The Family Fortune (21 page)

Dolores turned her head with a sharp tweak and looked at Teddy. Who was this Veronica Buffington? Was she a rival?

“I'm going to write her another note,” Teddy said.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked. I had nothing against the Buffingtons. I liked them, but I hated to see Teddy humiliate himself just for an invitation.

“It can't hurt. When Michael was alive, they had the best parties. All the really interesting people were there. We wouldn't want to be left out this summer. Jane, you never did know the value of the right friends.”

Dolores looked up again. She might have realized that there was nothing especially “right” about her when it came to the scale on which my father measured friends. She might have managed to turn his head with flattery, but that was nothing compared with a Veronica Buffington.

“Why don't you just call her?” Dolores asked. I think she thought that by offering a suggestion she could retain some control.

“No. I know what I'll do. I'll write her a downright obsequious note,” Teddy said. “Jane, where is that paper?”

We kept a stack of cream cards in a secretary behind the sofa in the living room. I went to get them and brought several back to the kitchen.

While Teddy was writing, Miranda came downstairs, still in her bathrobe.

“What are you doing, Daddy?” she asked.

“I'm writing to Veronica Buffington. She's coming back to the island.”

“Will she have that insipid Glenda-the-Good-Witch with her?” Miranda asked.

“They're both coming.”

“You'd think they wouldn't want to do everything together. Glenda's at least thirty-five. Why doesn't she want a life of her own?”

 

Several weeks later, the four of us, Miranda, Dolores, Teddy, and I, were having lunch at a restaurant that claimed to serve the best fried clams on the island. We were seated at a table with a view of the harbor. It was a warm June day and we had just entered the summer season.

“The Buffingtons' party is next Friday night and we're all invited,” Teddy said. He pulled out the invitation with a flourish. Apparently he had just received it that morning.

“I can't go,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I'm having dinner with Isabelle,” I said. “We get together every Friday night.” It had become our ritual.

“If you have dinner with her every Friday, then you don't have to go on this particular Friday. I'm sure she'll understand,” Teddy said.

“The Buffingtons will have other parties.”

“Jane, I can't believe you'd give up the first good party of the season for something you do every week. Besides, how could the baker be anywhere near as interesting as the people who will be at the Buffingtons'?”

Dolores looked into her clam chowder. Though she'd managed to amuse Miranda and Teddy for months, she couldn't claim to be as “interesting” as the kind of people you'd find at the Buffingtons'. Dolores had never painted a picture, played a concerto, or danced with the Boston Ballet. These were the type of luminaries you might find at a Buffington party. I'm sure the only reason they invited us is that we were somewhat related to them.

I picked up a fried clam and popped it into my mouth.

“I'm going to dinner with Isabelle,” I said.

“I never could understand you, Jane,” Teddy said.

“No, you never could.” I smiled and lifted my face toward the ocean breeze.

Teddy had a spot of tartar sauce on his chin and Dolores reached over with her thumb and wiped it off.

“Daddy,” Miranda said, “you're not usually such a mess.”

Dolores came to his defense. “It was just a small spot of tartar sauce.”

“Yes, but it was on his face, and perhaps he should be the one to wipe it off, don't you think?”

Dolores reddened, but instead of looking down like she usually did, she looked straight at Miranda with an expression of defiance.

“Girls, girls,” Teddy said. “It was only a spot of tartar sauce. Let's not blow it all out of proportion.”

At eleven o'clock in the morning on the day of the Buffingtons' party, I watched from an upstairs window as Guy Callow strolled up our front walk carrying a bouquet of flowers so large it concealed his head.

Miranda answered the door.

“Hello, Guy,” she said. She used her bored, aristocratic voice, but there was a hint of the flirt in it. “You should have told us you were coming. I would have dressed.” She was wearing a bikini with a sarong draped around her waist.

I couldn't very well stay upstairs, so I went down and hovered outside the sunroom where my father was reading the paper.
When Miranda led Guy into the room, Teddy stood and held out his hand. “Come on in, son,” he said. “Good to see you. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Whatever rift had kept them apart all these years had apparently been repaired in that one meeting up in Boston.

Guy was still holding the enormous but unlovely bouquet, which made shaking hands with my father awkward.

“Sit down, Guy. Bethany will get you some coffee.” Bethany, for some reason I could barely fathom, was always happy to do my father's bidding. Of course, she was getting paid for it, but she was so agreeable you'd think Teddy Fortune was the most likable man she'd ever met. I could imagine her, at night, discussing our foibles with her family, not in a malicious way, but as if we were an anthropology project.

I slipped into the room as Bethany was leaving to go back to the kitchen. She winked at me and mouthed the word
hunk
.

“Hello, Jane,” Guy said. He pushed the flowers at Miranda. I was glad to see that he knew what was correct. He'd have to pay homage to my sister before he was going to get any attention from me.

“Thank you,” Miranda said.

Miranda handed the flowers to me. “Jane, if you are going in to help Bethany, can you put these in water?” She perched on a wicker chair. “Sit down, Guy,” she said.

Guy looked at me. It was that look, that look of admiration, but now it was also the presumptuous look of a shared secret. In the sunlight, Guy's blue eyes had a violet ring around the irises. His hair was shorter than when I'd last seen him. His white tennis sweater showed off his tan.

I took the broom of foliage into the kitchen to look for a vase. Bigger is not always better. I finally found a large glass vase hidden behind some bottles of olive oil in the pantry.

The flowers looked top-heavy, but it was the best I could do. I took a tray from a low cabinet and set out the willow-pattern cups and saucers, creamer and sugar bowl.

“Thanks, Jane,” Bethany said, “I can do that.”

We both leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for the water to boil.

“You are not like the rest of your family,” Bethany said.

“I'm not?”

“They think that the world was made to revolve around them. You're not like that.”

“Oh, don't be so sure,” I said.

She shook her head. While we were making the coffee in the French press, Guy came into the kitchen. He gave Bethany an appraising glance. His eyes took a short vacation in the cleft between her breasts. He was so accustomed to that type of looking he probably didn't realize he was doing it.

“Can I help?” he asked. He came toward me and stood too close. Bethany backed away a little, looked at him, then at me, finished plunging the coffee, picked up the tray, and took it into the sunroom. She didn't come back. She must have decided to make the beds.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay with everything,” Guy said.

“I don't know what
everything
is,” I said. I turned and poked at the flowers, trying to make the arrangement more aesthetically pleasing. “Look, I'm sorry about it.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Guy said. His hands met mine on the vase. He smiled at me with those violet-rimmed eyes. The kitchen was sunny and warm. Other than the hideous bouquet and perhaps the wolfish look at Bethany, he hadn't done anything that was so unpleasant it couldn't be forgiven. I stifled the feeling that he wasn't all he appeared to be. I gave him what I hoped was an unself-conscious smile and removed my hands from the vase. I took the chance that he would continue to hold it and not let it crash to the floor: his grip on the vase was firm.

“You look beautiful, Jane,” he said.

“Don't say that. It makes me feel ridiculous.”

“Beautiful women are never ridiculous.”

“That's where you're wrong. They are often ridiculous.”

Guy looked like he might have reached out to me then had he not been encumbered by the mammoth vase. I walked toward the sunroom and there was nothing he could do but follow.

It was a beautiful day, breezy and not too hot. Someone had opened the windows and the silk curtains blew against the panes.

“We were just saying that you should come to the Buffingtons tonight, Guy. I'm sure I could get you an invitation,” Teddy said.

Teddy had barely procured an invitation for himself and his two cohorts. Was he now going to call Veronica and ask if he could bring another guest?

“Actually,” Guy said, “Glenda invited me.”

Miranda sat up straight and turned to Guy.

“You know Glenda?” she asked.

“I met her a few years ago at a cancer benefit.”

“Really. What do you think of her?” Miranda leaned forward. This pose showed off what minimal cleavage she could muster.

“She's a little quiet for my taste,” Guy said.

“That's exactly what I think. She reads too much, just like Jane.”

“Reading's not a bad thing,” Guy said.

“Of course not, per se, but really there is so much to do in the world.” She sat up and lifted her chin. “Of course, I like to keep up with politics and the like.”

“I should loan you my new
Foreign Affairs,
” Guy said. “There's a good article in it about Rwanda, ten years later.”

“Ten years later than what?” Miranda asked.

Guy poked at the inside of his cheek with his tongue and I poured him another cup of coffee.

“Cream?” I asked.

“Black,” he said.

We had magazines fanned out on the coffee table, and I wished, for a moment, that I had scooped them up and put them away.
Town & Country. Martha Stewart Living. People. Vanity Fair.
But the worst one was the
National Enquirer,
Miranda's guilty secret, but it must not have been too se
cret, nor must she have felt too guilty, because there it was, sitting right on top of the pile.

Those were the magazines. This was my family. We were who we were. If Guy didn't like it, he could leave. In his Brooks Brothers sweater with his three-hundred-dollar sunglasses hanging around his neck, he didn't look like he spent too much time worried about Rwanda either.

“Jane's not coming to the party tonight,” Miranda said.

“Really, why not?”

“Previous engagement,” I said.

“Is it a man?” Guy teased. He looked at me and his smile was mischievous.

“Are you kidding,” Miranda said. “I can't think of the last time Jane had a date. She's having dinner with the baker.”

Guy held his coffee with both hands and took a sip. He stretched his legs and crossed them at the ankles. Though the rest of him was still, his feet moved in small circles. Priscilla had once told me that moving your feet like that was just like wringing your hands. It had been a habit of mine, but I'd broken it.

Dolores came in. She had been to the hairdresser and her hair was back to its unnatural blond. She had bought, as I'd predicted, just the right sundresses and cover-ups to camouflage her thickening thighs.

“Hello, dear,” Teddy said. Guy looked at him. He was obviously trying to gauge where Dolores fit into this picture.

“So this must be Winnie,” Guy said. He knew this wasn't Winnie. He'd met Winnie, however briefly, on the mountain.

“No, no. This is our friend Dolores Mudd,” Teddy said.

I noticed that he hadn't called her Miranda's friend.

Dolores held out her hand in a limp way, as if waiting to have it kissed.

Miranda introduced Guy. I was waiting for Dolores to pull out something as antiquated as “charmed,” and I'm sure she would have if she thought she could have gotten away with it, but Guy exuded an intelligence that didn't sanction Dolores's synthetic charm.

“Nice to meet you, Guy,” she said. She looked at the coffee tray. “Should I make fresh coffee?”

“Dolores, you are so thoughtful. What would we do without you?” Teddy said.

“I just made it,” I said.

Teddy leaned over and poured coffee for Dolores. He poured the milk in, then handed it to her.

“Thank you, Teddy,” Dolores said. She sat in the chair closest to his. She was careful to pull the short sarong she was wearing as a skirt into a flattering position.

“So are you all going to the beach today?” Guy asked. “My suit is in the car.”

“Jane never comes with us,” Miranda said.

Guy turned so his knees were facing me.

“Won't you come today?” he asked.

I didn't like going to the beach with a crowd. I had a quiet, hidden place where I went alone with my books, my journal, and a thermos of iced tea.

“She's such a spoilsport,” Miranda said.

“I'm not as bad as all that,” I said.

“So you'll come?” Guy asked.

 

Bethany packed a picnic, and I joined the family, the chairs, the coolers, the beach umbrellas, the towels, and the multiple tubes of sunscreen.

As we walked down the beach to find a spot, Miranda and Teddy waved to people, pausing here and there to chat. Miranda stopped to talk to a stocky man in a Speedo. It's debatable whether American men should ever be allowed to wear Speedos in public, but I don't think there's any debate as to whether fat men should wear them, and this was a fat man.

“That's Joe Tonic. He has a Learjet,” Miranda said when she rejoined us. My father and Guy looked over at Joe Tonic. That explained a lot. A jet could make up for any number of unsightly bulges.

When we were finally settled on the beach, we took up considerable space. Between us, we had four blankets, three beach umbrellas, five chairs, and two coolers.

I settled in a low chair on the edge of our encampment. I was wearing a new bathing suit, a blue one-piece, and since I didn't often wear a bathing suit in public, I kept my T-shirt on over it. I pulled a book from my bag and propped it on my knees. Guy sat down beside me. He wasn't wearing a Speedo, though he might easily have gotten away with one. The sun beat down hard and the morning breeze disappeared with the afternoon.

“I'm going to fry,” Miranda said. She slathered herself with sunscreen, then took an enormous black hat from her bag. The hat shaded her diamond necklace, but her tennis bracelets sparkled in the sun.

Dolores took a thermos from the picnic basket.

“Lemonade, anyone?”

“Dolores is so thoughtful,” Teddy said. “Don't you think she's thoughtful, Guy?”

“Very,” Guy said.

Miranda reached out a languid hand and Dolores deposited a plastic cup into it. Miranda took a sip, then spit it into the sand.

“This is nonalcoholic,” she complained.

Dolores looked at my father and he nodded.

“We have some vodka,” Dolores said. She took out a plastic bottle.

“Well, give it here. What are you waiting for?”

“Lemonade, Jane?” Dolores was playing the lady of the house. Guy looked at her. He reached over, took a cup, and handed it to me. When his hand touched mine, his fingers lingered. I hadn't received this kind of attention in some time and couldn't help but find it titillating.

“What are you reading?” Guy asked.

I wasn't reading anything because, though that had been my intention, Guy was sitting too close and talking too much.

“Jane is antisocial,” Miranda said before I had a chance to respond.

“Are you, Jane?” Guy asked.

“I don't think so,” I said.

“So what are you reading?” His two-toned eyes hooked mine and for a minute I forgot what I was reading.

“Jane Austen, Jane Austen, Jane Austen. Every summer, the same damned thing,” Miranda said.

“She's right,” I said. “Every summer I read a book by Jane Austen.”

“Even if she's read it before. Can you imagine,” Miranda said. “You could use a little variety, Jane.”

“I don't want variety,” I said.

“That's news,” Miranda said.

“What do you want, Jane?” Guy asked.

I paused. I didn't like where this conversation was going.

“Constancy,” I said.

Miranda let out a long groan. “Could you be any more boring?” She pulled the brim of her hat farther down. Dolores offered up a plate of cookies from Isabelle's. “Not me,” Miranda said. “I'm off sugar this week.”

I took a cookie. Guy retrieved a copy of
Newsweek
from his backpack. He began to read, but not before asking me to “do” his back with sunscreen.

As I massaged his smooth and muscled back, I waited to feel something. I had done this for Max years ago on Nantasket Beach. Then it had made me feel possessive and feminine. I had none of those feelings now and I couldn't understand it. There was nothing visibly wrong with Guy. I had been alone for a long time. He seemed to like me. Wasn't it only natural that I should like him back? What if I had truly gone past the point of no return when it came to love and sex? Maybe I'd lost whatever chance I had at love and my spinsterhood was permanent.

Since this idea horrified me, I layered the sunscreen onto Guy's back with more enthusiasm. He turned his head toward me and smiled. He had good teeth, so straight and white they didn't look real.

I finished his back and opened my book. I couldn't concentrate, not because I was aroused by the nearness of Guy, but because I wasn't and I was sure I should be. But with all of his overt appeal, he didn't move me.