Grill Room for dinner. Besides, the Pool Room is romantic 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 followed her up the stairs. "We are not going to the Four Seasons, last I checked." 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 sh.e.l.l sh.e.l.l, Stella."

"It's just dinner," I said. "With someone I never never liked." 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 n.o.ble'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 h.o.r.n.y."

She gave me a brisk nod. "I get it. There are these magnificent magnificent draped chain curtains on the windows." Pecksland Moriarty is one of the only people I know who can pull off using the word draped chain curtains on the windows." Pecksland Moriarty is one of the only people I know who can pull off using the word magnificent 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." 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 anything," she a.s.sessed, 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 h.e.l.l am I 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? 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, Literally, you'd be doing me a you'd be doing me a favor 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 n.o.ble," she announced, as she frowned at the limp lock of hair she was attempting to "volumize." "He told me he enjoyed 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 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 his collection sometime. He's taunting me, I know it." 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 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?" 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 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." 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 be in that neighborhood?" 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 fiance 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 cafe 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 pa.s.senger 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 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. 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 p.r.i.c.kly as a result. I resented my earlier excitement at the prospect of what I'd a.s.sumed-erroneously, I now believed-was a romantic dinner.

There wasn't much traffic and in no time we were standing in the plaza in front of the Seagram Building and Finn was showing me what he meant by curtain-wall architecture. He spoke as though he were addressing a cla.s.s of students and my responses grew more and more sarcastic.

Then we were in the restaurant, which really was stunning, being fawned over by a maitre d' who either recognized and adored Finn or was just making him feel as if he did. He led us to a table next to the pool and presented it with a flourish, as though he knew it would please.

"Do you like it?" Finn asked me. He sounded doubtful, as though I were the sort of spoiled woman who might roll her eyes at his enthusiasm.

"It's beautiful," I said, resenting his implication. And it was, although I was confused by his behavior, especially when I saw the prices on the menu. The evening seemed awfully extravagant and yet not in the least romantic, and I couldn't understand why we were there. He ordered a bottle of wine, and then asked if red was okay. Again, the question seemed phrased for another type of woman, one who would find fault with the choice of wine, who might even send it back.

We ordered our food and then spent the rest of the evening exchanging barbed remarks. I'm not sure who exactly I thought I was channeling, but something got into me that night, and I bantered with him like it was a sport in which I excelled. I did not, however, and I suspect I simply came across as rude. For his part, he seemed to have made some sort of unfavorable decision about me. This brought out the worst in me, and after a few sips of wine, I heard myself making fun of him for being an architect, accusing him of having poor taste, although I'd never seen anything he'd designed. If I thought I was flirting I was failing miserably.

"I designed my own house," he said, and it sounded awfully pompous to me. That, I think, is when I pointed out that it was awfully presumptuous for a single man to a.s.sume a woman he might later meet would like it and want to live there, and the conversation went downhill from there.

He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. "Everybody likes it." likes it."

I suggested that he was arrogant, like all architects, and he pointed out that I hadn't seen his house. I said I'd never been invited and then he made fun of me for being formal formal.

"I'm not formal," I said, sounding exactly like the type of woman he seemed to think I was, one who would be jaded by the Four Seasons and send back the wine and expect an engraved invitation to show up at his house. "I'm Swiss Swiss." It wasn't the kind of thing I would ever say and I blamed him.

He rolled his eyes and then he reminded me I was actually an American, and I told him I didn't need reminding, and I believe the word Eurotrash Eurotrash came out of his mouth. By then I'd had a lot more of the wine than he'd had and we'd ordered coffee and dessert and I couldn't imagine that we would ever be friends again, let alone anything else, after such a disastrous dinner. came out of his mouth. By then I'd had a lot more of the wine than he'd had and we'd ordered coffee and dessert and I couldn't imagine that we would ever be friends again, let alone anything else, after such a disastrous dinner.

"You're quite a character, kid," he said to me in a most infuriating way.

"Just because you are are a character," I replied, quoting a line from a character," I replied, quoting a line from Pulp Fiction Pulp Fiction, "doesn't mean you have have character." character."

"Really?" he said, making a face. "Movie dialogue, that's what we've been reduced to?"

Dessert, in the form of an enormous puff of cotton candy, was placed between us before I could answer. "You ordered this?" I asked him, annoyed that he seemed to blame me for reducing the conversation when in my view it was all his fault that things were not going well. Why had he even invited me in the first place? And why had he misled me with all that talk of skinny-dipping on the phone? And by the way, I wanted to say to him, I wasn't interested in being misled. I wasn't interested at all.

He pulled a piece and popped it into his mouth. "Try it." I did and it was delicious. The child-friendly dessert seemed to bring both of us back to our normal selves and we shared a couple of laughs as we polished it off.

The ride back to Southampton was a lot more conversational than our earlier trip, and it went quickly. We both seemed to have dropped our defenses, and we chatted easily. When we pulled into the driveway at Fool's House, nearly all the lights were off. Only the light over the front door was on, creating a welcoming glow. Finn walked me up the steps and we stood facing each other. "Thank you," I said. "I'll always remember this night."

"Me too," he said, grinning down at me as though he only half believed me.

This time I was pretty sure he was going to kiss me and I'd decided I would kiss him back, despite what I believed was my increasingly intense dislike for the man. I found myself tilting my head back slightly in antic.i.p.ation. But rather than the pa.s.sionate embrace I expected, he simply pecked me lightly on the cheek and said, "Good night, kid."

I felt foolish as I slipped off the slightly-too-big shoes I'd borrowed from Peck and padded through the living room. I was disappointed that Peck wasn't there and I quickly got out of the gray dress, hung it on her door, and got into my pajamas. I'd just gotten into bed with Lydia's hardcover of The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby when I heard the screen door slam. A few minutes later Peck swanned into my room in a long printed caftan, a bakery box in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. "Cupcakes and chardonnay. The perfect way to end an evening out." when I heard the screen door slam. A few minutes later Peck swanned into my room in a long printed caftan, a bakery box in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. "Cupcakes and chardonnay. The perfect way to end an evening out."

I'd never been so grateful to see her. I was so happy that tears p.r.i.c.ked at my eyes. "I'm so glad you're home."

She paused to stare at me. Trimalchio had followed her and tilted his head to stare at me with much the same expression. "What's wrong? And why are you even home? Why isn't Finn ripping that silk dress off your body and throwing you down on the bed? Why aren't you two f.u.c.king your brains out?" She put the bottle and the box on the chest of drawers and pulled a wine gla.s.s from each pocket. "But then, why aren't I I f.u.c.king the brains out of the very good-looking guy I met tonight? He was in f.u.c.king the brains out of the very good-looking guy I met tonight? He was in mergers mergers and acquisitions; isn't that kinky?" She poured us each a gla.s.s of wine and sat on the edge of my bed. "What's the matter?" and acquisitions; isn't that kinky?" She poured us each a gla.s.s of wine and sat on the edge of my bed. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," I said, swiping at my eyes. "I'm in bed."

"I see that." She took a sip of her wine and then a bite of the cupcake. "Mmmmm. How was your date?"

"It was fine. Only it wasn't a date." The tears were still coming despite my attempt to wipe them away.

"What do you mean? Of course it was. The Four Seasons Pool Room-what else would it be?"

I shook my head, shocked to find myself practically sobbing now. "He said it himself: it's a tourist site. And I suppose I'm the tourist." I gazed up at her, my cheeks wet with tears.

"You're not a tourist tourist." She looked as horrified as if I had said I was a stripper, or a terrorist. "You were born at New York Hospital."

"Well, he certainly acted like he was just showing me around, like you would a tourist. There was nothing romantic about it at all. In fact, he couldn't have been more obnoxious."

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "He's probably feeling guarded. You didn't remember him. After he pined for you all those years."

"Pined?" I scoffed at what I suspected was just her usual hyperbole, the tears stopping now. "He didn't pine pine."

"Oh, he pined, Stella." She folded her arms and glared at me sternly. "He pined all right."

"What do you mean?" I sipped the wine she'd handed me and then took a bite of the cupcake.

"Don't play coy," she said. "It's unbecoming on you."

"I'm not being coy," I insisted. "I just didn't think he liked me that summer, that's all. We hardly talked. And after tonight it was more than obvious that he still doesn't."

"He talked talked. It was you who gave him the cold shoulder. He was mad for you. Totally smitten. Don't pretend you didn't know that."

"I had no idea," I said, warming at the thought of it: Finn Killian, smitten. With me. But then I quickly dismissed it. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. What's the opposite of smitten? 'Cause that's what he is."

"He's probably just reeling from the cruel irony," she cried out, performing now. "You finally come back here, after breaking his heart by getting married, and you've conveniently disposed of the starter husband. He's conveniently not enc.u.mbered by any of the replacement Stellas he's tried to convince himself he should like enough to settle down with, and he's all excited. He puts on that white dinner jacket and shows up at exactly the sort of party he can't stand. And you don't even remember him."

I stared at her. "You're completely crazy, you know that? It's the Moriarty mental illness. It's gotten hold of you."

She pointed her gla.s.s insistently at me, spilling wine on my bedspread. "Not only do you not recognize him, all you do is talk about selling the house and getting the h.e.l.l back home to Switzerland. Switzerland. Which puts a new twist on being geographically undesirable. So can you blame him if he's a little careful?" Which puts a new twist on being geographically undesirable. So can you blame him if he's a little careful?"

"Why invite me to dinner at all, if I'm so undesirable?" I protested. "Why bother getting dressed up, driving all the way into the city, eating that fancy meal?"

"Look, Trimalchio," she said to the dog. "Stella's getting peevish."

She grinned at me. Trimalchio too seemed to be amused.

"I'm delighted to be the source of your entertainment," I groused. "But I still don't understand why Finn was so rude."

Peck gestured with her wine gla.s.s again, sloshing the chardonnay around. "He's thirty-five. We're at that age."

"We? You're not thirty-five," I pointed out grumpily.

"Women reach it by thirty. The age when it becomes imperative that we settle into a home life. And a man, when he builds himself a house without a wife already in place, immediately sets about trying to find one. That's the stage Miles n.o.ble has reached too. So why would Finn waste his time with you?"

"That's my point," I said to her. "Why? And more important, why would I waste my time with him?"

She sat at the foot of the bed and patted my leg through the blanket. "He probably should just stick with Laurie Poplin. And you? You can stick with those Eurotrash literary types you seem to attract like bees to honey."

This caused a reaction in me, which, of course, was her intention. "Laurie Poplin? The real estate broker? Are you crazy crazy?"

"What? She's nice. They've gone out a few times. She's mad about him. Thinks he's a genius genius." She was goading me. "Men like to be appreciated. And he always was a leg man."

"He was not," I said.