The Last Book Party(2)
“OK, Henry, simmer down,” Franny said.
“Do you always call him Henry?” I asked, taking the second oyster.
“When it’s called for.”
Henry pushed his knife into the seam of a fresh oyster and opened it easily. He tossed the empty half in a bucket and, holding the filled shell in a gloved hand, flicked a few flakes from the flesh inside before setting it on a platter of ice at the end of the table. Looking at me, he spoke to Franny. “My boy, this young lady is a marvel of efficiency. And not at all what I expected. When I learned of her connection to Truro and invited her to join us, I was prepared to meet a skinny spinster in a cardigan sweater.”
Franny looked my way, shaking his head, and pointed his shucking knife toward his father. “He is such a relic.”
I stepped to the side of the table so other guests could get oysters but stayed close enough to continue the conversation. Bantering with Henry in person was more challenging than on paper, but I was determined to keep up. And it was easier than talking to Franny, whose good looks unnerved me.
“Is efficiency generally unattractive?” I asked Henry.
Still grinning, he nodded. “I have found it to be so.”
Franny took off his shucking gloves and tossed them on the table.
“OK, it’s time for a break,” he said, with a dazzling smile. “C’mon, Eve, I’ll show you around.”
Henry looked at Franny and then back at me. “Yes, of course, by all means, join our young brethren. But, Eve, really—if you ever need a job, I’m on the lookout for an efficient research assistant for the summer.”
I laughed. He couldn’t be serious. “It would be a tough commute from New York, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
I followed Franny up the hill toward the house. Looking back, I saw Henry watching us. I gave a little wave. Henry tapped his oyster knife to his forehead in a quick salute.
Franny stopped outside the screened porch. “So are you a writer too?” he asked. He pulled the rubber band from his hair, which swung down and brushed his broad shoulders.
“I’d like to be. But it’s hard until you know what you want to say.”
“Is it?” he said.
“I suppose it’s easy for you, growing up with it and everything.”
“Nope. Books are not my thing.”
He stated it as a simple fact, one which I found hard to believe, considering who his parents were. I was sure that if my parents were writers, rather than a tax attorney and a part-time interior decorator, I’d be further along toward becoming one myself.
Franny cocked his head. I heard the jumpy beat of “Walk Like an Egyptian.”
“I think there’s dancing,” Franny said.
He led me through the porch and inside, where the furniture had been pushed back to the walls and the rugs rolled up. A younger crowd was dancing barefoot in the living room and dining room. The kitchen was filled with people standing in small groups or sitting on counters, drinking beer and talking. Everyone seemed happy to see Franny, grabbing his hand or tousling his hair or swallowing him in a hug. A little girl scampered up and wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing until he swept her up onto his shoulders and danced around the kitchen. When he set her down, she skipped away, and he turned to a short, wrinkled old woman with her gray hair knotted in a bun on the top of her head. She had paint on her hands and Birkenstocks peeking out from beneath a long black skirt. Franny rested his hands on her shoulders and, leaning in and talking loudly so she could hear him over the music, promised to come soon to photograph her work.
Franny introduced me to some friends and cousins as “a writer friend of Henry’s from New York,” which everyone accepted so readily that I gave up trying to explain over the music that I was a mere editorial secretary. As much as I wanted to be a writer, my habit of starting stories and ripping them up after a few pages didn’t give me the right to call myself one.
“This is Rosie Atkinson—video artist,” Franny said, kissing the cheek of a petite young woman with a jet-black bob and magenta lips. “How goes the installation?” Before she could answer, a cherubic guy wearing round glasses and a faded Brooks Brothers shirt grabbed Franny from behind, bellowing, “Franster!”
Franny whipped around.
“My man!” They hugged again. “Eve, remember this name—Stephen Frick. This goofy-looking creature is on a fast track to becoming a famous composer.”
Creativity was clearly this crowd’s currency. Franny’s introductions each included some artistic cachet: Up-and-coming playwright. Jazz saxophonist. Gallery manager. Actor. There didn’t seem to be a preprofessional among them—none of the law school or med school students, junior consultants, or account executives found among the children of my parents’ friends. From years of vacationing in Truro, I’d been vaguely aware of this crowd, but never expected to be hanging out with them, let alone being welcomed as if I belonged.
The party had an easy, unscripted feel. Two barefoot boys in overalls ran through the kitchen, one with a bag of marshmallows. Three women sat on the steep wooden steps of the back staircase engaged in what seemed to be serious conversation. I grabbed a Corona from an old washtub on the counter and took a few quick gulps. Someone turned up the music, and Franny started dancing as he gently pushed me and several of the people in the kitchen into the dining room. At first, I danced awkwardly, wishing I hadn’t worn a prissy cotton dress. But as I finished that first beer, I began to relax. I kicked my sandals into the corner and twirled into the center of the room, where I was happy to catch Franny’s eyes a few times and be spun by him, though I wasn’t sure if he was dancing with me or with everyone. As it grew darker, more people came inside until the house was packed.