“Yes.” Lewis’s leg bounced again, and he tapped the flask in time. “There’s a photograph involved, but it’s not such a horrible thing. Or it wouldn’t be to some people.”
The men in tweed bent in unison to stare at the tip of the rod. She thought of pinching Lewis to make him tell, as she would have pinched her brothers, but pinching Lewis wouldn’t feel brotherly.
“I’ll think of a price to put on the information,” he said.
“More blackmail.”
“Affectionate blackmail.”
???
The manager found lamps, and they ate on trestle tables in front of the hotel. Rex had pulled out the treats he’d meant for a camping trip—cheese and Utah strawberries and cases of champagne, so explosive after the jouncing trip that Dulcy slid a bowl underneath to catch the overflow of each bottle—but these treats were gone quickly, and they were left using the manager’s frozen beer to sluice down a dried gray roast and undercooked half-fried potatoes, slubby with old grease. They ate with a wary English family and the Sanborn engineers, and Samuel and Lewis set up bocce on the lawn in front of the hotel—it was a big game in Livingston, an import from the Italian grocery families—as well as a freeform version of croquet. Rex brought out a Victrola, but only two disks had survived the trip unbroken. This brought on another snit, but Dulcy was relieved to have the session cut short after twirling badly to one song with Samuel: she was no better at dancing than she was at swimming, because Martha hadn’t danced well, either, and if Martha didn’t know how to do something, Dulcy hadn’t learned it. She tried to keep her balance by looking down, watching her shoes move through last year’s live things, wild strawberries and remnants of sticky geraniums.
Audrey and Beryl, the young teachers, danced on with the soldiers, but Dulcy retreated to the embankment of widows and wives. When they went inside, some of the men, subtle as a pack of monkeys, scratched the hotel windows and made ghost sounds. It was all silly and happy, even for Mrs. Tate, a genuinely sad widow. Dulcy lay in a corner bunk, giggling woozily with the others while Mrs. Whittlesby, who’d insisted she hadn’t had champagne in years , snored like a troll.
A whisper through the screen: “Is that the sound of the Widow Nash?”
“No, Lewis,” said Dulcy. “It isn’t.”
“Mind your health,” said Margaret.
“Mind your business,” whispered Lewis.
???
In the morning, as the temperature rocketed from frost to sizzle, the Sanborn surveyors had already returned from an abortive bicycle ride to the Obsidian Cliff by the time Rex’s group reached the lobby. Every one of their tires had popped, and the manager told them the wrong gravel had been spread the year before—he brought out obsidian specimens to prove his point, and Stromberg, the oldest of the Sanborns, saw Margaret pick up a piece. “Watch how you squeeze that,” he said.
She opened her hand and they saw a trickle of blood, a thin slit in her forefinger.
Rex’s river still looked terrible, like a Biblical parable or a sarcastic mirage, but when they finally climbed down the slope they found that the oval puddle was large enough for several people to soak, if not swim. Rex slipped skinny white toes into the water; Grover dipped a hand and said the temperature was perfect, lovely. Mr. Denison, the architect, found a safely distant rock and began to make sketches. They all talked about the way that rocks could be moved and a better pool achieved, travertine patios and fans and propellers. The Sanborns weighed in with information on similar resorts in other cities, and the Englishman on tour with his family, a lung patient on his way to the clinic at Eve’s Spring after a winter in Tucson, made the case for having a solarium roof. The park could use one true year-round hotel.
Hubie had brought fishing rods, and unloaded a folding table, the bocce set they couldn’t possibly use on this slope, towels for the swimmers. Dulcy saw him swing Rex’s remaining case of champagne down onto a rock while Macalester stalked off to fish, and Samuel and Lewis wandered after him, arguing about flies. Dulcy and Mrs. Tate read guides about everything they weren’t going to see in Yellowstone until at least June. Audrey and Beryl fluttered down to the men at the shore. Audrey had her eye on Denison, and Beryl had her eye on Grover, or Rex, or Samuel.
“Good luck with that,” muttered Margaret. “Look at them argue,” she added, watching Lewis and Samuel. “Is that really how you fish?”
“I don’t know,” said Dulcy. “Probably not.”
Frances Woolley, whose lobster salad and sablés were long gone, had elected to ride on directly to the train and Livingston. She’d wired ahead from the hotel and waited apart in the cleanest carriage, parked in the lone smidgen of shade near a tall rock. Mrs. Whittlesby’s snores and Rex’s miserable judgment had taken a toll. Dulcy was fairly sure the Macalesters would try to bolt with her, and within an hour, when a new carriage arrived, James Macalester put Hubie’s rod down quietly and slid inside. Vinca, who had looked forward to leaving her house and her young children, did not protest.
A moment of reckoning had come at the pool, precipitated by the fact that the English family had found a rock to change behind, and waded in like a line of ducks. Grover fiddled with his camera, but Dulcy didn’t think he found this subject interesting. Rex had brought down men’s suits, and they took turns behind the rock, coming out in black-and-white costumes, all but Hubie looking sheepish. He had the smallest, tightest costume, and the marks from Lennart Falk’s attack were bright red on his sturdy white thighs, glowing from a distance. Dulcy could hear Samuel snicker while Hubie proclaimed temperatures, giving updates as the water reached his ankles, shins, knees; a hot pot, a cold plume.
Rex marched in, bubbly again. “Come in!”
“Piss off,” said Samuel. He was still laughing, wiping at his eyes. “Where’re you going to put the hotel gardens? How will you block the wind?”
“Come on, Samuel. Let’s see you wet,” said Grover, who’d been filming Hubie getting in and out of the water. “I’ll film you jumping.”
“Not deep enough.”
“Well, the rock isn’t high. I want the splash, and you’re well built.”
Dulcy didn’t want to look directly at Samuel, to see his reaction.
“Please come in.” Rex tried Lewis, now. “I’m so relieved by how wonderful this feels. You can’t imagine.”
“It’s not hot enough to show my lily-white ass,” said Lewis. “But I’m happy for you.”
Dulcy left to help spread the food out. When she walked back, Grover floated on his back, yelling commands to Durr, who filmed from above. Hubie still checked depth, bellowing estimates at the architect, who didn’t seem to be listening. The Sanborns kept their own counsel at the far end, and the English family was drying quietly on a rock. Samuel and Lewis and Rex were waist-deep toward the front of the pool, tossing rocks over the side of the barricade. “You reconsidered,” said Dulcy.
“I crumpled under pressure,” said Lewis. “Come in.”
“I’m dressed,” she said. Stupidly.