Evelyn shook her head. “Good-bye, Mother.” She tapped the phone on the bed, then stuffed the Lilly Pulitzer dress into her bag.
Evelyn dragged her duffel to the creaking elevator and through her building’s lobby. She lived on the Upper East Side, in an apartment she could barely afford despite its being in a “troubling” part of the neighborhood, as her mother put it. When Evelyn had rented it, she had never lived in Manhattan before and didn’t realize desirable real estate changed midblock. This had landed Evelyn in a building called the Petit Trianon, on Seventy-fourth Street on the wrong side of Third. When Barbara sent letters to Evelyn, she always addressed them to Evelyn Topfer Beegan, Le Petit Trianon, as though Evelyn resided at a country estate.
She passed the plants fighting for sunlight in the lobby, overcast with a fluorescent-green tinge. The victor these days was an aloe vera whose giant tentacles lay despondently on the tiled floor. Some time ago the plant had spawned, and a young handyman had put the babies in tiny planters, with FREE TO GOOD HOMES signs in front of the makeshift nursery. When Evelyn had returned from the bodega that morning, a homeless person had already peed on them, leaving a dark and stinking puddle around their bases.
*
When Evelyn stepped off the train at the Lake James station seven hours later, the sky was veiled with low gray clouds and held the threat of snow. In May, as the rest of New York bowed to summer, the Adirondacks clasped winter as tightly as they could. Winter was their season, and they weren’t going to let go of it so easily. Evelyn shivered. The train hooted away, and though Evelyn knew the station was close to the road, she couldn’t even hear car engines.
Preston was having a whole crew up this weekend. Nick Geary, Preston’s best friend since middle school who had gone on to Enfield and Dartmouth, for one. He was in the consumer-products group at Morgan Stanley, so Charlotte dealt with him all the time in her private-equity job, where she worked on consumer-products acquisitions. There was also some acquaintance of Nick’s from Morgan Stanley whom Charlotte also knew. Charlotte had decided to come last minute, after nonstop harassment from Evelyn, and then Bing, Bing’s girlfriend, and Bing’s kid were also up. Evelyn thought she could get at least a few of them onto the site, and she wanted to find other recruits at Lake James parties.
Lake James was gorgeous; she had to give it that. Even the train station was. In front of her was a small blue station house, the short concrete length of the platform, and, beyond, green trees in every direction. The wind picked up sharply, then quieted just as suddenly, and the trees rattled their leaves, an imitation of the sound of rain, but then they, too, settled into silence.
Evelyn had dressed for “summer” rather than “mountains” and pulled her cotton cardigan close around her. Looking to her left, to the other end of the platform, she saw a tall black-haired figure in a dark suit. He looked about her age, but his shoulders rolled forward, giving him the stoop of a much-older man. He was staring out at the trees and looked lost.
They both turned toward the station house and got there at the same time. He grabbed for the doorknob, fumbling with it, but managed to open the door for her. He was around six-three, with correspondingly exaggerated features that reminded her of a Croatian basketball player she had once seen when forced to watch a Lakers-Knicks game, and small dark eyes that peered down at her. She stepped in front of him to the small square waiting room, with blue walls and simple brown wooden benches along the sides. She looked at him carefully again, trying to match him with any of the Lake James people she had done research on. Evidently she had been studying his suit too closely.
“I came from work,” he blurted, pulling at his tie.
“I figured,” Evelyn said, smiling. “Either that or Lake James is becoming an important business center.”
He half smiled, but it did nothing to wash away the nervousness on his face. “So, I guess, you’re Evelyn? Nick said you’d be on the same train.”
Nick’s friend, then. Preston hadn’t said anything about him other than he worked at Morgan Stanley, but this guy didn’t strike Evelyn as a Nick cohort—he seemed unpolished, even kind of nice. “Evelyn Beegan. You’re staying at Preston’s?”
He reddened as he shook her hand. “Yeah, he didn’t, ah, mention it? That we’d be on the same train? Sorry. I work with Nick, and he thought it would be fun if I came. Up.”
“Right. Well, I’ll bet it will be. I’m sorry—I didn’t catch your name,” said Evelyn. The guy’s awkwardness made her feel at ease by comparison.