The High Season(76)
Catha had made all this noise about how she was going to “partner” with Lark, but nobody was buying it and Doe knew it was wishful thinking. The staff was shell-shocked and furious. They could feel layoffs in the air, and Doe didn’t think they were wrong.
Things were a mess, and she was sorry for Ruthie, but she couldn’t save anyone. She had learned that early.
Daniel had a superstar realtor on deck to find a house. Daniel was secretly lobbying for limited helicopter service from Manhattan. There was a closed airfield about two miles out of town, and Daniel was talking to the right people, whoever they were. Daniel was looking into buying the house next to the Belfry, and the one on the north side, just in case expansion was in the plan. Cap Hunter, who was eighty-five and a longtime resident, was tempted, but the Beechams, in the big white house behind the screen of trees, were not.
To kick it all off, to show the town just how much serious glamour lay ahead, Lark and Daniel had moved Lark’s twenty-seventh birthday party to the Belfry. Lark was consumed with the plans, the complexities of which had been going on for six months at least. Only the venue had changed. They did not think it strange at all that a new director would rent out the museum to throw herself a party. The staff was horrified, but it was clear that they didn’t count, and the board was busy panting to be invited.
Lark had used an event planner but hadn’t listened to him much, preferring to pick the music, the flatware, the plates, the food, the flowers, everything herself. Doe had no idea what this must have cost, but she no longer wondered about things like that. The dress code, Lark had decreed, was “empyrean.” Doe was certain that mostly everyone had to look it up; she knew she had to, in the bathroom, right after she’d told Lark what a fabulous idea it was.
For Lark’s birthday gift, Daniel had commissioned the artist Dodge to fabricate oversized inflatables of Lark’s favorite animals—lambs, kingfishers, cats—in silver and white, her favorite colors. It was supposed to be kitschy but tasteful. Dodge had also designed a bouncy castle for grown-ups, which would be tethered to the lawn.
Doe and Lark had driven to Dodge’s studio in Brooklyn to see the work a few days ago. The artist had totally ignored instructions and his crew had fabricated surreal hybrid creatures built out of parts of raptors, hyenas, and wolves in bright primary colors. Flashing teeth and snarling faces. The face of one creature—part wolf, part raptor—Doe immediately recognized as Daniel’s. It was shocking and demented and silly, and Doe loved it. She’d stood back, watching Lark’s face. A woman who cared enough to spend weeks deciding on what shade of apricot was pale enough but still a color would certainly combust over acid-green hyenas and a mutant animal who looked like her dad.
Lark’s eyes had widened and she was silent for a long moment. Then she’d hooted with laughter and hurtled herself inside the pink bouncy castle—modeled, Doe learned much later, on the Camp 7 detainment area at Guantánamo Bay—to jump as high as she could, the castle leaning crazily to one side while Dodge laughed and told her to stop it, it wasn’t stabilized yet. Lark had bounced on her knees, laughing so hard she’d even snorted. “I’m inside a giant vagina!” she’d screamed.
Dodge had flashed his handsome grin, but Doe could see the relief underneath it. You really didn’t want to screw with the daughter of Daniel Mantis. But if you surprised her…it was magic. While he explained the process of transport, installation, inflation, weather regulations, electrical needs, she watched Lark bounce on her knees, delight on her face. Doe had been intensely jealous of Dodge at that moment, and that had been something she’d been chewing on for days, that flare of sadness at wondering if she would ever be able to provoke that much delight in her girlfriend. There was no birthday gift she could bring Lark that was special enough. Doe was close to terrified. She had four hundred dollars in her checking account, money she saved for emergencies and escape. Even if she drained it, what could she afford that would be special enough for Lark?
Keeping up with Lark was exhausting. Doe had to invest in pedicures and waxings and invent fictions like she never used a wallet (too much of a tell) and she liked cheap keychains because she was always losing her keys. She’d carried the Marni purse too often and had to retire it. She told Lark that her perfect idea of a summer dress was one with pockets.
Conversations were like picking your way through potholes in heels. Any moment she could wrench an ankle and get flung into the cement. Lark’s friends talked about travel and museums and restaurants and SoulCycle and paddleboarding. Doe didn’t get it, really—they all went to the same places and mostly had the same things to say—but she still had to fake her way through with smiles and comments that didn’t mean anything. She pretended to know things, like where Lyford Cay was (Anguilla) and whether Sorrento would be perfect for a destination wedding. She agreed with the consensus that the Seychelles had been “totally ruined.” One night she studied streets and shops in Paris, memorizing names and places she had never been and listening to pronunciations, just so she could toss off Saint-Ouen without stumbling.
People would feel sorrier for liars if they knew how much work it took.
“You should eat something,” Shari said.
“What?”
There was coffee, so she went to the table. Mr. Coffee had produced a brew. Her waffle smiled at her with a blueberry-dotted grin and banana coins for eyes. Shari peered over her mug, hoping for a reaction. Doe grabbed the mug and poured in milk. The milk was cold and cooled the coffee, which tasted burnt.