The Inn at Lake Devine (32 page)

•  •  •

A
s soon as their granddaughter was christened and the papers were passed, Karl and Ingrid moved to Florida. They claimed it was what they had always dreamed of—to live in a condo, free of responsibility, no guests, no employees. They kept up their subscription to the Gilbert
Independent
, and sent the occasional clipping and help-wanted ad, which they thought might interest Kris. Once in a while, Ingrid would report some social tidbit by telephone, dropping a Jewish surname so I’d understand that she had won friends around the swimming pool by mentioning the heritage of her second son’s wife.

She tried golf and tennis, and somewhere within those circles found a crowd and a purpose. Her Christmas card was a photograph of her new prides and joy—two adult miniature schnauzers with papers and long names. Training and showing her ready-made champions not only kept her busy but suited her, temperamentally and socially. “She likes the other owners as much as she likes the dogs,” reported Karl. “Her boys have won two second-place ribbons so far, and she’s not-so-secretly hoping for Best of Breed in Tampa.”

Mr. Berry wrote to us every week, telling us more than we wanted to know about his new garden—his lemon, lime, and date trees; his hibiscus and gardenia bushes; his orchids, bougainvillea, and birds-of-paradise, none of which, he bragged, would survive Vermont winters. “I’m thinking of a part-time job,” he eventually wrote. “Maybe as a volunteer guide. Looking into the Everglades, or helping out at the Thomas A. Edison and Henry Ford winter home in Fort Myers a couple days a week. It’s an arboretum, and, as you know, I’m pretty handy with the flora and the fauna.”

L
inette and I recommended, and Kris and Nelson agreed, that the former owners’ name should not be printed on any promotional materials, and that the word
mushroom
must never appear
on the menu—in any form, in any dish, in any language. We wanted the appearance of a new management, a new kitchen, a new spirit. Linette said, “What we want to achieve is the sense that the old Inn burned to the ground and we started over fresh, not risen from the ashes; no ghosts, no leftover monogrammed plates and towels; no matchbooks, no vans still registered to the old regime.”

Kris said, Okay, then; two could play this game. For his part: no bingo, no Simon Says, no Polynesian nights, no shuffleboard, no boiled meat, no non-dairy coffee creamer, no Harry of Harry’s Hairpieces fitting toupees in the lobby.

Nelson insisted on one concession to his dignity and to his years in the classroom—that his branch of the Halcyon, on his lake, be spelled correctly. He also asked one day, well into the renovations, if we could relocate instead of junk the old porch sign, perhaps hang it indoors on an inconspicuous wall, like folk art; like a memorial plaque.

“Absolutely not,” said Linette. “We’re severing that tie.”

“The matriarchy is dead; long live the matriarchy,” intoned Kris, paintbrush in hand. The four of us were turning the big gray dining room to a soft yellow with a glossy white trim that afternoon.

Linette said, “But you know what we can do? In terms of an archive? Those old photos of guests in the Adirondack chairs and the men in knickers playing croquet? We’ll frame them and make a grouping in the office—those, and that adorable one of you two holding Gretel on the dock, in matching outfits, scowling into the sun.”

“Any photo, in other words,” said Nelson, “that doesn’t identify the place.”

“No?” said Linette airily. “Not a good idea?”

“Sounds cute to me,” I said. “As long as we’re not sweeping too much under the rug.”

“You know what else we could do?” Linette continued. “We
could
keep that sign out front—it’s got a nice shape and it’s in good
condition—and just paint
The Halcyon
on top of it in the new colors and the new typeface.”

I said, “I like that. It would still be there—‘The Inn at Lake Devine, established nineteen twenty-two’—and you two would know it was underneath, its maiden name, so to speak, even if no one could see it.”

“What would be the point of that?” asked Nelson.

“Like an undercoat,” I said. “A primer.”

Nelson said to Kris, “Do you notice how they patronize us?”

Kris said, “They think we’re shlemiels.”

Linette said, “Really, think about it: We agreed it’s not good business to remind people of what was here … as much as we hate to be unsentimental about the birthplace of our loved ones.”

Nelson went to work. He dipped his brush into yellow paint and began writing
THE INN AT LAKE DEVINE
across the old gray wall. Kris caught on after the first few letters and joined in. Their graffiti contest raged from there:
BERRY BROS., PROP … CHRISTIANS WELCOME … FOR A GOOD TIME CALL NATALIE @ EXT. 07
 … And the one that left them hanging off each other:
HOME OF THE LITTLE BROWN MUSHROOM
.

To amuse only myself, I wrote discreetly in one corner, “Long Live Chez Natalie.” I painted a bulging, anatomically correct heart around it, an arrow through it, an aorta ascending, various arteries, four chambers in a cross-section, and a set of initials in each.

Kris saw it, nudged Nelson, and in two strokes it was gone.

Linette and I smiled—at the boys, at each other, in general. Good sports and gracious winners, we collapsed the ladders and declared the workday done.

I
 wouldn’t have started or finished this book without the support of the following exceptional people: Mameve Medwed and Stacy Schiff, my first readers, safety nets, and inexhaustible friends; my editor, Deborah Futter, who made me feel that revisions were gifts from me to her, and inspired them in the most doting, constructive, and good-humored way; Ginger Barber and every blessed person at the Virginia Barber Literary Agency; Madeleine Blais, who claimed, when I called, that she had always wanted to go to the Catskills; Ben Austin, Nick Katzenbach, and Justine Katzenbach for their company and contributions to that trip; Bob Austin, the model for my dear fictional husbands; Pat McDonagh, who taught me everything I know about mushrooms; Caroline Leavitt, who got well and back to her computer; and my mother, Julia Lipman, who remembered after thirty-five years the exact wording of the letter from the hotel on the lake.

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