The rest of the group had already taken off along the path. After a short walk through the woods, the path petered out, with hostas marking the edge of what looked to Evelyn like a fancy Girl Scout camp.
On the water’s edge was a huge wooden lodgelike structure, three or four stories high, that was made out of the typical Adirondack-camp logs with bark peeling from them. Across a piece of bright green grass marked with croquet wickets was a similar building, this one smaller and squarer, with a sort of rotunda at one end looking out over the water. Behind that was a tennis court, then more structures—Evelyn counted six in all. The huge red door in the middle of the lodge was open, and there were a few dozen people streaming in and out, leaning over the porch, running down to the water. Children, adults, laughing, talking, moving with ease. She stood for a moment, her sandaled feet tickled by the grass on the side of the path. She had guessed wrong on the dress, as had her mother when Babs had pushed the Lilly. This wasn’t Vineyard tennis club; this was Adirondack sensible. One woman was in a fisherman’s sweater. Another in a skort. The women looked as rustic as the houses they had come from, in clothes that dirt and water would only ameliorate. Evelyn decided she’d need to rely on her instincts more.
Scot and Mr. Hacking had also paused, though for a different reason.
“It almost looks Swiss,” Scot said, sotto voce, to Mr. Hacking as they studied the main lodge.
“Oh, yes, at the time, really the only idea Americans had of the wilderness was what the Swiss were constructing, and from the beams to the small peaked roof, you can see that influence,” said Mr. Hacking. “You see this in our camp as well. Notice all of these rustic elements.” Evelyn looked at the porch railings, made of branches arranged in pretty crossed patterns using their natural curves, and the planters of hollowed-out tree trunks that flanked the doors, and the peeling-bark logs stacked to make up the house.
“Letting the wild in,” Scot said.
“Precisely. This was really a new idea at the time, you’ll recall; while the Astors and Belmonts and Vanderbilts were building European-style houses in Newport, these hunting lodges promised something quite different. Inside, you’ll see a real tour de force of architecture, with spruce beams made of a single tree supporting the great-room ceiling. And look at this exterior—this is white cedar. It’s more than a hundred years old and it still looks fine. It’s really expert craftsmanship.” Mr. Hacking explained that the Rutherford house had been built in 1880, though it had burned down twice, as every house worth living in on the lake had, and that this version dated from “’aught-nine.”
“Wow,” Scot intoned. “And the croquet green?”
“That’s a story. It would’ve been, let’s see, the great-grandmother, I think, Frances Henning, of course the main heiress to the Beech-Nut fortune. She was the doyenne of the place until her death in 1950—what was it, ’fifty or ’fifty-one? She insisted her guests arrive by sleigh in winter, even after the other private islands were using cars to drive across the ice. She was a serious croquet player, as you can see. Of course, it’s a terrible croquet green, but she knew all its bumps and proclivities and would handily beat anyone who dared to play against her.”
Evelyn could see all of it in front of her—the croquet games, the sleighs with fur blankets atop, the era when everyone knew who they were supposed to be. She heard a shriek of laughter as a tall girl loped up from the water with a croquet mallet in hand, and Evelyn wondered for a moment whether the ghost of Frances Henning had decided to attend. As the girl got closer, though, Evelyn saw Nick approach and kiss her cheek, and Evelyn knew that she knew that long caramel hair, and she recognized that voice, sun-soaked and deep gold.
“Camilla,” she said quietly, watching as the girl threw herself over a red Adirondack chair at the side of the croquet green.
“We have to check out this house,” Charlotte said, starting to head for the door. “This is seriously historic-preservation status.”
Evelyn’s eyes were fixed on the croquet green. The light was strange, silvery and still, and the air smelled rich and wet, of cinnamon and dirt and leaves. Camilla was now playing croquet with Nick.
“They know each other?” Evelyn asked.
“Who? Nick? Oh, shit, that’s your girl?”
“Camilla, yeah. Do you know how Nick knows her?”
“Ev, I barely know who this girl is. I definitely don’t know how Nick knows her. I want to go to check out the inside. Mr. Hacking was saying it was awesome.”
“Great,” Evelyn said, watching Camilla lean on her mallet. It was not so much Camilla Rutherford’s looks, which were pretty, or her body, which was toned and long limbed and moved elegantly. It was that Camilla Rutherford was eminently comfortable. She had not thought twice about what to wear or what to say, Evelyn could tell, unlike her.
Evelyn heard a rattle of ice cubes behind her. Preston was surveying the croquet with amusement. “Fine romance, eh?” he said.