The High Season(11)
Unlike every other year they’d lived in Orient, this year Ruthie and Jem would have space. They’d be living like rich folks. Or at least guests of rich folks. Or, no, wait, the guests of children of rich folks, since the converted barn was “the playhouse,” where the kids held sleepovers and parties. Carole was headed to Paris for the summer with her tribe of four children and her husband, Lewis, who was expected to solve some sort of financial crisis that could lead to the crash of global capital finance. Or something like that. Imminent disaster was an old song now, nobody paid attention to the details.
“Beware!” Carole called. “It’s absolute chaos in here. Save yourself!”
Ruthie had been to the main house many times, for meetings and dinner parties and “come on over for a glass of wine” girl talk. Although every director of a museum could recite the warning “Board members are not your friends” in their sleep, Carole came as close as it got.
Carole and Lewis had hired an architectural firm in the city to build the house from scratch. The interior was so twinned that a second house could be built out of appliances alone. There were double sinks, double dishwashers, double ovens. There were double showerheads, double dressing rooms, and two laundry rooms, upstairs and down. There were two dining rooms, formal and informal, and two living rooms, same. The Paris flea markets had been scoured for lamps and tables; the showrooms of Milan for sofas and beds.
When Carole and Lewis spoke of the house, they would downplay its magnificence and speak earnestly about how it was a “family” house, all designed around the kids. Who would get older, Carole would say, and need a place they would want to visit. Most parents used hectoring to get kids to visit; apparently the privileged had more seductive lures. In twenty years, the now six-year-old Verity Berlinger would heed the siren call of a forty-thousand-dollar mattress and pick up the phone to call Mom.
Carole kissed Ruthie on the cheek (“Three times, I’m practicing for Paris!”) and Ruthie followed her into the mudroom, as big as her bedroom, where blown-up photos of Berlingers hung on the walls. Berlingers dangled on Costa Rican zip lines and paddled on Peruvian lakes and glamped it up in Patagonia. Wellington boots were lined up on a copper tray and cubbies were stuffed with a rainbow array of Converses and Crocs.
Carole picked up a sheet of black poster board with rows of yellow Post-its stuck onto it. Ruthie saw directives like ANDREW: PACK INVISALIGN and VERITY: BLUE SWEATER WITH DUCK BUTTONS and DASHIELL: IPAD MINI CHARGER and ARDEN: NAVY CASHMERE CARDIGAN.
“Do you see this?” she asked, shaking it. A Post-it with DASH: CHOOSE BOOK FOR PLANE floated to the floor. “I saw it in Oprah Magazine at the dentist and had Margarita make it up for the kids. So they feel a part of the trip. They each have tasks, according to age. They are supposed to complete them and then rip off the Post-it. They’ve done none of them and we leave for the airport in one hour.”
“Can I help?”
“Yes. Make me a martini. Kidding!” Carole flung the poster board on the floor underneath a gigantic whiteboard calendar. May was crammed with Chinese lessons and tennis lessons and tutors—EXECUTIVE FUNCTION! FRENCH WITH JULIETTE!—concerts and cocktail parties and dinner reservations. A big line slashed through June and July and August trumpeting PARIS and SCOTLAND and ?LE DE Ré and LONDON and finally, HOME on August 31.
“And of course, Lew? He’s meeting us at the airport. He spent the day at the office. You know how it is, leaving for France for the entire summer, there are a thousand details, and I can’t find my Ambien!”
Ruthie put her hands on Carole’s shoulders and felt bone. She’d once seen a photo of her in prep school, a hearty brunette kicking a soccer ball, but Manhattan and starvation had turned her into a tiny, taut-skinned blonde. “You are going to be fine. In only a few hours you will be on the plane, and a glass of champagne will be in your hand.”
Carole shook her head. “You’re always so positive,” she said. “I love how you’re always so nice. And it’s not that you’re too nice. You’re just nice!”
Ruthie wished this particular compliment didn’t sound like Carole was refuting a charge against her. “Have a seat, I have to yell at the kids,” Carole said, gesturing at the matching sofas. “Then I’ll walk you through the deets. The beds are all made up, ready to go. The gardener comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays and random days to harvest…help yourself to flowers and produce. Um…what else. Just keep an eye on things, that’s all. And enjoy.”
Carole walked to the stairs, trim in gray pants and a white long-sleeved tee. Not pants, trousers, Ruthie amended. Trousers tailored to Carole’s body, not falling off her butt or too long or too short or slightly bagged at the knees. A paisley stole in muted colors was thrown on the back of an armchair next to a short, chic raincoat in the same gray as her trousers. On the floor sat a soft caramel-colored leather bag so delectable that Ruthie wanted to eat it like a goat.
“Margarita!” Carole shouted. “Are the kids getting ready?”
“Under control!” a voice came.
“Margarita is a love, but she has one fault,” Carole confided. “Every time I yell her name, I desperately want a cocktail.” A loud crash came from above, and Carole closed her eyes.
“Margarita!”