Summer of '79: A Summer of '69 Story(6)
Larry turns his head so he’s looking at her with only one eye; this, she recalls, is a gesture of his. “I had not heard that, actually.”
Ah, right. Larry lives in Florida. The only person who would have told him is his grandmother, Mrs. Winter, and she would only have heard from Exalta. Even so, Blair is glad she came out with it before Larry had a chance to ask about Angus.
Blair shrugs. “Didn’t work out, but the kids and I are fine. We live outside of Boston. Everyone’s happy.” She flashes Larry a smile that she hopes indicates “happy,” or appropriately happy, considering they’re on island to attend a funeral. “How about you? Married? Kids?”
Larry stares at the ice cream cone that is slowly melting in his hand. “Not married, no kids,” he says. “Haven’t met the right woman.”
Blair feels herself flush. “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.”
Larry stares at his cone for a second; he must be finding this run-in as surreal as she is. “So, listen, I’m planning on coming to the funeral and the reception. Escorting my grandmother.”
“Of course,” Blair says. “You belong there. And Kirby has planned a bonfire tomorrow night at Ram Pasture. Young people only.”
Larry laughs. “That leaves me out.”
“And me,” Blair says. “I’m thirty-four. Twice as old as the summer we last dated.”
“I’ve got you by a year, don’t forget. And you, Blair Foley, are far more gorgeous now than you were at seventeen.”
Flush turns to blush. He’s lying, though Blair has lost a lot of weight since the divorce and now might be nearly as slender as she was in high school. “Thank you, Larry. I needed to hear that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Larry says. “Enjoy your ice cream.”
Blair is as preoccupied as the twins as they sit and eat their sundaes. Blair made George and Gennie leave their projects in the car and so they’ve moved on to their second favorite pastime—dissecting a special trilogy episode of The Brady Bunch. The Bradys go to Hawaii, they find a tiki that appears to be cursed—Greg Brady has a surfing accident, a tarantula crawls on one of the other brothers—and then Blair loses the plot when they start talking about a cave and someone (or something?) named Oliver. Doesn’t matter. Blair is doing her own dissecting. Larry Winter, of all people! Single and without children, telling Blair she looked “more gorgeous” than she had at seventeen. And she’ll see him tomorrow—at the funeral, the reception, and the bonfire.
“Time to go,” Blair says, though she has barely touched her sundae at all.
Blair drives back to her mother and David’s sprawling beachfront compound on Red Barn Road, listing Larry Winter’s pros and cons. The only con she can come up with is that he lives in Florida and owns a nightclub, which might explain why he looks like one of the Bee Gees. Well, another con is that Blair felt no particular emotion when she saw him, other than a fondness when remembering the kissing. And she’d liked being complimented, of course, because who didn’t? But there was definitely something missing—a zing, a ping, a tingle. They had broken up so long ago, Blair remembers, because she had grown tired of him.
The pros are that he’s single and without children. But surely she’s entitled to ask for more than just that?
Blair wonders if the divorce has turned her heart to ice. Look at how she spoke to poor Jefe. Maybe she’ll feel differently about Larry tomorrow night at the bonfire, once she’s had a few drinks. Maybe her run-in with Larry was meant to be, orchestrated by Exalta, who is watching out for Blair from above.
The driveway of Kate and David’s compound is crowded with cars. Blair sees the Trans Am that Tiger drives; he’ll have to give that thing up once he and Magee finally have children. She sees Kirby’s LTD and Mr. Crimmins’s pickup truck. And she sees a turquoise Porsche 911 with the top down.
Blair freezes. Only one person she knows would drive a car like that.
“Looks like we have company,” Blair says.
Kate and David bought the sprawling old house on Red Barn Road ten years earlier, right after the twins were born, back when Tiger was still over in Vietnam. They lived in it for five years without making a single change. Then, once Jessie left for Mount Holyoke and Kate no longer had children at home, she and David sold the big house in Brookline, rented an apartment in Charles River Park, and poured their time, energy, and resources into the Nantucket property. The main house got a complete facelift—a new roof; new doors and windows; new wood floors throughout, except for the family room, which they carpeted; paint for all the bedrooms; an updated kitchen with avocado green appliances and bright pink and orange wallpaper so that when you were at the counter making a sandwich, you felt like you were standing in the middle of fruit ambrosia. (Only Exalta was brave enough to say to Kate, “You might have chosen something more classic, darling.”) But Kate wanted a happy, modern house as a counterpoint to the staid, history-laden confines of All’s Fair. She and David built a guest cottage on the back edge of the property—two bedrooms, one bath. (This was where Blair and Angus had always stayed with the children, now just Blair and the children.) Between the guest cottage and the main house, they built a clay tennis court and a turquoise lozenge of an in-ground pool that had a curved fiberglass slide at one end. There was a concrete patio for barbecuing and even a portable tiki bar that David hauled out of the shed every Memorial Day for the summer. Kate had newly discovered frozen blender drinks—strawberry daiquiris and margaritas—which she served in obscenely large glasses that she got on sale at Kmart.