The Last Book Party(47)

Surveying the crowd, I saw flashes of a Dracula, a Musketeer, a man smoking a corn-cob pipe, and a woman who looked as if she belonged in a Renoir painting; then my eyes rested on a tall, strikingly handsome man with slicked-back blond hair wearing a white three-piece suit and gold tie. As he sipped from a champagne flute, a dead-ringer Holly Golightly, in a sleeveless black dress, long black gloves, and a triple strand of white pearls, tucked her head into the crook of his neck. This swanlike beauty, I was surprised to see, was Lane, who, despite her cynicism about the costume party, had gone to considerable lengths to ensure that she looked stunning. And the Jay Gatsby fellow had to be her father. I watched them whisper to each other as another tall man, also dressed in an elegant white suit and gold tie, approached the pair. It took me a moment to realize it was Malcolm. The three of them laughed and clinked glasses, and as Lane walked away, the two Gatsbys stood closer together, their champagne flutes nearly touching. Malcolm threw back his head in laughter and touched his hand lightly on Eric Baxter’s wrist.

A man in a purple brocade cape glided by and wished me “good tidings” as he moved toward the drinks table. It was Dickie Compton. Tillie hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told me about his sewing skills. I started to follow him to get a better look at his costume when Franny came skipping toward me with a broad smile on his ruddy face and his hair hanging loose around his shoulders. He wore knickers, kneesocks, and a brown cardigan sweater. He looked childlike, adorable and happy. In his hands was a worn old teddy bear, which served as a good hint to his costume and gave me something to say.

“Christopher Robin, what a pleasure.” Despite the way he had angered and disappointed me, I couldn’t help feeling happy to see him. Franny bowed with a flourish, and then stood up, clicked his heels together, and held out his teddy bear.

“Don’t forget Winnie,” he said.

I shook the bear’s paw.

“Charmed.”

“He was my best pal when I was little,” Franny said, giving the bear an affectionate squeeze. “I rescued him from the top shelf of my closet.”

The mention of his closet made me think of his room, which made me think of his bed, our night together, and the last time I had been in that room, when I had rifled through Franny’s belongings in an attempt to learn more about him. It felt like a long time ago. Franny smiled at me as if there was nothing complicated between us, no history that might have left me feeling forlorn or forgotten. He greeted me the way you might come upon a book, flip through the pages casually, and recall how much you’d enjoyed reading it. So there it was: I was a fond memory.

“I have no idea who you are supposed to be, but you look pretty,” he said, as if he were stating a simple fact.

Disconcerted by how good it felt to be under his friendly gaze, I looked around the lawn. Henry was standing near the house, surveying the crowd. He wore a dapper 1940s-looking suit with a bowler hat. Dressed so formally, he seemed middle-aged. When he noticed me watching, he held up his hand and waved, and I saw that he was holding a big metal tape measure. I was pleased to realize that he had taken my suggestion, after all, and dressed as the city slicker with the country dream house, Mr. Blandings. Too bad he didn’t know that Alva would guess immediately. Henry squinted at me, no doubt trying to discern who I was dressed as. Uncomfortable to have him see me with Franny, I was relieved when a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform, Nurse Ratched, I assumed, approached him and started a conversation.

I turned back to Franny and asked about Maine, and Lil.

“Have you met her?” he asked, as if he really was not aware that he had neglected to tell me about her existence.

“I was hoping you would introduce us.”

My voice sounded brittle. Franny shrugged his shoulders and sighed. I supposed it was the semblance of an apology. He looked around the crowd and said, “She’s dressed as the Woman in White. You know, by Wilkie Collins?” He said it as if he wasn’t sure about the book himself. I had a feeling that neither of them knew that Lil had picked a character who, caught up in a young man’s ruse, had been locked in an insane asylum. “She found a copy in Henry’s office and liked the title. And what do you know, she found the perfect dress at the thrift shop in Wellfleet this morning.”

So Lil and Franny at least had this much in common: they didn’t overthink things.

“There she is,” Franny said. “Come with me.”

I followed him toward the side of the yard, where I saw a young woman, as frail and tiny as a bird, sitting on a picnic table talking to Jeremy. Lil was such a wisp of a thing, it was hard to believe that she had haunted me for so long. She wasn’t tall or blond or bold-looking. She did have long hair, but it was straight and dark and hung down her back like a sheet of rain. She had dark eyes and a long, thin Modigliani nose. Her frilly white dress had a high collar, long sleeves, and folds and folds of fabric that spilled onto the bench beneath her and made her look as childlike and innocent as Franny in his A. A. Milne get-up. Looking at Lil and then Franny in his knickers, it was hard to believe that the two of them, the idea of them as a pair, had tortured me so. They seemed insignificant, even slightly ridiculous. And then with Jeremy beside them, dressed in a plain white shirt and khakis, like a Mormon missionary, I felt caught in a dream where people who couldn’t possibly be in the same room, like Marie Antoinette and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, were in someone’s basement playing Twister.