The High Season(106)
New executive director Lark Mantis had been profiled in the current issue of Vogue, along with her partner, Doe Callender, for the article “They Call It New Hampton: A Power Art Couple Defines Cool on the North Fork.”
They stopped for the best salted oatmeal cookie in the world. That was the same. Ruthie paused on the porch of the market, just to inhale. Orient smelled like nowhere else in the world in the summer: salt, sea, lavender, pine, rugosa, lilies.
Jem jumped back in the car and they drove to the house. Ruthie pulled up, took a breath, and told herself she could do this.
The hydrangeas were gone. She had expected that, Penny had warned her. “I heard Adeline hired Anna Wintour’s garden designer, so don’t freak the fuck out.” The scraggly bushes had been replaced with boxwood. The lawn was now a meadow with clover and clouds of Russian sage. The white stones were gone; a pathway of trimmed grass made a desire path to the front porch. Pink roses tumbled in profusion with small fireworks of white allium.
Mike stood outside, waiting. He’d taken to wearing tortoiseshell glasses, and they made him look younger. Or maybe that was because Adeline had introduced him to her dermatologist.
“How was the drive?” he asked her as he helped Jem lift her duffel from the trunk.
“Not too bad. We left before the birds.”
“Let me.” He hauled a tote bag out and put it on the grass. “Come in for a coffee?”
“No, thanks, Penny and Elena are cooking a second breakfast.”
“Then come by for a drink later?”
With the invitation was a plea—please make this easier.
“Not today,” she said. “I’m heading back this afternoon. But sometime.”
“Mom!” Jem hurled herself into Ruthie’s arms. Soft cheek, resounding kiss, a squeeze that left her without breath. “I’ll miss you! And I’m coming to the city for lots of weekends.”
Ruthie knew she wouldn’t. The rhythm of summer would overtake her.
Adeline emerged and came toward them. She leaned in to kiss Ruthie on the cheek. “We’ll take good care of her,” Adeline said.
“Can Annie come over for dinner?” Jem asked.
“Of course!” Adeline said. “We’re making all your favorite things.”
This had been what she’d feared, just this. And what was it, anyway? Just three people, one of whom was trying too hard.
Watch as the three start toward the house, Jem’s arm around Mike’s waist. Watch as you see through the (new, larger) front window as Jem moves through the house, exclaiming. Watch as Mike points at something, no doubt the expanded kitchen. A better stove for Jem to cook on, a bigger fridge, new counters. Everything new and better.
You get back in the car.
You drive away. You cry.
Your enemies are not your enemies forever. Time passes. Things change. They suffer losses deeper than yours. And you realize they are as befuddled as you at the way life goes. Once, they acted badly, they took what they wanted without care. They are just like you, though. At three in the morning, they wander to a window. They stand watching the night sky, and they are afraid.
* * *
—
RUTHIE PULLED INTO Penny and Elena’s driveway. They were outside on the porch, and with them was Joe Bloom.
Okay. She could do this, too.
She took her time gathering her bag, her sunglasses, her phone, the cheese she’d brought from the city, the wine. She slammed the car door shut with her hip, and they looked up. They were waiting for her, smiling, rising. She climbed the few steps onto the porch and just dropped everything, except the wine, thank God. She hugged Penny and Elena and then, impulsively, stretched to kiss Joe, who had been stooping to pick up her sunglasses. They knocked heads, then laughed a little.
“Joe came by to get signatures for the Stop the Helipad petition,” Elena said.
“Joe, stay for brunch,” Penny ordered. “I have a frittata in the oven and we have the most delicious cherries. Ruthie, sit, keep Joe company while we get the food.”
“I should be going,” Joe said. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“Oh, stay,” Elena said.
“I’ll help Penny,” Ruthie said. She almost ran after Penny into the kitchen.
Penny got out a tray and utensils. She slid the frittata onto a platter. She placed the napkins next to the forks.
“Why aren’t you talking to me?” Ruthie asked.
“I’m talking to you, I’m just gathering words,” Penny said. She turned around and slapped a knife on the tray. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What?”
Penny made a downward swipe with a spatula, as if she were cutting Ruthie in two. “Enough, okay? I don’t know what you’re punishing yourself for, but stop it.”
“Punishing myself?”
“You spent two seasons in New York in which you did nothing but eat takeout and wait for Jem to get home from school.”
“I was working!”
“You connected with no one. You saw no theater. You did not go to one concert. You got the same takeout from the same Chinese restaurant every Friday night, and that might be the worst thing of all. There are restaurants in New York, you know. There are neighborhoods. You’re turning into your mother.”