The High Season(41)

“We had to make the ferry,” Lilah said. “The line gets so long on weekends.” The bottom three buttons of her linen blouse were open, revealing a flat, taut stomach. She was wearing a watch without hands, just the words WHO CARES.

“Michael, will you pour Roberta some wine?” Adeline asked. “Or else she’ll be a complete grump.”

“I’m already a complete grump,” Roberta said, popping an olive. “Michael, I hear you’re a very good cook. I’ve been trying to get Adeline to eat for ten years.”

“Adeline doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do,” Lucas said. “You should know that by now.”

    He doesn’t like her, Ruthie thought.

Mike looked rattled; cooking for this group, and especially Roberta, probably unnerved him. He wouldn’t start to relax until people were midway through their entrées. Ruthie tried to puzzle this out. Had Adeline hired him to cook and then invited him to stay? Had he offered to help as a favor?

He disappeared into the house to do something with the food, and Adeline led her around for introductions. Of course you know Tom. This is Lilah—you must see their place on Shelter Island. Roberta was so impressed with Jem. Of course you know her books. And of course you know Joe.

Adeline headed into the house. Ruthie wished Mike would return. She wanted to ask him what they were doing here. These were summer people. These weren’t their people. What were they doing on their patio?

“So this is Orient,” Roberta said. “I had to live through one long dinner conversation with Adeline in the city about what sneakers to buy for this.”

“Sneakers are signifiers for sure,” Lilah said.

“Especially for Adeline,” Roberta said. “She has to get the details right. Remember when she lived in London and had to buy a raincoat?” They laughed, but with affection.

The glass was sweating in her hand, and she took a sip. She would drink one glass, and then go. Adeline and Mike returned, Mike carrying a plate of something. Adeline carried two glasses of wine. Roberta took the plate from Mike and popped something in her mouth before starting to pass it around. Adeline touched Mike’s shoulder and handed him his glass.

Ruthie had the sensation of something dropping inside her. Was it a penny? She could taste it in her mouth, sharp and coppery.

She hadn’t seen much. A woman handing a glass to a man. But as Ruthie watched them move toward the McGreevys, she suddenly saw what any idiot would have seen long before.

Mike was sleeping with Adeline.

    They were not touching, they weren’t even speaking to each other, but she saw it as plainly as she saw the trees and the grass. She saw it in the way Mike stood, the way he held his glass, the way his fucking hair was combed.

They were freshly showered, those two. Sitting out at the table earlier, having a glass of wine before the guests arrived. The domesticity of it. The postcoital contentment.

They all knew, too. Roberta—I hear you’re a great cook, Michael.

When had it begun? And if you wait a sec I’ll identify a hammer and a nail.

Dad totally mocked her groceries.

And Mike…scrutinizing him, she finally realized how nervous he was. Not to be here, in this company, not because of the meal, but to be here with her.

Joe came up next to her with the wine bottle, and she realized her glass was empty. “I didn’t know you’d be here. It’s lovely to see you.”

She held out her glass.

“This is a gorgeous Sancerre,” he said.

She stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. Instinct was stronger than cognition right now; she didn’t think she could speak. She drained the glass and held it out again.

“Bad day?”

She nodded. “The worst. Plus, I’m at a party where people say things like ‘This is a gorgeous Sancerre.’?”

Joe looked startled. Maybe she shouldn’t alienate the only person at the party who had been pleased to see her.

Behind her she heard, “And we can never seem to get you over to dinner,” from Lilah McGreevy.

“How cozy this all is,” she said to Joe. “And how kind of me to supply the venue.”

“Are you all right?”

She wanted to pick up speed and plow right into Mike, knock him down on the stones of their terrace. Their terrace! Look at the way Adeline was standing there, her expensively shod feet standing on Ruthie’s very own slate! Standing there as if this was her house! Her husband, her house!

    The group was talking the New York talk, restaurants, theater, books, music, Lincoln Center, MoMA, Met. But it was not the talk of those who went to the shows or read the books, or even those who read the reviews of the shows and the books, but those who dined with the producers, had been schoolmates with the editors, sat on the boards.

“No, he’s actually working on a book about transparency, I don’t know what he’s thinking, but then again, he has a Pulitzer.”

“The new restaurant with three letters. Ion?”

“…the Ernst and Duchamp show…”

“…bone broth…”

“Have you seen it? We went last week, it was brilliant. Henry Higgins is played by Cherry Jones as a closeted lesbian in love with Eliza, it’s all about the self-hatred of the oppressed, it’s amazing. She was totally singing from her uterus…”