The Inn at Lake Devine (10 page)

I headed for the one display of brown and brick loafers. A saleswoman, not Robin, was handing an aqua shoe and a shoehorn to a middle-age customer in a chino safari outfit—to my mind suggesting that Pappagallo didn’t expect its employees to cradle a stranger’s sweaty feet.

From behind me I heard footsteps, then the beginning of a saleswoman’s offer of help, then softly, as if the speaker were testing a hunch—“Natalie?”

I turned, then faked a look of awestruck rapture. “
Rob-in
?”

She didn’t hurl herself at me the way she would have ten years before but, in the same incredulous and charitable way she had whispered my name, stepped forward and hugged me for a long time.

I was stunned by my own response, a sudden wash of affection at the sight of her, now a tanned woman with yellow Alice in Wonderland-beribboned hair, and miniature door knockers for earrings. “I can’t believe it,” we said together, then repeated from arm’s length. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

I asked how she had recognized me, and she laughed.

I laughed, too, quite sure she meant only that I’d been this tall and this unadorned at camp. I said I wouldn’t have recognized her. Well maybe, after close examination, I could see her younger self in there. She looked like Chip now, the taller, leaner brother. She was dressed in a navy chino miniskirt, a starched man-tailored shirt with fine green stripes, a gold bangle, the kind that opened and closed mechanically for a tight fit around thin wrists. Even in the flattest shoes in the universe, she was taller than my five-feet-eight.

And I, who used to have the height and the upper hand, who had enjoyed a joke in her company as long as it was at her expense, cried, “I’m such a mess! If I had known I was going to see anyone, I’d have changed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You look wonderful.”

“I’m on my way to school—”

“Where do you go?” she asked, looking pleased enough to put a card of congratulations in the afternoon mail.

“You won’t believe it,” I began, “but I’m studying to be a chef.”

She pronounced it—me—wonderful. A chef!

I said, “I was a biology major—”

“And cooking is a kind of science, right?”

She was, no question, what my mother would describe as darling. I explained my ten-year plan … to learn every station—did she know that term?—to work my way up, and to specialize in regional American cuisine, which was starting to be recognized by
food writers and even by Europeans, and to one day own my own restaurant: Natalie’s.

Robin was too distracted by her own delight to congratulate me. She called to her fellow saleswoman, a dark-haired, blue-eyed colleen of a pretty preppie, “Betsy—this is Natalie! We went to summer camp together.” Betsy smiled, as did her customer, who was now holding a swatch of fuchsia fabric to a cobalt-blue shoe.

“I love those together,” Robin first assured the customer.

“
Seeee
,” said Betsy.

Robin backtracked: Betsy! This was
Natalie
, from camp ten years ago. “I was the youngest girl in the bunk,” she explained, “and Natalie was like my big sister.” Suddenly something glinted at my elbow. The hand that had pushed me into the spotlight wore a diamond ring, round and plain and set in yellow gold like Pammy’s perfect stone. I said nothing, as if an engagement ring were far too bourgeois an object for me to spot or acknowledge. Robin continued to describe our overlapping histories, the first footnote being, to my surprise, that her brothers had made fools of themselves over me one summer.

Kneeling among a dozen boxes, Betsy asked, “Did you tell Natalie your good news?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Robin had the grace to look slightly pained. “I’m engaged,” she said.

“Show her,” commanded Betsy.

Robin held out her left hand, the long fingers relaxed as if she were reluctant to show off. I didn’t take the proffered hand, in the manner of the admiring guests at Pammy’s shower, but said, “Wow. Cool.”

Robin asked softly, in the silence where I should have been embellishing my compliment and peppering her with questions, “Do you remember the Inn at Lake Devine?”

I said, “Of course I do.”

“We still go there, believe it or not.”

I knew then that she was not changing the subject but moving toward the heart of it. “You met your fiancé there?”

Robin said yes … perhaps I remembered the owners?

In the face of such delicacy—her not filling in the crucial blank—I knew what the other name on the invitation had to be.

“… their older son? Nelson?” she continued.

For the first time that afternoon, I said an honest and generous thing: “Oh God, I had such a crush on Nelson!”

Robin’s face reddened. “I know,” she said. “We all did. Everyone who ever went there did.”

“Even people who
never
went there did,” chimed in Betsy.

I asked when it had happened, meaning,
How in the world?

“The summer between my sophomore and junior years—not the engagement, that was this past Christmas—but the beginning.”

“The understanding,” amended Betsy.

“After that, we wrote and saw each other over the winter. I was in New London and he was teaching in Rhode Island. Not so far away.”

“She, of course, had been in love with him since day one,” added Betsy.

“The funny part was, I’d been hanging around with Kris, his brother. Not
seeing
him or anything, because they had a rule about the boys dating guests, but just palling around with him, miniature golf and tennis. One day Nelson started tagging along and making Kris sit in the backseat.”

Betsy told her customer she’d check for an 8 wide in navy, and excused herself, her chin anchoring a stack of black-and-turquoise boxes. Lowering my voice, I asked Robin, “Are you going to get into trouble shmoozing at work?”

She said no, she was in charge today. Their manager had Wednesdays off, and Betsy was a pal. She touched her watch with two fingertips. “I could even run out for a quick cup of coffee if you had the time.”

I said I didn’t. School began in thirty-five minutes—restaurant
hours; we served light meals—which I could make if I got a Riverside car outbound in the next few minutes. I said I would be back, though, now that I knew where to find her.

“Promise? My day off is Monday,” she said. “And, here—take my home number.” She hurried to write hers on a blank Pappagallo receipt and to record mine. Another hug, then a wail: “I didn’t even ask about your parents or Pammy!”

I said they were fine. And hers?

“They’ll be delirious about this,” she said. “When I was in high school they used to say, ‘Why can’t you make friends with girls like Natalie?’ They put me in private school my junior year so I’d get more serious.”

I grinned and said it looked like she turned out fine without me.

“Still,” she said, “I’d love it if we could keep in touch.”

I said, “I used to write to Nelson’s dad, you know. Is he still mushrooming?”

“Probably. I’ll ask Nelson.”

I said, “Please remember me to him, and to Mr. Berry, too.”

Robin’s whole face seemed to be consumed by a fresh inspiration. She asked in a rush of syllables and an intake of breath, “What are you doing next December twenty-first? It’s a Saturday.”

“December twenty-first? Why?”

“Our wedding! Will you come?”

I remembered how easily I had conned my way into the family vacation, and how readily the Fifes had added me to their roster. I said, “It’s very sweet of you, but it isn’t necessary.”

“My parents would love it,” she said. “They still talk about that summer, the week you came with us to the lake.”

I said, “So do I.”

“You’ll be the surprise guest. I mean, I can’t wait to tell Nelson, but I won’t get anyone else’s hopes up until you know for sure.”

I said I would. At least, I’d try. I’d go home and put it on my calendar. December twenty-first, the winter solstice.

She turned to the customer, who was again fingering her fuchsia
swatch. “That’s just like Natalie. She knows things off the top of her head.” She turned back and said, “Wait until everyone hears who walked into Pappagallo today … Oh God, did you want to try anything on?”

I said no, really. Just looking.

She shook her head in self-reproach. “All this time, and I never asked.”

I said I had to go, had to catch the T, but … soon.

“I hope you mean it,” said Robin, “and I hope you meant what you said about putting the twenty-first on your calendar. Invitations go out November eighth.”

I said I’d do my best—though I hoped to be a full-fledged sous-chef by then, and chefs worked every weekend. As I reached the end of the walk, she called after me, “Please try, Natalie. It’s going to be a winter-white wedding up at the lake.”

I stopped. “At the Inn?”

“Of course at the Inn. It’s going to be small, so they’ll have a bed for everyone, a wedding weekend.” She cupped a hand to the corner of her mouth and said, “Ingrid’s treat. Do you believe it?”

She glowed with the pride of a fiancée and a future Berry. “Did you ever see
White Christmas
? It’s like that, so beautiful. You have to see it in winter, Nat; you won’t even recognize it. When was the last time you were there?”

“With you,” I said.

“Is that
true
?” she asked. “Ten years?”

I said it would be ten years in August. We were fourteen and thirteen, remember? Nelson was sixteen. And Gretel was, like, nine?

“Gretel’s at Middlebury. She’s going to be a bridesmaid … I had to.”

But
, she assured me, it would be great just the same. Kris, Chip, and Jeff as ushers, and, oh, the Inn in winter—ice-skating on the lake, lights strung in the trees, a fire in the big stone fireplace. They got engaged there last Christmas Eve, on snowshoes. It was so beautiful, they decided to be married there.

She took my hand and buffed it lightly, maternally with her knuckles. Imagine: all of us grown-up, her brothers civilized, Mrs. K. retired, the road paved, the cabins heated, the Adirondack chairs painted red.

So peaceful, like a painting, like the movie, like a song. She didn’t know if I remembered anything from the old days, but I would love—
love
—every minute at Lake Devine, every snowflake, every mushroom, every Berry.

B
y the time the invitation arrived in November, I was working at the elegant Ten Tables, salad-prepping in a tight space for a man who liked me a little too much. His name was Monsieur P., known in Boston cooking circles for his butterless reductions from essences of this and that. I was thrilled to get the entry-level job, thrilled to wear the white jacket and to answer, “Ten Tables,” when people asked where my training had led. Monsieur P. was both chef and owner, never married, probably only forty as I look back, with a pied-à-terre above the kitchen. I learned quickly of his unwavering preference for female helpmates, and too late that he always liked the newest hire best.

He had a way of squeezing past us, never murmuring, “Pardon,” but placing both hands on shoulders or waists to move us out of his way. Occasionally he’d land a kiss on the back of a head or neck, accompanied by a murmured endearment. An expert at the phony embrace, he’d circle me with his arms and lift me off the ground for no reason except to celebrate the punctual arrival of the cheese purveyor or the successful unmolding of a charlotte russe. At first I thought, How warm, how enthusiastic, how well we get along. He’s French; the French act this way. They use their hands. His are not the caresses of a Casanova but the normal gestures of a European male.

I never stated that I preferred he keep his hands to himself. He was my teacher, my boss, my ticket to full-fledged chefdom. And, in a kitchen full of aspiring sous-chefs, Monsieur P. implied that I was the chosen, that I alone had ze touch.

I’d been working only four months when Robin’s wedding invitation arrived. Monsieur P. said, Sorry, but you have not yet earned the right to a day off.

I said I knew that, but what could I do? An old friend was getting married and I had more or less promised to go.

“Natalie, this is a very large favor you are asking of me—the weekend before Christmas.”

I said I’d make it up however I could.

He said, “We’ll decide.”

“When?” I asked. “I have to let them know.”

“Monday evening. You come for dinner.”

Mondays and Tuesdays we were closed, so the kitchen and dining room were dark when I arrived. I called out his name and heard a spirited, “Yes, chérie, I’m above. Would you bring the champagne from the Frigidaire?”

Decades of maternal warning signals flashed, but I ignored them. I wasn’t crossing any line. I’d been upstairs several times—had retrieved Band-Aids and salve from his bathroom for our burns; had snipped herbs from pots on Monsieur’s sill.

I was not pleased, therefore, to find Monsieur P., like a caricature of a Frenchman with seduction on the menu, in a brown silk dressing robe, vigorously scaling spaetzle batter through a colander into boiling water. Edith Piaf warbled from the speakers. I said, “Am I early? Do you want me to take over so you can finish getting dressed?”