The Cloisters(42)

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That I expected we might drive to the Adirondacks showed how little I understood about Rachel’s wealth. When I met her in front of her building, a car was already waiting for us. Her doorman carried a neat, cream leather bag behind her and placed it ceremoniously in the trunk, next to my backpack into which I had shoved two paperback novels and my computer. It was, although I wouldn’t admit it to her, the first time I had gone on a girls’ trip or slept over since elementary school.

We were deposited at a heliport along the West Side Highway, where another porter collected our luggage and stowed it before the blades of the helicopter began to beat rhythmically. I assumed we would take it all the way upstate, but when I mentioned this to Rachel, she laughed and said into her headset, It doesn’t have that kind of range. When the pilot turned around and grinned at me, I did my best not to let the embarrassment spread from my cheeks to my neck and chest.

After landing at a Long Island floatplane center, we boarded a yellow plane with two large pontoons and relatively small wings. Two small props would power us all the way to Long Lake as the sun set. Rachel expertly hauled herself into the back seat and was already buckling her seat belt when I took my first, tentative step aboard. The pilot handed me a pair of headphones and offered me a thumbs-up. It was the smallest plane I had ever been on. Once my headphones were on, I heard the pilot say to Rachel, Our time in flight will be approximately two hours and fifteen minutes. Only a few minutes later, we were in the air; gradually, the skyscrapers of Manhattan receded behind us into the haze.

As we flew, the pilot would occasionally call out landmarks—the wide, flowing Hudson, the swell of the Catskills, the racetrack at Saratoga, Lake George, twice home of the winter Olympics—until the channel became quiet while he piloted us down onto a dark patch of earth that turned out not to be land at all but the inky expanse of Long Lake. I had imagined, during the flight, what Rachel’s camp might look like, but I was ill equipped to understand the reality.

Our pilot motored some distance until the house came into view, its dock lit by bright white lights that jutted into the lake; they were the only lights for miles. On the dock, a man gestured with a green wand until the floatplane was fully snug up against the dock; the door opened and we disembarked. Rachel hugged the man, and although I could see her lips moving, I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

The floatplane pilot tapped me on the arm and gestured for me to take off the headphones. When I did, the sounds around me came roaring back, and I was surprised to feel my arms blooming with goose bumps as I registered a chill in the air. Since moving to New York, I had yet to experience a truly cold summer night. Usually I slept without covers, my window unit always out of service.

As our bags were unloaded, I looked toward the house. Two chimneys with crenellated tops, black against the dark sky, graced either end. Lights were on inside, and I could just make out the curves of the veranda that wrapped all the way around the structure, the delicacy of the trim; here and there, a chandelier was visible through the windows. I couldn’t understand why it would be called a camp; it was a manse with a complex of matching outbuildings and boathouse. Everything so clearly historic that the light that came through the float glass windows was tinted and watery. We made our way down the dock and up a sloping lawn, and as we got closer, taxidermies of deer came into focus on the walls and above the mantels of the home; there were antlers everywhere.

When Rachel stepped onto the stairs that led to the front door, there was a heavy creaking, and I could see, even in the thin light, the thickness and width of the boards that had been used to construct the house. Rachel didn’t pause at the front door, but blew through into a living room that was paneled, floor to ceiling, with clear lacquered pine. The small, delicate strips of wood were polished to such a shine that being in the room was like being inside a tree—it even smelled of pine pitch and campfire smoke.

Everywhere there were shelves bursting with books: foxed paperback copies of The War Between the Tates and Valley of the Dolls, clothbound copies of Zane Grey novels, old boxes of checkers and board games whose corners were worn with use. There were couches that sagged in the middle, only a little, and thick cashmere throws on each one. Everything casual, but only in the most studied way of the monied class.

“Rachel?” I heard a woman call from what turned out to be the kitchen.

If the rest of the house was decidedly historic, then the kitchen was radically modern. A butcher block island and ten-burner stove anchored the space. There were peonies in various states of bloom in vases on the breakfast table and windowsill, bowls overflowing with bananas and onions, and the delicious smell of lemon and peaches.

An older woman with steel-gray hair and a pleasant thickness embraced Rachel in a hug.

“The flight was okay?”

Rachel nodded and settled onto a stool at the counter.

“And Jack got your bags?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’m Ann,” I said, holding out a hand, but she batted my hand aside and wrapped me in her arms.

“I’m so excited you two are here. The house used to be busy all summer, but it’s slower these days.” She looked at Rachel and patted her hand. “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

But Rachel waved her off. “It’s been a long time, Margaret, since the house was like that.”

“Some things never get easier.”