Camp Sachem
On Saturday, Evelyn roused herself at eight. No one else was up, or rather, those who were up were already gone, pursuing some character-building goal; Charlotte was on a run, and Mrs. Hacking had left a “Help yourself!” note in the kitchen, next to a big bowl of fruit, a thermos of coffee, and a good-looking walnut bread. Evelyn chewed on a piece as she rifled through the Journal, which was also sitting there, trying to position herself as an interesting conversationalist tonight; she wasn’t sure what Camilla and her ilk would want to talk about. She marched through a story on the teetering housing market and the exurban housing developments that were now in danger, particularly in Arizona and California. Next was a personal-finance story about why adjustable-rate mortgages made sense for middle-income consumers. Finally, the Marketplace section, and a story that Walmart, encouraged by the economy, was trying to go upscale with more expensive milk, neater aisles, and designer clothes. She repeated the tenets of each story back to herself, like she’d done when memorizing Marlowe at Sheffield, then neatly folded the paper so it looked untouched and tucked it back where she had found it.
After a slow round of golf that took up almost the entire day, Evelyn was starving by the time the group was supposed to leave for the party at Camp Sachem. Or the dinner at Camp Sachem—she couldn’t figure out precisely what tonight’s event was. Invitations at Lake James were always vaguely presented and executed. Sometimes “drinks” meant a glass of wine, and sometimes it meant a formal five-hour dinner crammed with toasts and stories of boarding-school exploits. She wondered if the hostesses of Lake James made their decisions on the spot, evaluating the hardiness of the various houseguests before they promoted them to a full-fledged meal.
Charlotte, who’d fit in a quick dip in the lake after golf, had dashed into the shower, leaving her sweaty golf clothes and wet bathing suit on the floor between the beds. Evelyn nudged them beneath Charlotte’s bed with her toe and took a final look at herself in the mirror. She took off her headband, then, last minute, shimmied into the lime Lilly Pulitzer dress she’d brought.
From the laundry room across the hall, she heard Mrs. Hacking taking things out of the dryer. Evelyn walked to the laundry-room door, announcing her presence with a tap on the doorframe.
“Oh, hello, Evelyn!” Mrs. Hacking said, her arms full of sheets. “We were just getting ready to leave. I’m running behind.” She wore a double-breasted blazer with brass buttons and white pants, a confidence-inspiring ship’s captain.
“What can I do? Do you need me to take those sheets somewhere?” Evelyn said. The day so far had been expensive. Someone had to pay for the dinners and the outings and the drinks, and Evelyn worried it was becoming obvious that that someone was never Evelyn. Preston had paid for the greens fees, Char had covered the golf-club rentals, Scot lunch at the club, and Nick a round of drinks. Chrissie got a pass, as she was Bing’s girlfriend. The bottle of Veuve Evelyn had brought up, which cost her $90, had been rendered pitiful when she saw the two cases of it in the Hackings’ pantry. She reached for a sheet and began to fold it before Mrs. Hacking could protest. Evelyn would need to offer payment in work if she wasn’t going to cover other costs. Evelyn knew her place: she would volunteer for the bad rooms and she would help with the laundry and she would wash the dishes, as she had last night.
When she’d finished the folding, she laid out a box of Parmesan straws from the pantry on a tray, at Mrs. Hacking’s direction, and took them down to the dock. Several yards ahead of her, Nick and Preston, in sockless loafers and sunglasses, and Scot, in what appeared to be Tevas, were strolling down to the water over the shallow stone stairs. After the rest of the group gathered on the dock, the smell of gasoline strong, Mr. Hacking, following directions from Mrs. Hacking, shoved the Chris-Craft from the dock and sprang in. Bing was off with some friends of his from Tuck, and Pip had lobbied to stay at home, though she looked like she regretted this decision when Chrissie announced that she would babysit and they could play Scrabble.
Scot sat on the floor of the boat, his long legs jammed up against the motor covering in front of him, and Charlotte sat precariously on the gunwale. As Mrs. Hacking slowly backed out of the boathouse, and Mr. Hacking began to fill plastic tumblers with wine, Evelyn balanced herself next to Charlotte.
“So I’m totally on-plan, Char,” Evelyn said.
“With PLU? What, have you signed up Mrs. Hacking?”
“Nope, but the camp we’re going to, Sachem? It’s Camilla Rutherford’s camp and she’s, like, target number one for PLU.”
“She summahs in Lake James, how mahvelous,” Charlotte said. “Who is she?”