Enchanted August (15 page)

Then they sprinted across the tramp, flipped into the frigid water, and splashed noisily away.

Jon watched them swim with the big, extravagant movements of teenagers. He pulled the cord and started up the engine. “Everybody ready?”

“Ready!” called Ethan.

“Let me put some more sunscreen on you so we don't get called in by Maine Children's Services.”

“I think Maine Children's Services have more to do than monitor sunscreen protection,” said Rose.

“Well I wish they didn't,” said Lottie. “Everyone should live like this forever. Hold still for one second, Ethan.”

He twisted away and as Lottie grabbed for him Jon sharply rounded a channel marker.

“My hat! Mommy! My hat!”

Ethan's cap was in the water and had already raced twenty feet away in the wake of the boat. Jon jerked the boat around to circle it.

“Daddy, not so fast!” Ethan cried, suddenly tired and worn out and oversunned from their day on the water. He wailed, “Home, Daddy! Home!” even as he tried to climb over Lottie to get in the water.

Jon wasn't sure what the message was from Ethan, but Lottie's eyes seemed to be saying home was more important than hat, which had already bobbed out of sight.

“We're going home, Ethie,” said Jon. “I'll get you home right now.”

“No, Daddy! No! No!” He was practically climbing out of the boat now.

“Get hold of him!” cried Jon.

“My hat will drown!”

“Ethie, we'll find another one.”

“Stop it, stop it!” He was exhausted, spent, overexcited, hysterical. And he could slip out of Lottie's grasp if she didn't hold on tight. “Don't let it drown!”

“There it is!” cried Rose.

And she dove into the water.

Jon cut the engine. “Where is she? Can she swim?”

“She's there!” cried Lottie. “It's too cold in that water for a regular human being to swim. Oh, Ethan! She got it! She has your hat!”

Ethan's screaming stopped immediately. He looked over the side of the boat. “You got it, Rosie!” he called. “You got my hat!”

Rose had to be too far to hear their cheers, but they kept them up till she pulled herself alongside the Whaler. It was a lot harder to get her in the boat than it had been for her to jump out, and the fact that she was fully dressed didn't help. But Jon hauled her up. Lottie swathed her in the one dry towel they had left.

“Rose,” she said, “you were magnificent!”

Rose emerged from under the beach towel.

“You betcha,” she said.

O
f the twelve hat boxes in the third-floor attic, only nine contained hats, and only four of those hats were actually wearable. And only two of them were flattering. Caroline tried them each on more than once. If they were truly going to the island hat party that afternoon, she definitely needed a great hat. The lighting in the attic was not ideal. She knew she looked dazzling in full sunlight, a great advantage of being young. Or youngish, at least in movie years. She propped up a couple of mirrors and angled them so she could see herself front and back.

The navy straw broadbrim set off her pale skin, as she had known it would, even without her stylist here. She piled her hair at the nape of her neck to make an even bigger deal of her cheekbones. She looked like Faye Dunaway in some period drama—had she ever been in a period drama? (Oh, yes, she was campily resplendent in
The Three Musketeers
.) But angularity and good bone structure wasn't what she was going for. All the women here were angular with good bones. Most of them could pass for lesbians in the city—no makeup, except a slash of frosted pink across the lips; hair cut short (so easy); clothes that might kindly be described as comfortable. Their idea of a hat was a tennis visor, she was sure.

This navy straw floating creation, worthy of Cecil Beaton—when would Isadora, the lady of the house, have worn it? Before she adopted that new monogram in marriage, or afterward? Caroline considered herself again. The hat was coquettish, and it felt à la mode, even now, a century or more after it was first made. In the mirror the flirty angle of the brim and the lift of the long ostrich feather gave her mystery and presence. The perfect hat for attracting a suitor. And Caroline was sure that Isadora had had no shortage of suitors.

Caroline considered another of the Little Lost group photos she had found. This one was from much earlier than the one downstairs. It sat on a small painted-wood side table all on its own. There were two young bucks in flannels and shirtsleeves who looked as if they might covet an Isadora. They'd snatch her up and take her to Boston and squelch her, and then they'd run off and have affairs with the newest sylphlike blond girl on the tennis courts as Isadora thickened with childbearing and age. Caroline shuddered. That's not going to happen to me.

In the back row of the photo, squinting into the sun, was someone more Isadora's type. He was bookish, nearsighted, and unfashionably bearded—his beard was longer and more straggly than the others'. Unlike the other young men, he had not removed his jacket, which even Beverly would be able to identify, as it was white. They were all pretty much in white.

Caroline looked at his blurred features for a long time. What kind of hat would pique this young man's interest? Oh, he'd love the look of her in the ascot-worthy straw, but if she wore it he'd leave her to the young bucks. He wouldn't have the nerve to compete.

She took the Cecil Beaton hat off.

The hat in the last box was a straw cloche, the very definition of the word
humble
. Most women would look dumpy in this. Lottie would certainly look dumpy in this. This was the roast chicken of hats: Worn badly, it was ordinary, tasteless, and tough to swallow. Worn properly, it was perfection. Caroline gingerly lifted it from the brittle tissue and put it on.

She could really roast a chicken.

By the time she got down to the sunporch, the others had gone. “We couldn't find you so we went ahead. Meet you at the Whyte cottage.” Lottie had left a note in her fat, girlish hand.

“They're gone at last,” said Beverly as he padded silently into the room. Though hatless, he was dressed for the event, and he wasn't wearing the brown tie. “Of course no one asked me if I wanted to attend.”

“I thought they asked you last night,” said Caroline, “and you said, ‘By no means,' if memory serves.” She loved using “if memory serves” with Beverly.

“Did I?” he asked. “I don't recall.”

“You did.” She smiled her most genuine smile for him. “But the sign said all are welcome, so that means you too. There's a straw boater up there that I think would go with your blazer. Shall I bring it down?”

Beverly sighed heavily. “I suppose so. Of course I won't know whether it matches this shirt—ecru, is it?”

“Pink.”

He blanched. “I'll change,” he said suddenly. “I'm color-blind, as I may have said.”

“You have. And don't change. You look terrific.”

“Then if there is such a thing as a boater that can be worn with a pink shirt, please bring it down.”

“And we can go together?”

“Of course.”

Caroline turned to head up the stairs to her aerie.

“That cloche becomes you, by the way.”

As they walked down the sylvan path—the first and possibly only time Caroline's mind had ever sprung that word on her—Caroline was pleased that Beverly did not press her about what she was doing on the third floor. Instead, they looked together at the Little Lost map, which had been drawn in 1922 and evidently had not changed to this day, and found the way to the Whyte cottage. Beverly had trouble when the boardwalk to the cottage changed to a dirt path. But once he had his footing he became unusually chatty.

“The great unwashed of Little Lost Island don't seem to recognize a goddess in their midst,” he said. “Do you suppose they've never seen you in a film?”

“They saw me disgrace myself at the Oscars,” said Caroline. “And they don't like a bad sport.”

“Were you a bad sport at the Oscars? I haven't watched it since they snubbed Gorsch for Best Song.”

Good old Beverly. “Maybe it was that time in Montauk with the SUV. They've decided they don't trust me around any summer colony.”

“That wasn't you, was it?” asked Beverly, and Caroline smiled.

“No, it wasn't me.”

“Maybe they are afraid of their island being discovered.”

“But I love it here.” She surprised herself with that declaration.

“The hat party will reveal all,” said Beverly. They had arrived at the Whyte cottage. It was not quite as grand as their own. This one was painted white, with dark green shutters and green trim. It may have been older than their place—it was clapboard, and looked more like a farmhouse than a summer cottage.

“Oh, look at the windows,” said Caroline. She loved old, irregular glass—glass made by hand, not by a machine set to Olde. The window boxes bloomed with petunias, and something that smelled like honeysuckle grew up the sidewall. An oak tree loomed over the roof. There was a refrigerator on the back porch that anywhere else would look tacky, but here looked sensible. Beverly took his time climbing the few steps. This island was not easy terrain for a seventy-eight-year-old New Yorker. “Be careful of those shoes,” she said. There were at least seven pairs of sun-bleached Keds and Tretorns on the side of the porch, and a full complement of gardening clogs. “They're all eccentric in their own way, aren't they?” she observed.

“The islanders or the cottages?” asked Beverly.

“Both, I suppose.”

All at once, Lottie appeared hazily through the screen door. “I thought I heard the Caroline voice,” she said. “Come on in! They have mushroom melts!”

Despite the current trend of Kobe beef sliders and lobster mac and cheese in shot glasses, English muffins slathered in butter with canned mushrooms and Velveeta had not made an appearance in Caroline's hors d'oeuvres circuit. They were fantastic.

“I suppose we'd better do this,” said Beverly. “We're here.”

“That hat is gorgeous on you,” said Lottie. “Where did you find it? Oh, this is Bill Keating—I met him playing tennis. Say hello to Caroline, Bill.”

“Hello, Bill,” said Caroline in the voice she knew from her accounting firm was worth a fortune.

The affable Bill looked startled, and then shot out his hand. “Nice to meet you but I was just getting a drink for the matriarch. I'll be back in a bit.”

“Super,” Caroline said, but she was sure he would not return.

Her eyes scanned the room. The hats were impressive. There were indeed a few matrons in their tennis visors, but most people there had made an effort. The hats all fit the faces pretty well. A lot of women don't know how to wear hats in the modern era, Caroline thought, but these women seemed to have the knack. Probably because their hats all came from similar attics and were originally made for similar gene pools.

She looked around for Rose. She was deep in conversation with one of the island matriarchs, a very old, very wrinkled lady with brilliantly clear eyes and a permanent smile. Rose was nodding, intent on the conversation. She towered over the tiny woman. Caroline ventured over but Rose did not notice her, and she was loath to interrupt, so she became absorbed instead in her surroundings. There was a Whyte family crest over the mantelpiece, a relic of the fifties, probably. The white Whytes of Whyte.

But Caroline supposed these people couldn't help being WASPs any more than she could. She was to the manor born and they were to the cottage born. She reached for a deviled egg on the weighty Victorian table and made up some pedigrees for the guests before her.

“You're very smiley,” said Jon. “I hope you're not still thinking of that episode on the beach.”

“I wasn't,” said Caroline. She somehow felt as if Jon were an old pal, since she had seen the precise size of his penis (average, though of course she would exaggerate its size if asked; all women were actresses in that regard). “Lottie's making friends over there,” she said. They both noticed Lottie standing alongside a fireplace mantel made from what looked like beach stones. “She's very lovely up here, isn't she?” Caroline remarked.

“She is,” said Jon. He smiled at Caroline. “And Ethan is easier to take up here. Even when he almost throws himself out of a moving boat, like he did yesterday.”

“I take it you rescued him?”

“Rose rescued his hat, which meant no one needed to rescue Ethan. Now he's at this party and he's fine with playing with the big kids outside.” Caroline looked where Jon was gesturing. Her young thespians were playing Wiffle ball and making dandelion chains. They had another rehearsal on Saturday morning, though right now she didn't much feel like extending herself for their island parents.

“Little Lost Island is working its magic, I guess.” She tried not to sound too down.

“But not on you,” he said quickly. “Where are the hordes that should be surrounding you? Lottie says she heard there was another big movie star or a movie mogul or someone trying to buy up a whole island community somewhere south of here. I bet that's why they're all shunning you.”

Caroline blinked as she said, “I
did
come here to be away.”

“It's still weird how they don't flock around. I'd flock around you if I didn't have Lottie.” He said it in such a friendly way that it didn't sound creepy.

“They don't like people who make spectacles of themselves here.” She took off the cloche and shook out her hair, in as far from a stagey way as was possible with that gesture. “Would you be a dear and get me a Ketel One with a twist, Jon? I'll see if Beverly needs taking care of.”

Caroline need not have worried about Beverly. He was talking with two earnest young men, who weren't in the least WASPy. One had a sleek, polished Eurasian look; the other was surely Indian. They were handsome and well dressed and were entranced by Beverly.

“They're called the Gay Blades,” said Lottie, coming up behind Caroline suddenly and diving into her thoughts as she tended to do. “A cappella. They sing Gorsch's songs at college. They were about to bust out that ‘Blue Willow' song for him here but he wouldn't let them. None of them can believe that there's someone here who knew him.”

“Knew him intimately,” said Jon. He had arrived, plastic cup with vodka in hand. “No Ketel One. They're not great believers in brand-name alcohol at this cottage.” He kissed Lottie on the lips. “You look gorgeous in that hat,” he said.

“I'll have to take it off when we go back—it's raining,” said Lottie. “The weather never stays still here. Ethan's coming in. I guess the game broke up. How was the game, lovey?”

“I won and I got new friends,” said Ethan. He looked vastly pleased with himself. “This is my lucky hat.”

“You are our lucky kid,” said Jon.

Caroline did not want to be around such happiness, even if they did not mean to exclude her. She would have spoken to Rose, looking ethereal in the garland of flowers she'd made for a hat, but she was still intent on the elderly woman with the bright eyes and Caroline did not have the heart to wade in.

“I'll duck home, I think,” she said. “The hat party has not been a success for me.”

 • • • 

With the twins at their aunt's and his manuscript begging for yet another twist and possibly a new location (Lake Toba?), Fred was more than happy to leave the apartment. It had taken some doing, but he was on his way to his film producers' office for a casting consultation. He felt rather sheepish, as the casting decisions were supposed to be based on videos. Holly had to go to such lengths to make this happen. She was a good agent.

He had chosen his outfit the night before—something he never did, but he wanted to strike the right note, since he was posing as his agent's assistant and Holly would be at the meeting as Mike McGowan's agent. It was a thin ruse, but he had to get in front of Caroline Dester somehow. He needed to know if he'd be as obsessed with her in the flesh as he was with her on his laptop. Holly figured there was an ulterior motive for his tagging along incognito—“Are you going to reveal yourself at last?” she joked—but she didn't pry. Danny Lowenstein generally liked to please authors and their agents (he had literary pretensions), and the meet and greet was confirmed. “You could just say you're Mike McGowan,” Holly had told him. “They're not going to recognize you as Fred Arbuthnot from the MacArthur website, that's for sure. I'd make you get a new photo if you actually wanted to be known. You look like a young Franz Kafka in your genius picture, and not in a good way.” Holly always knew how to cut to the chase, also not in a good way.