Goose Hill is one of those old sea-captain lairs built just prior to the Civil War, probably with the ill-gotten gains of the slave and rum trade. Later in the century, it had been gingerbreaded up with high Victorian curlicues and a huge lacy porch all along the side facing the ocean. A silly house. But Alistair seemed to approve.
“May I take a few photos?” he said, after we rounded the curve onto the private drive. “The morning light is perfect, the way it’s coming from behind those clouds.”
As he measured light and snapped away, I looked around for Wogs’ baby blue Renault. It wasn’t parked in the driveway where she usually left it. This gave me a sudden shock into sobriety.
Aunt Livy could be persnickety and Uncle Cal had moods, and they hadn’t invited me here in years. I had only a breezy, maybe not particularly sincere invitation to come to Goose Hill—and only from Wogs. Here I was, daughter of the family black sheep, bringing a total stranger to their home and expecting to be invited to stay.
I looked up at the house from the front lawn, where Alistair crunched through the snow with his camera, wondering how angry he’d be if I told him we should turn around and go somewhere else until Wogs arrived.
Probably very angry. He’d been driving since last night, probably with no sleep. Besides, somebody at the house had probably already spotted us. And I really had to go to the bathroom after all that wine.
So took a breath for bravery and marched up the drive and onto the porch as Alistair followed me, snapping away. Uncle Con himself opened the door, instead of one of the servants. I faked a sunny smile and tried to act as if showing up unannounced on your rich relatives’ doorstep at eleven in the morning with Chateau Margaux on one’s breath was the most natural thing in the world.
Luckily, Uncle Con smelled as if he’d been doing some imbibing of his own. He gave me a smile of recognition—an encouraging sign. During my last visit several summers ago, he’d mostly avoided me as if I were some unidentified species of insect.
“Anna, um, Nicky! Merry Christmas. I didn’t know you were coming. Olivia never tells me anything.”
He gave Alistair the once-over.
“And this is...?”
With a slick move, Alistair pulled the unopened bottle of Chateau Margaux from his camera bag and presented it to my uncle.
“Alistair Milbourne. I’m so sorry to intrude at such short notice, Mr. Conway. Here’s a little something for your wine cellar.”
I hadn’t even seen him put the bottle in his case and wondered why he hadn’t mentioned his plan, but I was impressed with his cleverness.
It had the desired effect. Uncle Con’s stern New Englander face widened into an almost-smile.
“Oh, my. This is—very generous. I must show Olivia.” He was the only one who called Aunt Livy “Olivia.” He shook Alistair’s hand with enthusiasm. “You are most welcome at Goose Hill, Mr. Milbourne. You, um, don’t seem like the usual college boy. Where did you meet Nicky?”
So. I shouldn’t have worried. Alistair had a good haircut. Wore a suit. Wasn’t a dope-smoking hippie. I’d brought a rare and welcome creature to Goose Hill.
“We met at the Princeton-Bryn Mawr freshman mixer,” I said. Uncle Con was Princeton. Alistair’s welcome was sealed.
Even Aunt Livy seemed pleased to see us. I figured this was mostly because she was angry with Wogs, who had just called to say she and Judy were having car trouble somewhere outside of Springfield, and would have to stay until tomorrow while a local mechanic tried to locate a part.
And tomorrow—I should have remembered—was the night of the annual Goose Hill Open House. With a dramatic, wronged-mother sigh, Aunt Livy told us she was feeling very “let down,” although Wogs had promised to do “whatever it took” to arrive in time for the big do.
Fortunately, Alistair’s well-groomed presence seemed to make up for Wogs’ bad judgment in vehicles. Aunt Livy fairly glowed as she wafted through Goose Hill in her Pucci-print caftan, showing Alistair the ancient treasures hidden in the nooks and crannies of the old place. I’d never seen her so girlish and chatty.
I usually felt a vague sense of unease whenever I visited Goose Hill, but by the time we sat down to a lunch of lobster bisque and Waldorf salad, I felt more welcome than I had since my childhood.
Until desert. When the cook brought in a beautiful apple pie, Aunt Livy said—
“Nicky and I won’t have any, Marie.”
She turned and spoke directly to me, rather than addressing her remarks Alistair, as she’d been doing since we arrived.
“You’ve put on weight, Nicky. I know it’s normal to gain the ‘Freshman five,’ but in your case, it looks more like ten or fifteen. I’m sure you won’t want sweets until you can take that off. The Conways tend to fat. Your father was a roly-poly child, you know.”
I felt my face flush and downed the rest of my wine. Uncle Con refilled my glass with deadpan aplomb as Aunt Livy turned back to Alistair.
“So have you met Nicky’s father, the illustrious poet?” she said.
Alistair nodded, his mouth full of pie.
“How did you find him? Is he well?” Aunt Livy used a voice so arch it bordered on mockery.
Alistair grinned. “I found the illustrious poet to be…a louse.”
Alistair had been using a sort of 1940s movie patois since our arrival. Aunt Livy seemed to eat it up.
“Whether or not he is a healthy louse,” Alistair went on. “I have no idea. He didn’t speak to me. Or to his daughter.”
Aunt Livy beamed.
But Uncle Con pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “What did you just call my brother?”
Alistair smirked, apparently emboldened by Aunt Livy’s approval.
“I called him a louse. It’s a small, blood-sucking bug. Not to be confused with the flea, which hops. A louse merely creeps.”
“You know what I have to say to that, mister?”
Uncle Con’s voice was rough. He was on his third glass of wine of the meal—after who-knew-how-many cocktails. He moved toward Alistair. My uncle was the taller of the two, but he was twice Alistair’s age, so I wasn’t sure which one would prevail in a fight. Uncle Con cleared his throat and looked down on Alistair.
“What I have to say is—I’d like to shake your hand!”
He grabbed Alistair’s hand and pumped it.
“Everybody in the goddam world thinks my brother is a goddam genius, but the truth is, he’s a goddam louse. He’s always been a louse and he gets lousier every year.”
He dropped Alistair’s hand and went back to his chair.
“I think we should drink to that. Cognac. We need cognac.”
He called to Marie, who brought in four snifters and a bottle of Remy Martin.
“Only two glasses, Marie,” Aunt Livy said. “Nicky and I won’t have any.” She turned to me. “80 calories an ounce, dear.”
While the men ate pie and drank cognac, Aunt Livy told me all about her preparations for the open house—which was a time-honored Conway tradition. It was sort of a lord-of-the-manor ritual involving all the Conway Industries employees and their families—as well as an assortment of lucky neighbors and local tradespeople. They were all invited to the great house to be impressed by a lavish display of holiday decorations and libations, as well as generous offerings from the local caterer’s kitchen.
“I hope you brought something suitable to wear, Nicky.”
Aunt Livy eyed my baggy sweater and slacks with disapproval.
“Where do you shop for your clothes? Isn’t there a Wanamakers nearby?”
“She can’t do much clothes shopping on ten dollars a month,” Alistair said. “That father of hers keeps her as poor as a churchmouse. In Cardigan Hall, she’s known as the ragamuffin. She had to borrow clothes from her roommate just to go to the Princeton mixer. A Jewish dentist’s daughter from Scarsdale.”
This distortion of the truth was even more humiliating than Aunt Livy’s dieting tips. I wanted to drift under the ancient furniture like a dust bunny. Or cease to exist altogether. Did Alistair really think I dressed that badly? I didn’t understand why he would criticize me to my own family.
Until I saw the reaction his speech evoked. Aunt Livy’s face first paled with shock, then reddened with anger. She shot Uncle Con a look that carried the weight of a command. His naturally grim expression got grimmer as he reached into the breast pocket of his blazer. He pulled out a slim wallet of cordovan leather.
“How much do you need, Nicky? You’re a Conway. You should dress like one.”
He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. Then two more.
“Go buy something,” he said, sliding the bills toward me along the damask tablecloth. “And before you go back to college, let me set up an account for you. If your father won’t give you an allowance, I will. You shouldn’t have to suffer because your father is a stingy son of a…” He turned to give Alistair a half-smile. “…louse.”
Overwhelmed, I put the money in my threadbare Greek tapestry purse.
“That won’t do much good on such short notice,” Aunt Livy said with a sniff. “All the local shops are going to be sold out of winter formal wear by now. Especially in your size.” She gave my body another cold appraisal. “But I have something upstairs that Polly wore two years ago. She let herself get pudgy her freshman year, too, before she took up field hockey. It just might fit. A deep rose taffeta with a chiffon overlay. It might perk up your sallow coloring. And you could wear your great-grandmother’s garnets. They look quite elegant with it.”
Alistair gave me a conspiratorial smile as Aunt Livy marched me toward the front stairs. With a few sentences, a little racism, and only slight embellishments on reality, Alistair had just entirely reversed my financial fortunes.