“He’s now divorced.”
“You told me. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Better all around. He made the rather ill-advised decision to bring his girlfriend up this weekend. She works at”—Preston stopped and chewed the grape deliberately—“an advertising agency. Promoting canned tomatoes, at the moment. And went to, I’m not sure. DePaul? DePauw? Somewhere decidedly third tier.”
“Doesn’t DePaul have really good soccer?”
Preston fixed her with a look. “Soccer? Evelyn.”
“It’s a sport.”
“Barely. Here, take a grape. They’re very good. Seeds, though. Be careful. She calls herself Chrissie.”
“Is that because it’s her name?”
Preston smiled. “Perhaps. Perhaps. Chrissie is up for the weekend, and I cannot say it is going swimmingly.”
“How long have they been dating?”
Preston considered this. “Three months. Four. But she’s no spring chicken, clearly eager to reproduce, and currently she’s showing off her maternal skills with Pip—you remember my niece? They’re racing together in the Fruit Stripe on Sunday. Pip is not pleased.”
“The Fruit Stripe? The regatta? That’s this weekend? I don’t have to race, do I?”
“There’s always a chance. If Mother recruits you, you do know you can’t turn her down.”
“Pres, when I was here before, your mother almost deported me because I got a knot wrong on the rigging.”
“You’re from the Eastern Shore. You’re supposed to know these things.”
“Yes. So says my own mother, but I managed to avoid sailing camp summer after summer. So Chrissie sails?”
“Well. The Fruit Stripe switches every year. The founder chooses what sport we’ll do. Sailing, rowing, kayaking, canoeing. All boating, of course. Chrissie is apparently an excellent kayaker—she’s from the West Coast—and Mother thought she’d be a ringer for this year. Then the race was deemed to be sailing again, not kayaking. So here we are.”
“Your mother is not going to take a mediocre placement in a water-sports event very well.”
“No. Nor is Bing. It’s going to break them up. Which is perhaps the point. It should be a fun show, I suppose.”
Hamilton nosed Preston’s thigh as Nick and Scot entered. “Nice to see you again, man,” said Preston to Scot, his tone now all urban masculinity.
A door at the other end of the house banged, and Mrs. Hacking came hurtling through with a sheaf of papers in her hand, her curly gray hair bobby-pinned above her ears. Evelyn had never seen her in anything other than sensible all-weather clothing that could take her from fixing a motorboat to a committee meeting to a brisk walk around the lake with Hamilton, and, in her L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater and ankle-length khakis, she did not disappoint.
“Hello! Everyone! Hamilton, sit. Evelyn, hello, the Fruit Stripe is sailing again this year so you won’t be helping on the rigging. You must be Scot, welcome. Nick, thank you for doing pickup. I’m on my way to the Fruit Stripe meeting and then I have to stop by the town library before it closes. Preston, will you call the librarian and have her keep it open for me until six-fifteen? And it will be drinks at six-thirty, dinner at eight.”
In Boston, where Preston’s parents lived most of the year, Mrs. Hacking had joined a highly competitive masters’ rowing team called Mildred’s Moms and had taken to doing weight lifting. She was an excellent gardener, and had recently enrolled in a landscaping course. She had a fine memory, as evidenced by her vivid recollection of Evelyn’s rigging error from years ago. She was a fierce hostess, and had been one of the top fund-raisers for Romney for Governor. The one thing Mrs. Hacking did not do was dishes.
The phone rang, and Mrs. Hacking picked it up and began arguing over how many trays of crudités the Fruit Stripe would require. Evelyn peeked into the living room, where Mr. Hacking was sitting in front of the fire with a thick hardbound book, and Bing, a hearty, doughy type, was telling a story about the Porcellian to the room, though no one appeared to be listening.