The Summer We Read Gatsby Part 7

He smiled. "These are special. If you know what I mean."

The chocolate, rich and gooey, was already dissolving in my mouth when I realized what he meant. They were pot brownies. "Oh well," I said. "When in Rome."

"Lydia was a bit of a pothead," he explained with a grin. "She liked it for its medicinal medicinal qualities." qualities."

"There were a lot of things I didn't know about my aunt," I said. "Or about any of my family." They were all gone now. Every one of them. Only Peck and I were left.

Hamilton was chewing thoughtfully on a brownie of his own. "She was extraordinarily generous, not just with money, but with her time and her energy. I always told her to be more careful about allowing these ghastly people to live with her. I gave her a gun, you know."

"We didn't know," I said. "Until Peck found it."

"I want you to be careful of that gorgeous young thing living above the garage," he said. "Lydia knew I wasn't keen on any of them. Except our man Finn, of course. But he was different. A family friend. The rest of them . . . not much talent there . . ." His voice trailed off.

"I wish she were here to explain it all," I said. I missed my aunt terribly. "Some good characters here," she would have whispered in my ear. "Listen to them talk. Write them into a novel." Missing her-that physical ache in the heart that made it feel as if it could sometimes break in two-dredged up the feelings of loss over my mother from which I'd thought I'd recovered. And layered into the emotional c.o.c.ktail that had me feeling like one big nerve ending were, I was starting to suspect, some deeply suppressed sentiments relating to the early loss of my father. All this, I told myself, explained why I felt like I was going mad that first week at Fool's House, alternately too quick to laugh or cry.

"Lydia cultivated a daffy persona," he said with a smile. "But she was a very intelligent woman. I suspect she's enjoying all this attention from the grave."

The night had grown cool, but it was warm under the canopy hung with sparkling lights that covered the patio, where quickwitted men made saucy remarks and we ate perfectly tiny bite-size morsels of delicious food, lamb lollipops and miniature bacon-lettuce-and-tomato tarts. A few other women joined the colorful swirl. I noticed Laurie Poplin towering over the rest of them. She was coming directly toward me, elbowing poor little Scotty out of the way in her eagerness to get to me, grinning like she was bursting with something to tell. She was wearing a pink-and-white dress that barely covered her a.s.s. Okay, I thought grumpily, we get it: you've got legs. No need to shop in the children's department to make sure we all see them.

"Hey," she called as she got closer, awkwardly throwing one arm around my shoulder in a half hug. I got the impression she didn't want to say my name, either because she couldn't remember it or because she didn't know whether to call me Ca.s.sie, or Stella, as Peck did. Hamilton left us to check on the music.

"I remembered where I met that boy at your house before." She was a bit of a sprayer, one of those unfortunate people who gather saliva in the corners of their mouths when they get excited.

I took a step back to avoid being showered. I was starting to feel stoned and the too-tall Rockette loomed over me, making me dizzy. "Biggsy?"

She nodded with great enthusiasm, the cords in her neck even more p.r.o.nounced by such vigorous extension. "He wasn't Biggsy then. He was Jonathan something or other. He lived in the pool house."

I was trying to follow what she was saying while also backing away from her, but she kept getting closer. "Whose pool house?"

"I'm about to tell you," she said. She could afford to be coy, now that she had my attention. "It was an estate sale. An old woman, real Waspy and elegant. The house had been in the family forever. You know the type?" She paused, as though she wasn't sure, since I was so foreign, foreign, that I would understand. that I would understand.

I a.s.sured her I was able to extrapolate, given our location.

"She lived there totally alone all summer, except for this guy in the pool house," she continued. "Not even the staff lived in; they all just came during the day. She was isolated. The family was gone, all except this grandson in Los Angeles, a hipster filmmaker." She paused again, to be sure I was following her.

I nodded. Hipster. Filmmaker. Got it.

"One morning the housekeeper arrived to find the newspapers still in the driveway. And she knew something was up. The old lady always read the papers first thing in the morning." Another nod kept her going. "She died under mysterious circ.u.mstances. An overdose of her regular medication, they thought. The police investigated. But n.o.body pressed charges and nothing conclusive was found. The thing is, this guy, Jonathan, the one who's living at your place now? He wouldn't leave. He moved into the main house-this was a major property, and I'd arrive for a showing and find him swanning about in a silk bathrobe, like the lord of the manor. It was creepy." She stopped. "Sorry. He's not related to you or anything, is he?"

I a.s.sured her he was not, as far as we knew.

"So, the kid who inherited the place, the grandson, he never came to see it. Just wanted it sold. The housekeepers moved on to other jobs. But n.o.body made the guy leave. He stayed there all summer. It was so weird. Finally the house got sold."

"And then he left?"

She nodded impatiently, as though frustrated with my lack of attention. "We heard he'd died died. I never saw him again. Until he resurfaced at your aunt's place, having been there with another older woman who lived alone. Who is now . . . dead dead."

"Aunt Lydia died in Paris," I said. "It was a heart attack."

"All I'm saying . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Well, you have to admit, it's strange, that's all. Especially when he was rumored to be dead himself. I heard he was. .h.i.t by a car."

"Where did you hear that?" I asked. "Why did everyone think he was dead?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But you can imagine my surprise when there he was. Just like a ghost." She looked around, her neck craning as she sized up the crowd. "So," she continued. "I heard you saw Finn today."

I nodded, picking up the proprietary tone in her voice.

"Played a little 'gammon, huh?" She waved her gla.s.s at me. "Did he win? He always beats me when we play, he's just too too good. You know he has a regular game with Jack Louis? The big IPO guy? That one never wants to pay his debts, either. Finn and I are having dinner tomorrow night. Maybe we'll shake the dice a bit first. Or after-" good. You know he has a regular game with Jack Louis? The big IPO guy? That one never wants to pay his debts, either. Finn and I are having dinner tomorrow night. Maybe we'll shake the dice a bit first. Or after-"

I interrupted her. "Excuse me," I said, holding up my empty water gla.s.s. In my pot-addled state I didn't feel the need to hear any more about Finn from her. I got it: they were together. She seemed intent on making that clear. And that was totally fine with me. Why wouldn't it be? I wasn't interested in him. I couldn't be. I had too much to do and only three more weeks to do it in. "I'm going to get some water," I said, moving away from her. "But you're going to show the house, right?"

"Well, yes-" she was saying as I headed on toward the bar, where Peck was still entertaining three of the original admiring group of men that had surrounded her at the beginning of the evening, still audibly declaring her "fabulous" and "a piece of work."

"Stella!" she cried out. "I'm sharing my tale of irony." She pulled me close and continued speaking to the group with me at her side. "So here I'm thinking he's throwing this Gatsby theme party for me. It seemed pretty specific, right? The book had become this symbol, I thought, of our love. We were madly madly in love, you know. For almost five years of my life." in love, you know. For almost five years of my life."

Every time I heard Peck tell the story of her love affair with Miles, the length of time they'd been together expanded. She was almost twenty-one when she met him. He was twenty-six or so, she'd told me. Within months they'd talked about getting married. But she had to finish school, she still thought. Later, after she'd dropped out and kept busy with acting cla.s.s and auditions, he moved in with her for a while. They broke up after he went to Hong Kong and told her he'd met someone else. She lied and told him she'd met someone else too. She was twenty-five. So it was three years, to my calculations. But somehow in the telling it had become three and a half and then four and now five years of her life.

"This wasn't some drunken one-night stand or anything," she explained. I'd heard her use these exact words so many times. "For all these years I've told myself the same story. I once knew this great love. We can only go through that one time in our lives. Believe me, I would never do it again."

She was in full performance mode, pausing to a.s.sess her audience's attention to her tale before she continued. "I was, of course, curious. He gave gave me me The Great Gatsby The Great Gatsby, you see. Everyone's favorite book. Right, Stella? Ask my sister." She gestured toward me like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Wheel of Fortune. "I gave "I gave her her the book and she spent the whole summer copying it down." Her eyes glittered, as though she too had partaken of the brownies. "Anyway," she continued breathlessly, "you can see why I might have made certain a.s.sumptions." the book and she spent the whole summer copying it down." Her eyes glittered, as though she too had partaken of the brownies. "Anyway," she continued breathlessly, "you can see why I might have made certain a.s.sumptions."

"A Gatsby white party to woo you back after seven years. That's so so romantic," one of them said, sighing. He wore orange corduroy pants that he kept pulling at, as though they were too tight. romantic," one of them said, sighing. He wore orange corduroy pants that he kept pulling at, as though they were too tight.

"That's the thing," she cried out, in preparation for delivering her punch line with a leading lady's flair and comic timing. I could learn a thing or two about telling a story from my sister. "It wasn't at all romantic. Because he didn't even remember remember giving it to me." giving it to me."

Scotty was on her other side and patted her shoulder. "Maybe he was just saying that. Maybe he got fl.u.s.tered when he saw you again. And he lied."

I thought there might be some truth to Scotty's version. It did seem too big a coincidence that Miles n.o.ble's first contact with Peck after seven years should be a Gatsby theme party invitation. But my sister shook her head. "He hadn't even read read it." it."

There were big reactions all around. "That's terrible," said the one in the corduroy. He had perfectly feathered hair, like Jon Bon Jovi, one of Peck's favorite singers.

"How rude," exclaimed the third man. He wore stylish tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses he kept putting on and taking off.

The sensitive Scotty made a compa.s.sionate face. "Unrequited love," he said sympathetically. All night, I'd noticed, he'd been gazing adoringly in Hamilton's direction while the older man ignored him. "The cruelest of life's ironies."

"It was was rude," Peck was saying, talking over him in response to the man with the gla.s.ses. "He has terrible manners. And now I find myself questioning what I always thought to be the defining story of my life. If I could believe myself in love with someone who could lie like that, to the point where he didn't even read the book that became such a symbol of our relations.h.i.+p, then what else could I believe?" rude," Peck was saying, talking over him in response to the man with the gla.s.ses. "He has terrible manners. And now I find myself questioning what I always thought to be the defining story of my life. If I could believe myself in love with someone who could lie like that, to the point where he didn't even read the book that became such a symbol of our relations.h.i.+p, then what else could I believe?"

She looked genuinely distraught, near tears. We were all riveted. But then a rueful smile indicated the s.h.i.+ft to come. "Then he shows up at the Fool's Welcome. And steals one of the paintings right off the wall!" She paused and looked around at each of us in turn, sharing her incredulity. "Was he sending a signal? I'm obviously no good at interpreting, since I thought the invitation to the party was a message, and that turned out to be dead wrong."

They murmured their a.s.sent. "He's definitely sending a message," said the one in the corduroy. "He wants you to come after him."

"Or is he just a thief?" she asked rhetorically. "Did he think it was worth something? What do I do?"

"Show up at his house," the one in the gla.s.ses suggested. "Wearing nothing but a trench coat. And stilettos. Seduce him and make him tell you everything."

"Invite him to lunch," said the one in corduroy. "With some fabulous people. And then ignore ignore him. You'll drive him mad. He'll be forced to confess." him. You'll drive him mad. He'll be forced to confess."

The gla.s.ses-wearer shook his head. He was heavyset, with a shock of gray hair. "Did you know?" he asked. "There's an F. Scott Fitzgerald suite at the Ritz in Paris. Suggest that he take you there, to make up for it. And then ask for the painting back."

Scotty rubbed his chin. "I don't think he took your painting. If he came to your house, what he wants is you you."

Peck caught my eye. "He's our suspect, I'm telling you. I know it. I'm starting to find it a little bit s.e.xy. Very Jennifer Lopez and George Clooney, you know? In that movie where she's locked in the trunk with him?"

Scotty put an arm around her waist. "Just let him see you in this outfit with those false eyelashes, working those shoes, and he'll fall even more head over heels. You're fantastic fantastic."

Peck wore a look of total glee as she basked in their attention. "Literally?" she cried out. "I've already forgotten about him. Miles who? I'm in love with all of you."

She glanced around at them. "But isn't it a funny coincidence? That he would hire an event planner who would suggest a Gatsby theme party? How could I ever have been in love with someone with such a lack of taste. I mean, aren't theme parties totally gauche?"

This was greeted with a chorus of noes. A theme party was fine, as long as it was sophisticated. "Fitzgerald will always be immensely stylish," Corduroy added with a benevolent nod.

All of a sudden, it hit me, in a pot-induced flash of clarity, the kind of thing that often is later revealed to be ridiculous: I knew the combination to Lydia's safe.

7.

To spend one's childhood abroad as an American is to grow up with a permanent sense of yearning. There's a place far away that is ours but it only seems knowable through movies, books, and the occasional television program dubbed in German or French or Italian.

I fetis.h.i.+zed certain aspects of what I perceived as typical American life. I read obsessively, studying American novels as if they were textbooks, the keys to understanding a country I could know only through words. I specialized in stories about suburban teenage angst. And although I've since somewhat lost my taste for it, I adored root beer. As it was not a beverage option at the local cafe, it became an exotic treat that I was first introduced to at the home of an American friend, the daughter of a businessman who was transferred every two years. Her mother made us root beer floats, with big globs of vanilla ice cream in the gla.s.ses of root beer she poured from cans brought over after one of the visits back to the States they called "home leaves." I had a thing for Kraft macaroni and cheese too, which horrified my mother, a whole grain and fresh vegetable lover. She couldn't understand why the fake orange and chemical taste made me feel American. I didn't understand it either.

But my mother had rejected her country without regret, turning her back, she always implied, on the pain she'd known there-like mine, her father had died young, and her mother never recovered, fading away in a haze of alcohol and grief-and the inescapable sadness of the loss of her husband, my father. It made sense to me, her wanting to stay in Europe and not go back. But I wanted to go, and so, every third summer or so, while Eleanor would go on a mission to Nepal or Thailand or Namibia, I went to stay with Lydia at Fool's House, where I would drink soda by the six-pack, a habit my aunt willingly indulged. I stopped drinking root beer the summer Peck made me try a real beer-I was fifteen and of legal age to drink beer in Europe, as she pointed out, appalled that I'd never tasted the stuff.

I still had a thing for Tootsie Rolls, and when I got back to Fool's House that night, with a case of pot-induced munchies, I ate through the fresh stash I'd picked up at the supermarket that afternoon before sitting down at my computer to test my instinct about the combination to Lydia's safe. I was pretty sure I'd guessed correctly, recalling the long, languid conversations about Fitzgerald and Edith Wharton with Lydia on the porch. This would be after what Lydia would call "reading hour," a spell of time, usually more like two or three hours at a stretch, after lunch, when we would take seats in the rocking chairs on the porch with our books and read happily. After reading hour, there'd often be writing hour, when Lydia would suggest a quick exercise, "just for fun, for the pleasure of the creative endeavor."

Peck usually skipped reading hour, and always pa.s.sed on the writing exercises, scheduling a tennis game or heading back to the beach to work on her tan. But I enjoyed sitting there with a good book and only the chirping of birds to break the quiet. Lydia felt strongly about the writer she called Scott, as though she'd known him, and she would often read me a line or two that she found particularly evocative.

I Googled F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was born on September 24, 1896. Finn had been right, I suspected, in his hunch that Lydia would choose such a number, a date relating to one of her favorite artists, as the combination for a safe, and we'd tried the dates that Jasper Johns painted Fool's House Fool's House (1962) and (1962) and Flag Flag (1954) and even his birth date (May 15, 1930) to no avail. But we hadn't tried the birth date of one of her favorite writers. And this suddenly seemed very Lydia. (1954) and even his birth date (May 15, 1930) to no avail. But we hadn't tried the birth date of one of her favorite writers. And this suddenly seemed very Lydia.

I kneeled before the safe on the floor of her closet, the overpowering scent of mothb.a.l.l.s tickling my nose. I turned the dial, first one direction to 9, then counterclockwise to 24, and back around to 96. Nothing happened. I sat back on my heels, wondering if I'd been mistaken. I tried again, this time turning the dial several times before stopping at the 9. I tried 9, 24, 18, 96. But that didn't work. I started to think I'd been wrong, that only someone who'd eaten a pot brownie would come up with such an idea. And with such conviction. But then I gave it another try, leaving off the 18, but spinning the dial twice past 0 first, and the safe door clicked open.

I pulled it toward me. I was about to look inside when it hit me: I should wait and do this with my sister. Even though I was almost certain she wouldn't have waited for me-Peck has the patience of a sugar-addled toddler-if she'd been the one to figure out the combination, I knew I had to wait for her. It took all the willpower I had to close the safe back up again without looking inside it. Peck deserved to be part of the discovery process. Plus, she would throw a major hissy fit if she was left out of anything.

I let my imagination run wild, conceiving all sorts of scenarios: in the safe was a huge diamond, or a million dollars, or how about a signed first-edition Great Gatsby Great Gatsby-wasn't such a thing the most rare of collectible books? Or would it be a certificate of authenticity, or some other official piece of paper that might indicate that the painting now missing from our wall was actually some rare and valuable thing, desired by museums and art collectors who would pay up for such a piece? Or it could be nothing. I had to keep my expectations in check.

I shut the door. I left the safe locked and wandered through the house, gazing in fascination at the paintings on the walls, most of which didn't look nearly as bad now. I was stoned. In fact, some of them looked pretty good. Even the two painted by my father no longer seemed so amateurish. I decided I would ask Peck if I could keep the one that had more pinks and purple, if she would agree to take the orange one.

I flipped through some of the books on the shelves, and stared at the photographs in silver frames that populated every free surface. There were images of Peck as a child in her school uniform and a few of me and my mother, her long hair always blowing, in India and South Africa, and, later, with Lydia on top of a mountain in Switzerland on one of her visits. I particularly loved the ones of Lydia and my father when they were younger, wearing bell-bottomed pants and s.h.i.+rts with big flowers on them in sixties fas.h.i.+on. I stared at my father's face, the dark eyes, short, straight nose, and full mouth that I'd inherited.

Peck didn't come home while I was still awake and eventually I dozed off with the light on in the bedroom. I don't know what time Peck came in, but I woke in the morning to the loud rumble of thunder and rain pouring off the porch eaves. Fool's House felt like flimsy protection against such a force of nature, the sky a mood-altering gray that wrapped the tiny house in a thick blanket of fog. The moisture seeped in everywhere and while Peck slept in, I strategically placed buckets under the places where the roof leaked.

It was hardly cold but the dark morning called for a fire and I piled up the wood in the fireplace to build a big blaze that radiated heat and filled the room with the smell of wood smoke and the glow of dancing flames. Even the cheap-looking art, not quite as fascinating as the night before, looked charming in the mellow lamplight. I waited for Peck in the living room with a pot of coffee and cupcakes for breakfast.

My curiosity about the contents of the safe was an itch I was dying to scratch. I suppose I could have woken my sister; she would be annoyed that I hadn't. But there was something about the calm of the dark morning I wasn't in a hurry to disrupt.

The quiet disappeared soon enough, though, when Pecksland Moriarty came down the stairs in a gold lame dressing gown. This was the sort of attire she a.s.sumed most of the world would find totally normal but also unique and cool. She expected to be lauded for such style and when she came down the stairs with enormous dark gla.s.ses covering her eyes, moaning dramatically, she posed with an unlit cigarette held elegantly in a tilted wrist, waiting for me to remark on her "look." I was reading The New York Times The New York Times and did not offer a comment. This made her sigh and exclaim, "Good G.o.d, those boys can party." and did not offer a comment. This made her sigh and exclaim, "Good G.o.d, those boys can party."

"I thought you didn't get hangovers," I said, pouring her a cup of coffee from the pot at my side.

She lifted her sungla.s.ses to squint in irritated fas.h.i.+on at me. "Isn't that exactly the point I'm making? I don't. Normally. Normally."

She made her way gingerly to the sofa, easing herself down onto the cus.h.i.+ons. "Literally? Half the time you don't listen to a word I say. You have ADD, Stella. And when you were hungover, I gave you a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, not some mangy little cup of coffee that's going to do nothing for me."

"Would you like a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary?" I handed her the box of cupcakes.

She sighed. "No." She took the box and helped herself to one of the cupcakes. "The clean living starts today."

I waited until the sugar kicked in before telling her. As I suspected, she was annoyed I hadn't woken her sooner. And annoyed too that she hadn't been the one to figure it out. "I'm the one with the Fitzgerald thing," she complained. "You've totally copied me. As usual." She made a face indicating her impatience with me, looking me over as if seeking something else she could claim I'd copied from her. Finding nothing, she continued. "I suppose you think a literary obsession is extremely chic? Even, as in my case, when it's predicated on falsehood?"

She paused, frowning at me, then stood. "Well, what are we waiting for?" She headed for the stairs, lame rustling, holding the unlit cigarette in the air in one hand and the coffee in the other. "Are you telling me the truth? You didn't even peek?"

"Wouldn't you have waited for me?" I asked as I followed her.

She moved more quickly than one would expect from someone with a hangover. "No way," she cried out as she scampered up the stairs ahead of me, spilling coffee.

We kneeled in front of the safe together and she clutched my hand in hers. "Oh G.o.d, I'm nervous," she cried, at her most theatrical. "What if it's empty?"

"I had that thought," I started to say.

Peck interrupted me, shaking her head. "Of course you did. You're so negative negative. Let's think big, let's think positive. Now open the d.a.m.n thing already."

The combination, 9, 24, 96, worked again, and the safe clicked open. We looked at each other with great antic.i.p.ation before pulling open the door. Not all that surprisingly, the safe contained no big stash of money, no pile of jewels, and no first edition of Gatsby Gatsby or any other collectible book. In fact, it almost appeared empty, although a closer look revealed a few of the usual papers: Lydia's birth certificate, her Social Security card, and then what appeared to be a packet of letters, tied up with a neat ribbon. or any other collectible book. In fact, it almost appeared empty, although a closer look revealed a few of the usual papers: Lydia's birth certificate, her Social Security card, and then what appeared to be a packet of letters, tied up with a neat ribbon.

Peck sat back on her heels. "I'm so greedy greedy," she exclaimed, laughing a little. "Expecting the thing to be full of dough. Or no, that's not it. Actually, I expected a surprise surprise. A surprise of utmost value value."

I sat back too. "I don't know why, but I had this idea we might find a first-edition Great Gatsby Great Gatsby hardcover with a dust jacket. Signed, maybe." hardcover with a dust jacket. Signed, maybe."

"What would that be worth?" Peck asked, scoffing. "Nothing. Maybe a few grand?"

"Signed?" I reached for the packet of letters and untied the ribbon. "Those things are worth a lot to some people."

"I can't imagine anyone would spend much for an old book," Peck was saying as I gazed down at the letters in my hand. In the upper-right-hand corner of each of the envelopes, all the same pale blue tissue paper, was an address on East 51 Street, with no name, written in a neat print.

I held them up to Peck. "What do you think these are?"

She frowned, disappointment on her face. "Whatever they are, they're not the thing of value. I just don't know why Lydia had to be so confusing confusing. I'm sure she's up there chuckling away at us."

I handed one of the envelopes to her, took one for myself, and we began to read. All the letters were, in neat little block print, addressed to Dearest Lydia Dearest Lydia from someone named Julian, who signed off each of them as from someone named Julian, who signed off each of them as Forever Yours, Julian Forever Yours, Julian, or, Impatiently and Infatuatedly Awaiting Your Response, Julian Impatiently and Infatuatedly Awaiting Your Response, Julian. And, more than once, Desperately Yours, Julian Desperately Yours, Julian. They were in no chronological order and seemed to span a period of years in which Julian, married to someone by the name of Rita, claimed to be madly and irrevocably in love with Lydia.

"Julian?" I asked as Peck and I each read through the dense and perfectly formed words crammed onto the tissue-thin pages. Some of the letters were three or four pages long, filled on both sides with intense and overwrought proclamations of love. "I don't remember Lydia ever mentioning that name."

Peck didn't look up from her reading. "It's him. The ghost of Fool's House."