The Last Book Party(43)

“She is a sight,” Jeremy said. It wasn’t lost on me that Jeremy hadn’t agreed with Malcolm. His hair already frizzed from the Cape humidity, Jeremy looked pale, like he hadn’t left the city all summer, and harmless. He stepped toward me and tapped my shoulder lightly. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” I said, and realized that I meant it. It would be good to have someone to talk to, even if I wouldn’t tell him everything. I’d been avoiding Alva, who I knew would not only disapprove of my affair with Henry but would suspect it even if I didn’t say a word.

Despite pleading with my mother not to go out of her way to prepare for Jeremy’s visit, she had spent the morning going to Hillside Farm for fresh corn and tomatoes, Hatch’s in Wellfleet for swordfish steaks, and Provincetown for smoked bluefish dip and a wheel of Camembert. “We’ll make him a real Cape dinner,” she’d said.

When Jeremy and I entered the house, the coffee table in the living room was covered with the dip, cheese, and crackers and my mother was sitting on the deep couch, her legs tucked under her, ostensibly reading Lake Wobegon Days. Her “tells” were obvious: she wore gold hoop earrings and had on the coral lipstick that she usually saved for going out to dinner or to a party. She stood up, slipped on her sandals, and stretched her arm out toward Jeremy. “Welcome, welcome to our little paradise,” she said, beaming at him. “I’m Nancy.”

Jeremy put down his duffel bag and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He looked around at the room and out the sliding-glass doors to the deck and the hills rolling down to the marsh beyond. It was high tide. The marsh had nearly filled with water and looked like a lake dotted with small islands of bright green grass. “What a beautiful home. Thanks so much for letting me stay.”

“Of course!” my mother said, pushing her hair off her face in a way that was oddly coquettish. “Come, come sit down. You must be hungry and thirsty! Eve, get Jeremy a drink. Do you want wine? Or do you prefer beer? Vodka? We have a full bar. My husband—he’s fishing with friends in Nantucket and will be back tomorrow—even has whiskey and rye, though I insist that those are not summer drinks.”

“A beer would be great,” Jeremy said. He blinked several times, and then rubbed his left eye.

I wished I hadn’t agreed that we would eat in. With my father away until the next day, my mother had free rein to steer the conversation to her interests, which I was sure meant interrogating Jeremy about his creative process and ferreting out enough information to determine if he and I were romantically involved.

I brought a beer to Jeremy, who was standing behind the couch. His nose was twitching like a rabbit. Was he nervous?

“Please, sit,” my mother said.

Jeremy settled into the couch, sinking down awkwardly and then squirming to sit back on the edge.

“Smoked bluefish dip?” my mother asked, pointing to the table.

“That’s fish?” Jeremy said. He jumped up to his feet, spilling some beer on the carpet. “Shit! I’m sorry.” He took a handful of cocktail napkins and started mopping up the beer.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” my mother said, looking at me in a way that made it clear that it was definitely not nothing. She was particular about her carpet. Jeremy put his beer on the table and walked over to his duffel bag, where he rummaged around until he stood up with a pill bottle in his hand. His eyes were red and puffy, his cheeks covered with a splotchy rash. “I’m so sorry. It’s the bluefish. I’m allergic. I should have told you.”

My mother looked at Jeremy’s face, then at the bluefish dip, then back at Jeremy. “Oh my God,” she said.

She grabbed the bowl of dip and marched into the kitchen, where she scraped it down the garbage disposal.

“Can I have a glass for water?” Jeremy asked. He walked to the sink and splashed water on his face. I handed him a glass and watched him down the pills. “Benadryl,” he said.

I turned to my mother and with my back to Jeremy gestured for her to put away the swordfish filets that were on a platter on the counter, ready for the grill. She looked confused and then put the plate in the refrigerator and closed the door. She waved her hands in the air, like she could disperse the fishiness. I opened the windows and sliding doors and turned on the ceiling fans.

Jeremy stepped out on the deck, closing the door behind him.

“Now what?” my mother said. “Corn for dinner? How could he not have mentioned this? Who goes to Cape Cod and doesn’t think to inform his hosts that he can’t share space with fish?”

I felt bad for Jeremy, who seemed genuinely flustered.

“Maybe it’s a rare occurrence,” I said. “It’s not the end of the world. Can’t we just make some pasta with meat sauce?”

“We can,” she said, looking in the refrigerator for the leftover sauce, “providing he’s not a vegetarian.”

I brought Jeremy his beer and sat on the deck with him. He took a long swig.

“I am so sorry. I should have told you. Sometimes I have a reaction like that and sometimes I don’t. It’s a little like Russian roulette, but it’s been a while since it’s happened at all. I thought maybe I had outgrown it.”

“You might consider restricting your vacations to the desert,” I said, trying to make him feel better.