Chapter 12
Punkin sits up front with Ben, holding Chief in her lap. I sit behind Punkin with the pies and listen to the patter of conversation—Punkin firing away questions, which Ben answers gravely.
All the leaves have fallen from the trees and the bushes and vines. The lush, lazy, abundant Winthrop Island is like a brown skeleton of itself.
“There aren’t that many trees, though,” Punkin says sadly. “Not like Bois de Boulogne or Uncle Sadiq’s country house. I used to jump in the piles when they were done raking them from the lawn. Did you rake the leaves at Summerly, Mr. Ressler? Or did you use a leaf blower?”
“Mrs. P would have my hide if I used a leaf blower,” says Ben.
“It’s a lot of work. Uncle Sadiq has two master gardeners plus six under-gardeners to rake his.”
“I don’t mind the work,” says Ben. “Eight gardeners is a lot, though.”
“Well, Uncle Sadiq is very rich. Don’t you sometimes wish you were very rich?”
“I used to be kind of rich, I guess.”
“Why aren’t you rich anymore? Didn’t you like being rich?”
“Well, I liked having the money,” he says. “But it turns out I wasn’t as happy as I thought I was.”
—
There are several cars parked in the Summerly driveway. Ben brings the Club Car into line and hops out to hold the pies while I climb free. Punkin bounds ahead to the front door. Chief races after her, barking so hard he’s almost crying.
“I didn’t realize there were going to be so many Peabodys.”
“It’s a lot,” says Ben. “If you want to hide out in the kitchen with Audrey, I won’t say anything.”
“You might not, but my daughter will.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for you,” he says. “It’s up to you.”
I stare at the pies in their metal pans. The edges of the crusts are delicately browned. Ben holds one in each hand, and his palms are so large that the fingertips curl all the way up the sides of the pans, holding them safe from the gusting wind.
We’ve hardly spoken since that day in September, when he stood on my front porch while I stood just inside the doorway.
I’ve seen him around, of course. He keeps himself busy on the Summerly grounds, and once I saw him in town, ducking into the grocery store.
Nobody seems to notice him. Nobody talks about the fact that Ben Ressler lives here on Winthrop Island, mowing hay and clipping hedges, even though I would imagine the rest of the world might be interested in that fact.
But I don’t approach him, and he hasn’t returned to the house until this morning, when Mrs. Peabody ordered him over in the Club Car.
“Hey. You okay?”
Ben stares down at me with gentle concern. The cold air stings his cheeks.
“Those are some pretty savage boots you’re wearing,” he says. “Knock those Peabody women flat with those boots.”
I take a pie from his hand. “My mother got them for me.”
—
Punkin is dismayed to discover she’s seated with the kids. There are nine children, ages four to eleven, supervised by somebody’s nanny, and they gather at a long folding table in the sunroom. Punkin shoots me a dark look as the nanny hustles her away.
From the kitchen appear a couple of turkeys and trimmings and a vast selection of traditional-with-a-twist sides, all laid out on a buffet table by a glowing, effortless Audrey, assisted by Sedge and Ben, who has spent most of his time undertaking sous duties.
Old Mrs. Peabody sits at the head of the table, Ben at her left elbow and Audrey at her right.
Sedge is on my left side; on my right is a woman in her late thirties, wearing dainty gold jewelry and no makeup.
That describes most of the women in the room, but this one especially. She seems familiar.
She turns to me and offers a couple of fingers to squeeze.
“Lola Peabody. I don’t know if you remember me? I was a Pinkerton before I married David over there.” She nods across the table at a curly-haired man in a corduroy blazer the color of rust. “You and Laura used to hang out with my kid sister. Posie?”
“Lola. Of course. Lola the lawyer.”
“Was a lawyer,” she says, “back in the good old days. Before kids. What a trip to see you back. I’m so sorry about your dad. And your husband.”
“Partner, technically,” I tell her.
“Oops. I meant partner. No judgment here, believe me. You’ve got a cute kid. She’s been cracking us up.”
“Yeah, she does that.”
A bottle of red wine stands on an antique silver coaster in front of us.
Lola reaches for it. Her arm is bare except for a stack of gold bangles attached to an assortment of inscrutable charms; she’s wearing a sweater shell in crimson cashmere and a necklace of demure pearls around the base of her neck.
She hovers the bottle over my glass. “More wine?”
“Please.”
At the other end of the table, Mrs. Peabody talks earnestly to Audrey, while Sedge turns to the man on his left, late sixties. Ben cuts his turkey. A water glass sits next to his plate but no wine. Our eyes meet. I look down swiftly at the bouffant pile of sweet potatoes on my plate.
“He’s so hot,” says Lola.
“Who?”
“You know. Don’t you just want to hug him? At least he’s safe with us now.”
“Safe from what?” I ask.
“From everything. The media. The paparazzi. All the noise out there. And then that shit about his fiancée—his ex—oh my God, could you even believe it?”
I reach for my wineglass. “Was he engaged? I didn’t know.”
“Honey, are you in a cave or something? It was all over the internet.” Lola lowers her voice to a confidential whisper.
“So she breaks it off with Ben the week after the thing happened, like whatever. Fine. Go your ways, bitch. But then the next thing you know, she’s out there fucking his best friend.
This guy from the team, the linebacker, what’s his name”—she snaps her fingers—“Stevens, that’s it, Darius Stevens.
And they just got hitched in San Diego last month, big fat white wedding, ultra extra.
I hear she’s due in the spring. Un-fucking-believable. ”
“That’s—that’s crazy.”
“I mean, hasn’t he suffered enough? It was an accident, you know? He was just doing what they paid him to do.” Lola swishes her wine. “Our cultural fucking obsession with sports.”
Everyone is chattering comfortably by now. Everyone knows each other. Down at the other end of the table, Ben turns his head to answer some question from Mrs. Peabody.
Lola continues. “I mean, thank God for Sedge. Offering him a place to stay.” She leans closer. “Although I hear it was actually Laura.”
I choke on a mouthful of wine. “I thought Laura was in South America.”
“She is now. But last winter, when the news broke, she was still in Boston. She was the one who told Sedge to bury the hatchet and give the poor guy a place to chill for a minute.” Lola tilts her head to reflect. “I hear it’s therapeutic. Working outdoors and everything.”
Mrs. Peabody rises to her feet and dings her water glass with her dessert spoon. The room goes hush like somebody turned the volume off.
“It is traditional for the matriarch to make her speech at this moment,” she says, “the matriarch being me. But this year I’m turning over my toastmaster duties to my favorite grandson for a very special announcement.”
“What? I don’t have anything to announce,” calls out David Peabody.
Everyone laughs. Someone cups his hands around his mouth and booms SEDGE! SPEECH!
Sedge scrapes back his chair. “I invite you to raise your glasses in honor of our profoundly talented chef, and my fiancée—”
“WHAT!” shrieks Lola.
“—the ravishing Audrey, who will graciously stand and accept your applause for the best Thanksgiving dinner this kitchen has ever produced. And you’re all invited to our wedding in February.”
—
After dessert, I stand on the terrace stones and huddle myself around a cup of decaf while Punkin and the other kids and the dogs race each other on the beach. The sound of their merriment rises from the dark like the noise of ghosts.
Lola’s voice appears at my elbow. “Hey, you. I was wondering where you went.”
“Hey. Just taking in the sea breeze.”
“That pie was great, by the way. Did I hear somebody say your daughter made it?” She huddles up in her woolen cardigan. “Listen to those kids out there. In fucking November! Is she with them? Your daughter?”
“You can’t keep that girl away from a party,” I say.
“It’s so weird to be here in the offseason,” she says. “All cold and bare. Nobody else around. Just the caretakers. And you, obviously.”
A shriek floats from the water. Some laughter.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “The older ones look out for the younger ones. Although I’d keep my eye on Harry’s kid. Tanner? Future psychopath. I’m pretty sure I saw him pulling claws off those little baby crabs in the tide pools last summer.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Ben. He stands at the edge of the terrace, just outside the glow of light from indoors, staring at the twinkling black water. His arms are crossed over his ribs.
In the pocket of my dress, my phone vibrates. I look at the screen, then at Lola. “I’m sorry, do you mind? It’s my mother.”
She gestures magnanimously. “Please.”
I swipe right. “Maman? Is everything okay?”
Our mother likes us to call her Maman. It’s just easier, she says, although the truth is that she was happiest living in Paris and still identifies as a Frenchwoman, despite being born Blythe Miller from Elkhart, Indiana.
Also, to be fair, Maman suits her. You might have the impression that she’s not the motherly type, but in fact she adores children—far more truly and madly and deeply than she loved their fathers, if you want my opinion.
Babies, especially. That’s why she had eight of us.
She obsessed over us as infants. It’s only when we started growing up and talking back that she would move on and fall pregnant again.
Start from scratch with an adorable new unspoiled baby.
Spend a fortune on baby clothes and puree her own organic vegetables and carry us around in traditional slings sourced from female African collectives. All the things.