A moment after Jack Poirier evaporated, Uncle Con burst into our little drama, his face flushed. I figured driving too fast through the Maine woods on icy, rutted roads was probably the most fun he’d been allowed in years. He was bursting with questions about the internal workings of the TR3, so he whisked Alistair out to the garage. If Alistair had been worried about loaning his car, it didn’t show on his face.
But then, nothing at all showed on his face. He still wouldn’t look at me. I wished he would let me know if he was angry. He certainly had reason after that stupid kiss.
Why had I done it? To make him jealous? To act as if everybody getting a little sexual with everybody else was somehow normal so what I thought saw was OK?
I told myself I probably hadn’t seen it anyway. Some kind of crazy jealousy must have been playing tricks with my brain. Aunt Livy and Uncle Con were the most stable, rock-solid people in my life. It would make no sense for Aunt Livy to canoodle with some guy half her age—some guy who was dating her niece, for goodness’ sake.
No. I’d been the one canoodleing—with Jack Poirier of all people.
I needed to get Alistair alone so I could apologize as soon as possible. He was my whole world now. I couldn’t stand that bland, opaque look on his face.
Aunt Livy’s face, on the other hand, showed vivid disapproval—of Uncle Con’s driving, the car, the garage-centered male bonding ritual, and/or all of the above.
It was still full of imperious displeasure as she sent us ladies to our rooms to “freshen up for dinner,” which I knew meant changing into something suitable for a visit to Buckingham Palace.
After I showered and changed into the only good dress I’d packed for Christmas break—I hoped Aunt Livy wouldn’t have a fit about the hemline—I knocked on the door to Wogs’ bedroom, hoping for some comforting girl talk. I was feeling so stupid about the whole Jack thing.
Judy was already there, zipping herself into one of Wogs’ old dresses. Judy was one of those top-heavy women who looked spectacular in slim jeans and a tee-shirt, but all dumpy-frumpy in a shapeless A-line dress. Especially one in navy blue gabardine, with a little white collar.
Judy examined herself in the full-length mirror and lit a cigarette. “I look like Kate frigging Smith. Don’t be surprised if I burst into God Bless America in the middle of dinner. Do I really have to go in costume?”
Wogs nodded. “If you don’t, my mother will punish me for months. She’ll probably give away my whole damned wardrobe.” She turned to me with an edge of anger in her voice. “I hope you appreciate that formal she gave you. I was going to lend it to Judy. Now I don’t know what she can wear to the open house. She comes from a normal family, where they don’t have to wear archaic costumes to parties.” She gave me a petulant look. “I suppose Mother is letting you wear the garnets, too?”
I felt awful. “She said something about them, but please, I had no idea…”
“Of course you didn’t. But she did. She’s punishing me for having car trouble.” She tossed a pair of Frye boots in the direction of her closet. “Or maybe she’s rewarding you for bringing Alistair up here to entertain her. I’ll bet she loves that Savile Row-suit phoniness, doesn’t she?”
Judy laughed. “Gullibility seems to run in the family. Wogs, isn’t it time…”
Wogs gave her a sharp look and interrupted, turning to me.
“I’ll bet your dad didn’t like him much. He’s never been into the personal-tailor look. Is that why you decided to come up here?”
Something was up and I felt shut out and hurt. I plunked myself down in the velvet slipper chair and told the saga of my woes since my arrival in Cambridge—except the part about Aunt Livy and Alistair beginning their Beguine. I was still keeping that in a shadowy it-didn’t-really-happen part of my brain.
I was embarrassed to feel the sting of tears when I told Wogs about how generous her father had been after Alistair’s revelations of my father’s stinginess.
Wogs ran over to give me a surprising hug. “Jesus, sweetie. I had no idea things were that bad with your dad. We have one screwed-up family, you know that?”
“Show me a family that’s not screwed up.” Judy lay on her back, blowing smoke rings at the chandelier. “At least you guys are screwed up in style. Look at this room. It’s a damned museum. And how many formals do you have in that closet? You can’t let your ragamuffin cousin have just one? It’s not like I give a damn what I wear.”
Now it was Wogs’ turn to tear up. “You’re right. It’s this house. It makes me turn into my mother.” She gave me a contrite look. “Forgive me, Nicky?”
I hugged her back.
“Of course. I never would have accepted the dress if I’d realized…. I don’t blame you for being upset. It’s like my dad giving my room to that Portuguese person. We went away to college, not our graves. They shouldn’t be picking over our stuff like vultures.”
“The Conways have always been vultures.” Wogs stepped into a pink wool dress. “Look how they’ve exploited the people of this county for the last hundred and fifty years. I can’t believe Mother still treats Jack Poirier as if he were an indentured servant.”
Judy stood to zip Wogs’ dress up the back. “Oooo. Is that the guy you were kissing, Nick? I’d say you’re moving up in the boyfriend department. Forget Alistair Milquetoast.”
I sputtered, angry at the insult to my beloved.
“Jack isn’t my boyfriend. Alistair is. And he is not a milquetoast. You should have seen him stand up to my father. If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be sleeping rough on the streets of Cambridge.”
Wogs laughed as she wriggled into pantyhose. “Everybody kisses Jack, Judy. I used to make out with him at beach parties all through high school. He’s a great kisser, isn’t he, Nick?”
Yikes. Now I had another reason to be embarrassed about that stupid kiss.
“I’m so sorry, Wogs. I kind of forgot you two used to date. Are you still…?
Wogs and Judy laughed as if I’d said something terribly funny. Then Judy grabbed Wogs and pulled her down on the bed and gave her a big kiss on the mouth.
Wow. Up until that moment, I’d had no idea Wogs and Judy were anything but good buddies. No wonder I’d been feeling shut out. I’d read about lesbians in books, of course, and there were rumors that some of the girls in Cardigan Hall were more than roommates. But it was different to see the reality sprawled in front of me on the ivory satin quilt of Wogs’ childhood bedroom.
We were interrupted by urgent rapping on the door.
“Ladies,” Alistair called out. “I’ve been instructed to summon you to dinner.”
I wanted to throw my arms around him, but he looked right past me to Wogs.
“You look stunning, Polly.” He took her hand and led us all down to the dining room, chatting about Uncle Con’s Rolls and how much he liked the family. All very gracious—after all, Wogs was his hostess. But I felt even more frozen out.
I also felt nervous about making polite dinner conversation while trying to hide what I’d just learned about Wogs and Judy, but I needn’t have worried. The dining conversation was entirely devoted to Aunt Livy’s instructions for tomorrow’s event. Now I understood why Mr. Poirier called her General Patton. Aunt Livy issued orders as if she were preparing for battle. We were all to take turns greeting guests at the door, where would cull the rank and file from the brass, who were then to be directed to Uncle Con’s library, where the premium alcohol would be served. The riff-raff were to be ushered toward the buffet and the wine punch.
Alistair was to be deployed as Uncle Con’s lieutenant, doing bartender duty for the visiting dignitaries. I was to serve as liaison between Aunt Livy and the kitchen, where Marie, the cook, commanded culinary operations.
Judy, in what appeared a selfless gesture, volunteered to coordinate the guest parking along the drive to Goose Hill.
“Problem solved!” she whispered to me as we left the dining room. “I have an excuse to wear normal clothing. And comfy shoes.”
Wogs came up behind us and grabbed Judy.
“What are you telling her?”
Judy gave her an enigmatic look.
“Nothing. I gave you my promise, Wogs.”
They were still hiding something. Since I already knew about their affair, I couldn’t figure out what that could be.
The next day, Goose Hill ran like a well-lubricated machine, with caterers and decorators performing perfectly coordinated maneuvers while Aunt Livy briefed us on the particulars of the Conway Industries personnel we were to meet and greet and how to distinguish the VIPs from the hoi polloi.
But at no time was I able to be alone with Alistair. After our briefings, Uncle Con appropriated him to drive to see “the plant” and the hub of Conway Industries operations while “you ladies do what you must do.” I suspected Uncle Con wanted the chance to drive the TR3 again.
The two didn’t reappear until four PM, just as we were going upstairs to change into formal battle gear. Alistair gave me a perfunctory cheek-kiss, but again, made no eye contact before going off to his grand suite in the east wing.
When we got upstairs, Aunt Livy took me to her room and presented me a small jewelry box covered in faded brown velvet.
“These belonged to your great-grandmother. Just her everyday jewelry, but they do look lovely with that dress.”
I opened the box and saw a spectacular necklace and dangly earrings of blood-red garnets.
“They’re stunning. But, um, maybe Wogs would like to wear them…”
Aunt Livy silenced me with a wave and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s terribly important that Polly spend some time with Con’s new marketing director, Grayson Bell,” she told me. “Polly could not do better in the husband department than Grayson. The Bells are an old Virginia family. He graduated from Princeton last year. Fine man. Alistair says he doesn’t know him, but I’m sure they must have met since they’re both members of the Ivy club.”
Alistair’s membership in Princeton’s oldest eating club came as news to me, but I didn’t have time to ponder as Aunt Livy grabbed my wrist in an urgent grip and hissed in my ear.
“See Polly stays away from that Jacques Poirier. He’s been giving her the rush since they were in high school and, well, obviously he’s not suitable…”
For the first time in my life, I felt a little sorry for Aunt Livy. She did not have a clue exactly how unsuitable Jack was for her daughter.
By six-thirty, about an hour and a half into the grand soirée, my smile had solidified into a jaw-cramping mask and I was beginning to wish I could change places with Judy, freezing but free amidst the snow flurries that drifted outside. I still hadn’t had more than a glimpse of Alistair—looking more elegant than ever in his perfectly-cut tuxedo. He’d been arguing with Judy about something. Probably where to park his precious car. Then he rushed past me on the way to the library. I hoped he was doing better with his bartending duties than I was as liaison officer.
The ballroom was crammed with what appeared to be the entire population of southern Maine. Making my way back and forth from Aunt Livy’s command station at the front door to the buffet table to the kitchen took all the skills I’d learned riding the MTA at rush hour. On the culinary battlefront Marie kept her cool until somebody dropped a tray of canapés and one of the waiters traipsed the spilled crab filling all over the priceless carpet in the library. She decided this was somehow my fault.
Then Aunt Livy decided I was responsible for the slowness of refills to the punch bowl, as well as the insufficient number of Santa-topped toothpicks for the cocktail wieners and the lack of saccharine tablets for the weight-watching teetotalers at the coffee urn. I was relieved when Marie and Aunt Livy deemed me so incompetent that Aunt Livy herself had to take over, and I was sent to do meet-and-greet duty at the door.
Unfortunately, Wogs took my arrival as a signal she could go off and have a quick cigarette with Judy—Aunt Livy didn’t approve of her smoking—so I was alone at the door when Mr. Grayson Bell arrived, fashionably late.
He was good-looking in a Ken doll sort of way—with glistening teeth and slick, good-little-boy hair. His tuxedo looked nearly as expensive as Alistair’s.
“You must be the beauteous Miss Polly Conway,” he said, taking my hand and giving it a kiss that lingered a second too long.
“No. I’m the beauteous Miss Nicky Conway.” The man begged to be mocked. “My uncle is expecting you in the library.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’ll miss me,” Grayson said. “He has his new protégé doing the bartending honors. That was my job at the Labor Day barbeque.” He grabbed two cups of punch from the tray of a passing waiter and handed me one with a sniff. “I hope he’s not going to hand over the marketing department, too.”
“Don’t worry.” I sipped from the cup. “Your job is safe. Alistair’s an artist, not a businessman.” It was the first time I’d actually tasted the punch, which was fairly awful, without enough wine to cover up the vaguely Kool-Aidy taste. “Besides,” I said. “Alistair’s still an undergraduate.”
Grayson gave a smug smile. “So Con tells me. I’d be interested in finding out exactly where he’s an undergraduate.”
“He’s a junior at Princeton.” I focused on shaking the hand of a very old lady being wheeled in the door by an equally elderly man.
“No. He’s not.” Grayson gave the couple a lord-of-the-manor smile. “He claims to be Ivy, but I’ve never heard of him. So I called a friend in the Princeton admissions office. Nobody named Alistair Milbourne is enrolled at the university.”