Ahoy, Matey
The regatta was due to begin just before sunset, followed by fireworks, and because the Emersons’ was the best spot anywhere on the lake for viewing the parade of boats, friends had been invited to watch it from the dock.
Jilly had lined up her dolls along the edge of the water as spectators, along with an assortment of trolls.
Though the sun wasn’t down yet, Billy had set out the tiki torches, with extra picnic tables and chairs for the guests and an assortment of kazoos and noisemakers.
At six o’clock, Prudence went down to the shore with the first trays of food—a light meal of cold cuts and an array of Buffalo chicken wings, potato skins, stuffed mushrooms, and miniature quiches. I wasn’t hungry, but I figured I’d head down to the lake anyway. A distraction from packing.
There was Forrest, back from town and setting up the grill.
The costume he’d rented had turned out to be a little cheesy, but Forrest had improved on it significantly.
Despite the heat, he’d put on a pair of riding boots (he’d made a brief attempt at playing polo a while back) and tied one of Regina’s silk scarves around his neck (Hermès, probably; she’d explained to me about those).
He’d drawn on a beard, but the mustache he wore was attached with some kind of glue.
The effect reminded me briefly of the man in The Joy of Sex.
He’d substituted a white tuxedo shirt for the polyester one that came with the rental costume and left it unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. You could see the hair on his chest.
Guests were starting to arrive by now—couples I recognized from the club, mostly, along with their children. Pam Oliver was there, though not her husband. “We’re separated,” she announced, within the first sixty seconds of her arrival. “Thank God Almighty, free at last!” she crowed.
Olivia’s mother, Phyllis, had also shown up, along with her husband (the one whom she had described to Forrest as in need of training on how to be a more attentive partner).
He was a pleasant-enough looking man, who eyed Forrest warily, with the air of someone who recognized the possibility that his host and his wife had a history.
“Methinks ye could use a G she was consuming calories in triple-digit numbers.
No words came out of her. No way they could. Her mouth was full; Boston cream pie and whipped cream were oozing down onto her chin.
There seemed only one thing to do then. I reached for a spoon myself.
I stepped closer to the counter. I dug into the pie and took a bite.
I licked my lips. I tried to act like this was normal behavior.
I, the girl who struggled, herself, trying to figure out what normal was.
The two of us stood there at the counter for several minutes until the last of the pie was gone.
Finally Regina spoke, though her speech was slurred.
“This will be our secret,” she said.
I ran up to my room and put the precious book in my drawer. Then I headed back to the waterfront. I knew Forrest would be needing me to help get the children loaded into the canoe. More than this, I wanted to get out of there.
It took longer than we bargained for, getting the boats lined up.
Over an hour, at least. As much of a charmer as Forrest was, he possessed none of Regina’s skill at getting a job done efficiently.
Every time a few boats got in line, someone else would need to come in between them, requiring a lot of jockeying for positions.
One family’s Boston Whaler got tangled up in someone else’s anchor.
Another couple had trouble getting the engine started on their Grady-White.
It turned out they needed fuel, which took another half hour.
The guests were getting restless. Children were cranky. A few people were drunk now. Prudence brought down the desserts—remarking, as she did, that her Boston cream pie seemed to have disappeared.