The High Season(75)
Doe heard the clunk of the freezer door, the sprocketlike ping of the toaster rack sinking. Plates rattled.
Two years ago she’d been happy to get this place. A separate room for a bedroom was a step up from crashing with boyfriends or squeezing into studio apartments. She’d boxed up the lighthouse paintings and the sunsets and the ceramic seagulls. She’d pinned up some of her photographs and bought a gray cotton coverlet at Target and tucked it into the cushions of the couch. She couldn’t take up the green carpet or change the tiles, but she’d done enough to make it hers.
The kitchen at Lark and Daniel’s house was three times as big as her apartment, with marble counters and open shelves with stacks and stacks of white plates and bowls and sparkling glass. Custom cabinets hid the microwave and the toaster and the espresso machine. Lark’s toaster even sounded different from Doe’s merry Sunbeam, the one that disgorged toast with a ping and a pop that sent the toast jumping for joy at its release, half burnt. At Lark’s house the toast rose in a stately fashion, perfectly browned. But nobody ate toast at Lark’s house. Nobody ate potato chips or cheese. For breakfast there were bowls of sliced papaya and blueberries, egg white omelets with greens, and broiled salmon for Daniel. Perfect lattes and espressos in exquisite breakable cups appeared within sixty seconds of your arriving in the morning room, where breakfast was served.
Since she’d left Shari’s house her goal had been to get just a little bit ahead, each time she moved. A little more secure, a little more safe. This summer in the Mantis house she’d learned what ultimate safety really meant. Not safety from big things like death or accidents or cancer—that happened to everybody—but safety from the small things that could pile up and crush you. Blown fuses, cracked engine blocks, broken appliances, rent hikes. You never had to remember to buy toilet paper or coffee or even gas for the car. Mail was invitations in thick creamy envelopes and stacks of magazines. You never saw a bill. The shampoo bottles were always full, and the soap—scented, thick, the color of honey—never diminished to a latherless disk. You were safe from the tedium of washing a shower curtain. It was a lovely way to live. It left time—time for exercise, for massages, for haircuts, for cocktails, for concerts, for dinner parties with fantastic food where people had interesting things to say.
When Lark’s face rose up in her brain—it seemed to rise from the ground and shoot up through her body, the feel of her skin, her neck, her breasts, her breath, her laugh—she felt happy. Which was ridiculous. Happiness blinded you just when you needed to pay attention.
Doe had always expected the end to come on Labor Day. Lark would return to her life. They would say that they’d keep in touch. Maybe they would text a few times. Doe would have no right to complain, because she’d known the ending from the beginning.
But Lark was staying. Lark would be taking over the museum in September. Lark would be her boss. They had laughed about it, but Doe had a feeling she knew the pitfalls better than Lark.
She had told Daniel that Lark could do anything, and then she had to follow through. No one knew the part she’d played. Doe had talked up the Belfry to Lark, complained about Catha’s cluelessness (this was not a fabrication), said how the North Fork needed a cultural landmark and someone with the taste to create it.
“Daddy mentioned this, too,” Lark had said. “He made me have coffee with that Mindy woman who smells like paste. He wants to stick me out here in the boonies where I can’t embarrass him. The North Fork? Come on.”
“You’re so right,” Doe said. “But.”
“Don’t give me a but,” Lark said, frowning. “Me, living there? Run a regional museum? It’s demeaning.”
Lark did not seem to realize that she’d just insulted Doe. But that was okay. “Look, the North Fork is changing so fast,” Doe said. “All those pockets of hip are going to merge into a thing. Something real. And you could lead the way. Quoted in every article as it all starts to happen. You’d be the influencer about more than what sandals you’re wearing, or what party you go to. Be a real agent of change. From there you can do anything.”
“But year-round? Not to mention that I don’t know how to run a museum.”
“That’s what consultants are for. What you’re good at is sensing the next new thing. And you wouldn’t have to spend the winter here, you could fundraise in New York. Your second does the boring work of running it while you have the vision and represent the brand. And I’ll do all your social media.”
“Stop, you.” Lark laughed, but then she looked thoughtful.
That was when Doe knew it would all happen, just the way Daniel wanted. But would it be the right thing for the Belfry, or the town?
If Doe told her the truth, she’d have to explain what a museum like the Belfry really was, family day and kids’ programs and Alzheimer’s painting classes. A regional museum wasn’t MoMA. You actually had to love all that shit. You had to pay attention to people. “Community” couldn’t be in quotes. You had to care. Like Ruthie had.
Doe hadn’t fully realized that the atmosphere at work had been nudged and fostered by Ruthie, that vibrations of good cheer could keep a workplace humming. Catha was clearly over her head and had turned into a snappish boss who spent most of her time racing out to coffee meetings with board members. Now a new boss was arriving who had even less experience running a museum. Mindy was so inflated with pride in her catch that it was amazing she didn’t expel it in a giant fart of self-congratulation. She didn’t stop to wonder if Lark was the right fit, or why Daniel Mantis would be interested in buying his daughter a job.