The Inn at Lake Devine (31 page)

“I have friends there,” she said.

“That boy,” he pounced. “The
shmegege
who jumped in the pool.”

“You gave him a medal. You called him a great humanitarian.”

“I treated him like a headliner,” Hal retorted, “and the
gonef
helps himself to my daughter.”

“He saved a soul. You said that in front of witnesses; you quoted the Talmud; you announced that his name was inscribed in the Book of Life.”

“You think Minna Gitlow needed saving in four feet of water?” her father yelled, his complexion deepening to a purplish red. “I was looking to make a gesture, to liven things up. I’m no rabbi.”

“It’s irrelevant. My taking a leave of absence has nothing to do with Nelson Berry or Minna Gitlow.”

“You’ll be back,” he shouted. “You’re not walking out on the Halseeyon. I’m semiretired. And you’re engaged to someone else.”

“Daddy,” said Linette. “It was Joel’s decision to break up. I need to get away so there aren’t the constant reminders.”

“She’s lying,” he told his friends around the pinochle table.

“You’ve got four daughters,” they counseled. “Did you think every one of them was going to take up with someone you approve of?”

Young people … It’s different today … My niece, my nephew; my own daughter, my own son, his friends said.

“Achhh,” said Mr. Feldman.

M
y mother seized the opportunity to contact the Feldman family, writing a thank-you note for flowers and baked goods on my behalf, introducing herself as practically
mekhutonim
. “You must miss Linette terribly,” she wrote. “We saw her yesterday, when she stopped by my place of business to visit my daughter Natalie. What a lively and intelligent girl you raised. She is broadening
her horizons in Providence, but as a parent I know what a hole this leaves in your heart. P.S. The Inn at Lake Devine is on the market.”

Her note and business card arrived a month after Linette’s departure, at a time when Hal Feldman was feeling unfamiliar sensations. What had seemed in the heat of the moment a father’s prerogative—to scream things he didn’t mean at his daughter’s back and to throw away his little red-haired baby with the bathwater—now discomfited him. While conceding nothing on the boy, he did admit one night, after a particularly satisfying dinner of lima beans, sweet potatoes, and carrots simmered all day with brisket, that the thought of bringing her back into the business sooner rather than later wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had, especially given Linette’s talents and, God forbid, her prospects with a Gentile schoolteacher.

He told his wife and mother what he was thinking: a hotel for Linette to cut her teeth on; a small, classy inn with no overhead to speak of—they were asking
bubkes
for it—in that state with the foliage, not New Hampshire, the other one—cows, maple syrup, Calvin Coolidge: Vermont. Far enough from Providence to wear down the
sheygets
, far enough from home to make her think she was on her own. Someone give her a call.

“
You
give her a call,” said his wife and mother both.

S
tubbornly, in the face of their poorly disguised affection, and, more often than not, no answer when we phoned Linette’s apartment, Nelson and Linette continued to call their love affair a friendship. At odd moments I believed them, but mostly I felt that I knew the truth: They were in love, had been in love for longer than even they acknowledged to each other, but for reasons of religion and ascension and superstition—both had been engaged with full ceremony to people they never married—neither wanted to advertise or formalize their union. Linette’s truth, as I understood it, was that as long as her parents were alive, she would be
the daughter who went to business; the modern one, who didn’t live at home, who didn’t need a ring, a wedding, or china, or silver. A presentable, amiable companion like Nelson would do very nicely on those occasions when a woman wanted to be seen with a man.

I
approached food slowly, coaxing artless dishes like roast chicken and broiled chops from my narrow apartment stove. I moved on to stewing and braising, and even to creamy mélanges that required layering in glass casseroles. Finally, in an arithmetic progression of ingredients, I made an elaborate Moroccan couscous with lamb—kosher lamb, actually, because Linette was coming for dinner, our first dinner party in Mr. Zinler’s attic, on our telephone-cable spool table.

She and Nelson brought not only wine, and cannoli from their favorite bakery, but gift-wrapped knives, a wedding present that made me burst into tears for its generosity, its aptness, and for the faith it implied: top-of-the-line German high-carbon-steel works of art—a six-inch chef’s knife, an eight-inch chef’s knife, a paring knife, a boning knife, a slicing knife, plus a steel for sharpening and a magnetic bar for storage. The card read, “Your biggest fan, Nelson.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Everyone needs knives,” Linette said, “and I figured a chef needs them more than most people.”

“Pammy wanted to give me a kitchen shower, but I declined,” I said, marveling at their feel, the weight of the blade against the mass of the handle.

“Robin had a bridal shower,” Nelson said quietly, “but I think all she got was lingerie.”

“I had one,” Linette said brightly.

“Oh really?” asked Nelson, eyebrows arched. “What would that have been? A hair gizmo shower? Or a dingy-cotton-underpants shower?”

Linette stuck out her tongue at him, and he returned it.

“Do you have to return shower gifts after an engagement is broken?” I asked, hoping to elicit more private jokes, more displays of affection.

“Nah,” said Linette. “It was so long ago, I don’t remember what I did with them. Except a popcorn popper. I took that with me.” She turned to Nelson. “And the electric blanket, now that I think of it.”

Kris stabbed a leftover piece of lamb on my plate and, just before popping it in his mouth, asked, “Are there dual controls on this blanket? If I may cut through the bullshit.”

“What bullshit?” Linette asked.

He mimicked in falsetto, “We’re good friends, my pal Nelson and I. Notice that the wedding present is from him alone, because we’re not a couple. We’re so clever that nobody has caught on.”

“Are you really angry?” Linette asked.

Kris said, “I get the part about your parents—a sick mother and a hothead father. But Natalie and I don’t need a song and dance. It’s insulting.”

“It’s not like you can’t trust us,” I said.

“And it’s not like Nat and I are the couple of the year.”

Nelson cleared his throat and said solemnly, after studying our faces, “If it works out—Mr. Feldman’s offer on the Inn—I’m taking a leave of absence from school.”

“As what?” I asked.

He smiled. “Manager-in-training. See if I still have it.”

Kris prompted with twirls of a finger.
And?

“To see if he’s cut out for the hotel life,” said Linette.

“With—?”

“Me,” said Linette.

“My cupcake,” Nelson said.

“So what was the big secret?” Kris demanded.

“My parents,” said Linette. “Your parents. The Fifes. Five thousand years of Jewish law.”

“The Fifes?” I repeated.

“It hasn’t been so long, and you know Nelson—always wants to do the
menschy
thing.”

“And where will you hide him when your father visits?” I asked.

Linette was shaking her head emphatically, curls flapping from a cinched geyser of hair on her crown. “He won’t leave my mother overnight, he won’t eat non-kosher food, and he won’t stay in a
pitsel
hotel with no golf course.”

“How’s this acquisition going to get you back in the fold?” I asked.

“It’ll be in the family,” said Linette. “If he can’t have me at the next desk, he’ll settle for me managing a satellite location.”

“What if it’s a complete disaster?” Kris asked. “What if you can’t undo the damage and no one comes?”

“They’ll come,” said Linette. “I’ll see to it.”

“It might take time,” said Nelson.

“And if they still don’t come,” Linette said, “he can always sell.”

“Or book a couple of headliners,” said Kris.

I knew enough to ask if her father’s offer had been presented in writing, with a binder, and Linette said, “Of course.”

“Have they accepted?”

“They will. There’s been no takers,” Linette confided. “Not one other offer tendered.”

“Are they furious?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” said Nelson.

Linette held out her wineglass. “It’s America, remember? If the Berrys don’t want Hal Feldman’s money, they can send him away.”

G
retel became Mrs. Donald Fife, Jr., at the Dogteam Tavern in early May. Kris was an usher, and I was nothing official, although my pink moiré sheath and dyed-to-match high heels had served as my bridesmaid outfit at my sister’s wedding. Rosy and plump but not obviously pregnant, Gretel wore her mother’s satin wedding dress and 1940s pageboy to great effect. I was sure her fashion decision was purely one of fit and cut, but I still gave her credit for wearing an old-fashioned dress that would not remind anyone of Robin’s. The Bobolinks, Middlebury’s a cappella group, sang “One Hand, One Heart,” which I found an ironic and sad choice, in view of the single-ring ceremony and the smirk on Chip’s face from start to finish.

The Fife sons were sober enough to perform their groom and best-man duties but drunk enough to infuriate Kris, who demanded a caucus in the men’s room. Immediately afterward, a chastened Chip held his child bride close for two slow dances. Gretel looked pleased with her husband, snuggling against him, her wide gold wedding band on display. In marked contrast to his wife’s blissful smile, Chip mugged for his friends, as if an unpopular girl had snagged him for a ladies’ choice.

At the head table, Kris asked me, smoking the only cigar I’d ever known him to light, “Is it as clear to everyone else as it is to me?”

I said, “You can’t always tell. Maybe when they’re alone, he’s different.”

“He’s twenty-six years old,” said Kris. “He shoots hoops every night in his driveway. He’s going to an amusement park for his honeymoon.”

I said, “Look at her. She’s beaming. And you know they’re going to have their picture taken with Goofy and Pluto, which will become their Christmas card.”

He stubbed out his cigar and kissed me. At the other end of the head table, as if we had reminded him of a duty yet to be performed, Mr. Fife tapped his champagne glass with a knife until the guests took note. I steeled myself for the inevitable eulogy to the near wedding of Robin and Nelson and the near union of these two families. Instead, he toasted Kris and me, taking credit for our meeting as children and finding each other again as adults, to the muted applause of the mildly bored spectators.

Eventually Gretel, in her peach-linen ensemble and black straw boater, lobbed tea roses into the brood of Bobolinks, none of whom, I noticed, had been asked to dance by a single former fraternity brother of the groom. On impulse, I kissed Gretel, who surprised me with the intensity of the hug she returned.

Kris and I left shortly after Chip’s Mustang honked its way out of sight, crepe paper flying and hubcaps clanging. By way of good-byes, I complimented Ingrid on her ice-blue raw-silk outfit and the fruit cup, the london broil, the wild-rice pilaf, the green beans almondine, the mimosa salad, the lemon wedding cake, and the champagne punch. “Excellent choices,” I told her.

“Thank you, Natalie,” she said, and offered me her cheek.

M
y parents gave us a wedding check I didn’t think they could afford, and—when Linette created our jobs at the Inn—the title to my mother’s car, which she claimed did not have enough leg room for clients. We received an enormous carton, parcel post, from my in-laws shortly after Gretel’s wedding. Nestled in newspaper confetti
were a pressed-glass punch bowl and twenty-three dainty cups. The card said, “Kris, you probably recognize this from many happy occasions. It is a family heirloom, one we didn’t want to auction along with the rest of the contents. Please think of us when you use it. (Scoops of sherbet floating on top are a nice decorative touch.) With our best wishes, Mother and Dad.”

G
retel gave birth to Berry, quite adorable, in September, on schedule, on the very day Squeaky Fromme aimed a pistol at President Ford. Because she looked like Chip, lean rather than round, baby Berry also looked like her Aunt Robin, or maybe it was wishful thinking on all our parts. To my astonishment, Kris and I were asked to be her godparents. Gretel explained in less than flattering fashion that of the three brother-candidates, Jeff had no interest in or aptitude for babies; Nelson—well, who knew when he’d ever be back to normal; which left Kris, who had been a decent enough brother, and even had a wife to help.

As godparents by default, we tried a little too hard when visiting, offering to change diapers and to negotiate Berry’s unwieldy navy-blue English perambulator around the neighborhood. Often it would be Mr. Fife accompanying me, pushing the carriage proudly, calling out to neighbors as they raked leaves and washed cars, “Come see our new little girl. Come meet my granddaughter.” He’d introduce me as the baby’s aunt, his daughter-in-law’s brother’s wife, then would always add, quietly if inaccurately, “Natalie was a dear friend of our Robin’s.” As he and I would move dolefully on to the next house, I’d cheer him slightly by saying, “I think you’re her favorite. She coos and smiles a lot more when you’re pushing the carriage. It must be your voice.” On solo walks, he serenaded her the whole time—Rodgers and Hammerstein, mostly, or early Peter, Paul, and Mary. Before long, he noticed a sound coming from inside the carriage—a toneless, steady, one-note hum: tiny Berry trying to sing.