Enchanted August (7 page)

God, she was beautiful.

Fred knew that he didn't really have a chance of getting Caroline Dester on the film unless the director wanted her there. His consultation was just a sop, to keep the producers aware that Mike McGowan's name sold tickets and popcorn and to remind them that he was a celebrity himself, albeit an anonymous one. He'd learned on the first movie that stars were cast as much on their schedules as on their talent.

But still. She was something else. The sex scene in that Judd Apatow film wasn't even his favorite. He liked her best in her most recent movie. And after that mess-up at the Oscars she'd dropped out of sight. Maybe a mindless thriller was exactly what she needed next. He could still revise the manuscript some more before it had to go to Random House. He checked the word count at the bottom of the draft he was working on: 93,467. Could any more of those words be about her?

 • • • 

Caroline Dester came to Hopewell Cottage to be alone in the company of no one she knew, yet even here she was unquiet. Tall Rose and the big-eyed Lottie had been put out about the room, of course, as she'd known they would be. She'd heard them pointedly leaving the cottage after they'd made their discoveries. Now she'd been left with Beverly Fisher. At least he wouldn't bother her.

Caroline made the most of it. She took a shower before she'd heard any signs of Mr. Fisher's being up and about. There was nothing quite like an outdoor shower, and this one was new and had been thoughtfully installed. Then she changed into a scrap of a bikini, since she was fairly sure there were no paparazzi within shooting distance: she had paid the money-grubbing photographers more not to take photos than the papers could pay to take them.

She lay in the sun, which was still low in the sky, and contemplated her life, something she rarely took time to do. She needed to take stock. So far, everything she had done had sprung from the luck of her face. She had made no decisions herself about her destiny. It was not vain to say she was too beautiful to do anything but be a movie star; it was simply the truth. Now that she had been pilloried online she was a different kind of star, the kind who was a pariah. She couldn't ride it out like Jennifer Lawrence would have done. Even the follow-up on the late-night shows fell flat.

Now she'd give up on Oscar-bait roles and just bring in money. She'd take the role in that dumb thriller opposite whoever played the hero role this time. She'd be huge in China.

This old wicker chaise was surprisingly comfortable. She stretched her arms overhead. She wanted so much to think about something other than herself. What was going on in the world these days, anyway? Nothing much came. She was a blank. She closed her eyes, breathing in and out with the waves.

The hard crack of a hammer—
bang bang
, pause,
bang
—woke her. Where was it coming from? The roof? Was there someone up above her? She felt sick to her stomach: if it was a ploy of the press, she'd swim off this island.
Bang
, pause,
bang-a bang bang
.

It was really infuriating. The irregular crack of the hammer was bad enough, but the echo of its impact through the trees and off the rocks was really too much. She wanted to get up and yell at the hammerer to stop but steadied herself by clenching every muscle.

Bang-a bang bang
, pause. Was it over?
Bang.

“What are you doing?” she yelled over the porch railing. She cursed her voice for never having the edge she wanted it to have. Why did everything she said sound as if it were said with an invitation?

“Hammerin',” said a voice from below.

Caroline looked down. Standing there in baggy cargo shorts, a Rotary club T-shirt, and impressively large work boots was the young man who had taken Beverly and her over in the ferry the other day. Not such a teenager, in fact. He scowled at her. She smiled the smile that her directors adored but could so seldom coax out of her. On a twenty-two-year-old—from Maine, yet—it would have its ineluctable effect. It did not.

“Could I possibly ask you to stop hammering?” she said.

“You could ask,” he replied.

Very funny. Caroline was a little chagrined at his response—not to the question, but to her. All the men wilted when they encountered her, especially when she blessed them with a smile. And he didn't seem gay.

She corrected her syntax. “Would you be kind enough to stop that hammering?”

“I'll stop it as soon as I'm through,” said the boy. “Mr. SanSouci asked me to fix up this railing before you got here, but with you coming a day early I couldn't get to it till now.”

Was this a criticism? And why wouldn't he do what she wanted him to do? Everyone did what she wanted.

Bang-a bang.

“It's done now.” He put the hammer into his toolbox, shut it, and turned. “You're Ms. Dester?”

Here it comes, she thought. The autograph, the selfie together. The joke about the Oscars. You may have fixed our banister but you're not getting a shot of me in a bikini.

“I am, yes,” said Caroline.

“Max,” he said, introducing himself. He didn't look her in the eye. “Mr. SanSouci asked me to help you all with whatever you need. Number's tacked up over the range.” And he turned and left.

She lay down on the chaise again but found no peace. The hammering had stopped, which was of course what she'd wanted, but in her head was a hammering of a different sort. Didn't he recognize her? And even if he were so far removed from
People
magazine and
EW
, wasn't she gorgeous enough to stop him in his tracks? It had never failed her before, ever. Could it be that he actually did not know who she was, or want to know, or care?

She got up and wrapped a little towel around her waist. Down in the kitchen, she found Max's name on the wall over the old electric range. The house phone only made local calls; that much she knew from Lottie's loud and unsuccessful attempt to phone her dreary family this morning. She dialed Max's number.

“Yep,” he said when he picked up.

“It's Caroline Dester.” She said it in the way she did for radio interviews, even as she thought, I'm being a fool.

Max said nothing.

She didn't actually know why she'd called. She looked around the kitchen. There was milk and juice in the fridge, and the few delicacies Beverly had brought, but nothing in the open cupboards, beyond some store-brand spaghetti and hot chocolate mix and popping corn.

“We'd like you to set up someone to bring us meals every day. Healthy and fresh. Could you possibly do that for us, Max?” How could he resist? “We'll pay whatever it costs.”

“I can do it. Lobster all right for tonight? And corn?” It sounded like
kahn
. “I got six in the pot down here.”

Caroline never ate corn and she wasn't sure whether Max had six ears or six lobsters in a pot.

“Mr. SanSouci left you some potatoes, I'm pretty sure,” he continued. “Look in the larder.”
Lah-dah.
“There's chard at the farmers market. Beets, too, I expect, this time of year. I'll pick some up if that's what you're askin'.”

She was impressed at the breadth of his knowledge. “That's what I'm asking.”

“We'll settle up when you leave,” he said. “Anything else?”

“Nothing else.” She paused to let him ask if she was
that
Caroline Dester. He said nothing. “Thanks.” She put down the phone and remembered what her jaded old Fox publicist had said on the last press tour:

What's worse than having two hundred people yelling for your autograph?

Not
having two hundred people yelling for your autograph.

Maybe she did need to get some work done after all.

L
ottie had walked for nearly an hour, marveling at cottage after cottage. Hopewell was not even the grandest! Some of the places must have had twelve bedrooms, or twenty. There were wraparound porches, lovingly tended gardens, gingerbread molding, weathered old cedar shingles, shutters the color of the sea. And every single cottage had a thrilling view of the water. How could Robert SanSouci rent out Hopewell Cottage? Why didn't he stay there every moment of his life?

She walked up a rise and found herself on a high point that swooped down the other side to the water. Blueberry bushes spread out at her feet. Birch trees gave her shade. The water glinted as if a child had sprinkled it with gold. Three little girls, on the water's edge, jumped from rock to rock. As if on cue, a sailboat glided into view.

Ethan would love it here. Jon would love it here. She was struck with a pang. How were they? She couldn't reach them by cell or on the cottage landline. Of course, it had only been a day and a half—it seemed so much longer!—and Ethan was at his grandmom's and Jon was at work (at least she hoped he was at work), so they probably hadn't even missed her yet. Wouldn't it be wonderful, though, if they could all come here together?

The few other islanders Lottie encountered on her walk were friendly enough but they made no effort to go beyond a simple hello. There was a little post office and a tearoom, both closed. She was drawn to the sound of tennis balls being whacked on hard courts. She had watched a lot of tennis in college; she loved it, even though she didn't play. She stooped to pick some flowers to take back to the cottage, even though they had so many in the garden there. There were a lot of these little dark blue ones. Surely no one would mind if she broke off a few.

Lottie absently thought how much she wished Jon could see her now. She did not have much vanity, but she imagined that she looked her best at this moment. She could feel the late morning sun setting fire to her hair; she was happy with the flowers in her arms. She was so preoccupied with how she must have looked that she didn't hear one of the tennis players approaching her.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied.

“My sister was overenthusiastic with her annuals this year. If you'd rather cut some of them, you're welcome to them.” He put out his hand. “Bill Keating.”

Bill Keating was a type Lottie didn't see much in Park Slope. Tall and lean, lithe and leathery, he looked as if he spent no time indoors. He was probably twenty years older than she was, but he looked a lot healthier, despite the crinkles around his eyes (surely from squinting at the sun from the tennis court or a sailboat or a ski slope). He wore a faded baseball cap and a shirt with holes.

She took his hand and shook it. His grip was strong and certain.

“Lottie Wilkes,” she said. “I'm at Hopewell Cottage.”

“Guests?”

“Renters.”

She expected his friendliness to wane when she told him she was a renter. Robert SanSouci's cottage book had said in not so many words that renters were on the bottom rung of the Little Lost social scale. “It's a tight-knit community,” he had written. But Bill did not miss a beat.

“Do you play?” he asked.

“No, but I'm a good spectator,” said Lottie. “Who's going to take the set here?”

Bill was a terrific tennis commentator. Lottie couldn't believe how much she found out about the island in about ten minutes of spectating. It was like that chapter of
The Great Gatsby
that's just names—Miss Gosnold of Great Neck and her rehabilitated sister and all that. Except here the only history was Little Lost history, and the only families were Little Lost families.

“How do you keep it all straight?” she asked. A ball flew over the fence into the tall grass.

“
Sorry, partner
,” came the call from the tennis court. Lottie noticed that they all apologized for every shot, good or bad.

“The phone list is organized by island longevity,” said Bill. “The first on the list was the first family here, the van Straatens, now ruled by their dreadful matriarch. We're twelfth on my mother's side and twenty-third on my father's. So not bad. Your SanSoucis are not so shabby either, though they're not the original builders. There was a lot of turnover in the twenties. Then people clung on.”

“
My fault, my fault!
” Another blame-taking cry from the court.

“Those two are up here from May till October,” said Bill, pointing to the handsome couple on the far side of the court. Lottie was charmed that they actually wore white to play. “The Wades. She once placed second in the Little Lost bathing suit competition, back when there was a Little Lost bathing suit competition. She's a van Straaten, originally.”

“I bet she can still rock a maillot,” said Lottie, pleased she knew the word.

“
No, that was in. Your point!
”

“Their partners are wife and wife, can you believe? A Boston marriage that turned into a legal one. She plays like a man so they're a match in mixed doubles.”

“Do people like each other as much as they seem to?” Lottie asked. “Or is it show?”

“Show is as good as real after a while, don't you think?” Bill said. “It's a small island.”

“Is that why everybody just walks across everyone else's property?” Her meandering walk had cut across many cottage lots this morning, yet no one had seemed to notice. “That's okay?”

“The cottages belong to their owners; the land belongs to everyone.”

“This island is a
co-op
?”

“WASP communism,” said Bill. “So we have to get along. Our parents were neighbors. Our grandparents were neighbors. Sometimes we marry each other. Sometimes we divorce each other. If we can't play together by this generation, we have only ourselves to blame.”

Lottie considered all this. “So you've worked things out,” she said.

“Most families have, even though a summer cottage tends to be a strain on the family finances. Your young Mr. SanSouci could use more family. The Ladies Association for Beautification wishes he would settle down and get married and populate that upstairs dorm room with
Kinder
, but he's not a real presence here. We have his renters instead. And not a bad bunch they turn out to be.” He smiled.

“What association?” Lottie couldn't let that go by.

“The Little Lost LABs. They run the place. Beautify, socialize. Iron fist in a lace glove. They're the social committee. We're relentlessly social here.”

“You should meet our cottagers,” said Lottie, taking a chance. “Will you come over sometime? I make a very good old-fashioned.” She had pegged him as a bourbon man.

“I'd be delighted. And you must come to the August cocktail party. It's at the Whyte Cottage. The twentieth, I think. Always the third Thursday of the month. The social calendar should be in the cottage somewhere.”

“Yes, Robert left it for us.”

“Bring a covered dish—recipes favored by the islanders are in the Little Lost cookbook at the library. Tons of calories. The theme is hats this year. Wear a hat.”

“A hat!”

“There'll be plenty at the cottage, I'm sure. Look through all the closets! That's a renter's privilege.”

“Will do.”

“We dress for cocktails, so don't be surprised to see me in a jacket.”

“
Out!
” The tennis players laughed, walked to the net, and shook hands, straight on, then diagonally.

“And that's a match. Want to watch another one?” he asked.

As friendly as Bill was, Lottie did not want to outstay her renter's welcome. She thought about how Caroline would exit this situation. “I won't trespass on your hospitality any further,” she said, trying on a Caroline intonation. “I'll wander down another path and see what I find.”

“If you head that way,” he said, nodding toward a sloping path, “it will take you to the springhouse.”

“That's where it is,” said Lottie. “I couldn't figure it out from the map.”

“The map is more fanciful than faithful,” he said. “Your cottage should have a water jug somewhere.”

“Yes—there's a cooler. It was filled when we got here.”

“That's Max, I bet. Fill it up again before you run out. The tap water is drinkable but I try to avoid it. I still remember before we had any drinkable water. I used to cart two five-gallon jugs to the cottages for fifty cents a trip. Brutally heavy. Daylight robbery, and they knew it.”

“I'd hire you if you were still doing it,” said Lottie. “See you at the hat party!” She walked down the path. She'd check out the spring first and then if she could make it work, she'd top up the water cooler in the pantry. Springwater. For free.

 • • • 

Rose's skin burned easily, so she had to come in from her walk earlier than she'd wanted to, as she had forgotten to apply the sunscreen she had remembered to bring. The cottage was apparently empty. She could do whatever she wanted.

She unpacked for a while but there wasn't much to put into the drawers of the old painted-over mahogany dresser; a lot of her stuff was still in the car. She wasn't ready to break open her computer and she couldn't decide which of the many novels she'd brought with her she wanted to start. The sensation of not being needed by anyone was almost physical.

She looked around her little bedroom. It really was quite sweet, all white and airy and simple. And she'd slept like a rock last night. The view was . . . well, you might be able to improve on it, but you wouldn't need to. The big horse chestnut was filled with its barbed fruit. Orange daylilies tapped against the beveled glass of her window. Beyond the crest of the back lawn was the sparkling water. It wasn't the panoramic coastline view of the turret windows, but, truth be told, it suited her better.

Fred and the twins would be so happy here, she thought, especially now that Bea and Ben even had their own fairy houses. Rose was glad she had not lost her resolve to make the trip, in the early morning New York light, right before she'd gotten in the car. The twins had no clue how long a month was. She didn't either. Maybe she'd only stay two weeks. They could change so much in two weeks.

“Bye, Mommy!” She'd hugged Ben so tight that he emitted a surprised
oomph
. Then he'd hit her.

“The pediatrician's number is on the fridge,” she'd said to Fred as she let Ben go and gave an even harder hug to Bea. “I love you, my sweetie pie.”

“Don't go,” Bea had replied, ripping Rose's heart.

“I gave my sister the number too,” she continued to her husband. “And she has all my contact details.” He hadn't asked which island she was going to, so she hadn't told him. “I left a signed letter of permission saying that she can take them to the hospital up in Greenwich if Ben breaks his arm or something. Not that he will.” Rose hadn't wanted to think about what kinds of things might send Ben to the hospital. “You just need to get them in the car late in the afternoon after they've eaten, so hopefully they'll sleep and you won't feel like you have to entertain them the whole way up to Connecticut. The weather is much nicer today so you can take them to the tot lot right after I . . .” She'd checked her backpack: phone, credit card, some cash. “And I left a ton of food in the fridge and the freezer so you might not even need to get real groceries till I get back.”

“I
am
capable,” Fred had said.

“Watch me go up the stairs!” Ben had shouted.
Stay-ohs.
Should she stay and start him on speech therapy?

“Just give me one more hug.” She'd kissed the top of his head fiercely. “I love you, sweetie Ben. You are a good, good boy.”

“Where's my yogurt?”

“Daddy will get yogurt right now, lovie. You'll get him a YoKids, right? And Bea can have some too if she'll eat it. I think she's only eating strawberry banana this week—” She'd paused, her resolve wavering. She could run up and get the yogurt and then—

“You should go if you're going.” Fred had not moved to kiss her good-bye. So she kissed him.

“I'm going, I'm going,” she'd said. She headed down the stoop. “Love you guys,” she'd told them all. Then she got into the driver's seat and pulled out to pick up Lottie.

Thinking about Brooklyn was not doing her any good. Rose gathered up her bag and the car keys. She went into the kitchen to check the food supplies. She took a quick scan and saw that other than the items in the fridge, there was nothing to eat but popcorn and spaghetti. She made a mental grocery list, wondered where she'd find a coffeemaker for real coffee, checked the ferry schedule, saw that she could make the next one if she hurried, and ran out the door to the dock.