“Whatever you say.” Charlotte turned into the living room and flopped on the couch.
Evelyn finally found the filters in a drawer with grill tools and was scooping ground beans into the coffee machine when she heard heavy footsteps on the staircase. Neatly pressed, but with his voice half an octave lower than usual, Preston materialized in the doorway. “Coffee,” he said pleadingly.
“It’s not quite ready,” Evelyn said.
“Now,” moaned Preston. “Why can’t you be a good secretary and do as I say? File! Take my dictation!”
“Good morning, Mr. Hacking,” Evelyn said. “Thank you, Mr. Hacking.”
“Do you remember the coffee in Sarennes? I believe it was a solid, not a liquid,” Preston said as he opened the fridge, took out a jar of mustard, and contemplated it as if trying to discern its meaning before gently placing it in an empty wooden bowl on the counter.
“God, yes,” Evelyn said, pouring the first of the coffee into a mug and handing it to Preston. “I love that we were high schoolers on a term abroad and yet we became such serious coffee drinkers.”
“We were in France. Of course we did.” Preston took a sip. “Not that I liked the Sarennes jet-fuel coffee much, but good God, woman. Is there even caffeine in here? This is basically hot water.” The machine was still clicking away, and he swung the filter arm out, dumped in more ground beans, then moved the pot and put his cup directly under the stream.
“So who did Nick bring home last night?” Evelyn asked.
“Who does Nick ever bring home? A girl. She’s rather beat. Thirty-five or something,” Preston said.
“Isn’t he still hooking up or whatever with Camilla?” Evelyn said, trying to sound casual.
Preston sucked at his coffee. “Kind of, though I don’t think Camilla wants anything serious.”
They heard a clatter on the stairs and peered into the living room. Nick was trying to usher the girl, her eyes dark with mascara stains, out the door before anyone saw her. “Hi, I’m—” the girl started to say as Nick said, “We’re just going to do a quick drop-off, then I’ll be back with muffins, okay?” Evelyn saw a look in the girl’s eye, a desire for possession, and knew that Nick wouldn’t be returning her calls.
Nick came back fifteen minutes later with a Golden Pear bag, after Scot had joined everyone downstairs. “All right, campers. Here’s your food,” Nick said, tossing brown waxed-paper sacks to everyone. “Did my CIM come?” he asked Scot.
“Yeah,” Scot said, pointing toward the door, where a FedEx box sat. “That’s yours there, Nick.”
“CIM?” asked Evelyn.
“Confidential information memorandum,” Nick said. “For deals.”
“Wow, you’re such a big shot,” Charlotte said.
“What, Hillary? You’re peeved because you’re not important enough to get a CIM on a weekend?” Nick said.
“Bite me. I get about five of them a week. My boss dropped one off for me last night. Door-to-door service,” Charlotte replied.
“Where’s his house?”
“Southampton. Meadow Lane.”
Nick was fixated on Charlotte. “When did he buy it? Which one is it?”
“The huge gray one with the gables you can see from the road. Like two down from Calvin Klein’s.”
“That was on the market for so long.”
“Yeah, he bought it maybe eighteen months ago.”
“For what, thirty bucks?”
“More. It was in the Post.”
“Goddammit. He’s living my life. Isn’t he the one with that hot wife, too?”
“She,” Charlotte said, smiling, “is absurd. She’ll call his VP, who’s, I don’t know, thirty-six and fabulous, and ask for financial advice. As if, (a) the wife has any control over the family finances and (b) this VP, who makes a good million a year, has time to direct her day trades. I think it’s seriously, like, she sees something on CNBC while at the gym. And, in her leotard—I picture her wearing a leotard—she calls this woman, all ‘The ticker on the screen said the forint was losing value, and I was just wondering what that meant for my portfo-portfo—oh, what’s that silly thing that makes all the money!’”