Toward the window, which looked out onto a porch and then down to the ice-calm lake, an anxious-looking red-haired woman with a thin ponytail was pacing, talking at eight-year-old Pip, who was curled up in a chair with her eyes closed. “Do you think I should practice? I’m afraid it’s going to rain. The weather report said it would rain earlier in the day, but it didn’t, and I should take a boat out, but it looks like it’s going to rain. Don’t you think it looks like it’s going to rain?” Chrissie, Evelyn knew without having to check with Preston.
Evelyn took this all in, then looked back to Mrs. Hacking, who held up one finger as she listened to the other end of the line. “Margot, there are thirty-three boats entered this year, so that’s at least sixty-six people in need of sustenance—fine, fine. Very well.” She hung up the phone, then clapped at the group. “Now, let’s see. Evelyn, you’ll be on the second floor in the writing room, and Charlotte will be just down the hall. Nick and Scot, I’m sorry to say that you’ll be in the maid’s quarters this weekend, at the back of the house; we’re simply oversubscribed.”
“Mrs. Hacking,” Evelyn said, realizing she needed to atone for the rigging error if she wanted help with PLU introductions this weekend, “I’d love to be in the maid’s room. I think it’s really charming. And it’s Scot’s first time here—he should have the view. Charlotte and I will do the maid’s room. Really.”
“All right. I can’t say anyone else volunteered,” Mrs. Hacking said, reassessing Evelyn and then leaning toward the living room to look pointedly at Chrissie. “Good. Thank you.”
Evelyn picked up her bag and walked through the kitchen, through the pantry, and into the maid’s room. She heard Mrs. Hacking saying, “Chrissie, why don’t you stop worrying about whether to sail and just sail? Yes?”
The room had whitewashed walls and two twin beds that took up nearly the entire space. A big leather duffel was at the end of one, which must have been Nick’s; she heard him clomping behind her.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks. That would’ve been gay if I had to sleep with Scot.”
“A guest’s duty, Nick,” Evelyn said, floating her hand into the air.
He grunted as he picked up the bag and left.
*
Dusk was approaching, and birds whittered and cawed, passing messages about dinner and why the nest was such a mess. Charlotte was snickering as Evelyn changed into a pair of white slacks and a navy cable-knit sweater; when Evelyn added a string of pearls, Charlotte fell back on her bed laughing. “Oh, come on,” she hooted.
“I think I look grand,” Evelyn said, baring her teeth in the mirror as she pulled the choker around her neck.
Charlotte kicked her feet in the air; her soles were dirty, as Charlotte had been chasing Hamilton on the grass all afternoon, with Hamilton and then Charlotte alternately jumping into the water to escape capture. As they had shrieked around, Mrs. Hacking shouted at her to be careful of getting the dog too riled up, and Charlotte had given a thumbs-up, then kept on chasing Hamilton. Charlotte had enough money—had always had enough money—that she didn’t have to worry about her behavior. Charlotte’s father had been one of the top marketing executives for Procter & Gamble, specializing in global markets, and Charlotte had been pulled from kindergarten in Cincinnati to live in places like Hong Kong and Russia and Chile. Charlotte was fluent in Cantonese, Arabic, French, and Spanish, decent at Turkish and Russian, and conversational in about ten other languages that she insisted on ordering in when she dragged Evelyn to outer-borough ethnic restaurants. While she’d grown up in rich expat communities, gone to sleek international schools, and had plenty of money, Charlotte didn’t think money alone made people interesting.
Charlotte’s father had gone just to Harvard B-School and was enormously proud of his daughter, the first of the three Macmillan kids to do double-Harvard. Charlotte liked the power of being a female among men, whether it was sparring with her brothers or hopping on planes with moguls or winning enormous amounts at the Belmont Stakes with her father or being the only woman on a hot acquisition at Graystone. Evelyn could guess how much money Charlotte made—somewhere between $200,000 and $400,000 a year—but Charlotte lived in an Ikea-furnished basement apartment in Midtown because it was a five-minute walk from her office, and most of her wardrobe came from the Gap.
Charlotte’s four years at Sheffield had been the longest she’d lived anywhere to that point, making Preston and Evelyn her closest friends by default. With little time to cultivate a social life these days, she ended up doing what Preston and Evelyn were doing. When they went to places like Lake James, Charlotte was fine with it. She’d spent her youth going to rich people’s events in cultures that weren’t hers and was perfectly comfortable doing so still.
“I forgot to tell you,” Evelyn said, fumbling with the necklace clasp. “Phil Giamatti, at Sheffield-Enfield? He basically insinuated Pres was gay while Pres was standing there.”
“Really?” Charlotte said. “He should’ve seen Pres sticking his tongue down that girl’s throat at Dorrian’s that one time after we spent all Saturday at the Boathouse.”
“That was two years ago,” Evelyn said.