Everybody Rise (6 page)

“Stealth mode?” he said. “Do tell.”

“Well, I have to be careful about what I say—our backer is high profile—but think a super elite Facebook. It's pretty restrictive in terms of membership, though—oh, excuse me for a second, would you?” Evelyn walked off, hoping she'd left Nick wanting more. Charlotte had gone to the bar, standing on her tiptoes and talking to Preston, and Evelyn joined them.

“Beer? We have Ubu, though be warned it has the alcohol level of straight liquor,” Preston said.

“Gin and tonic,” Evelyn said.

“Gin and tonic?” Preston repeated, surprised.

“Yes.” Evelyn could see Charlotte's questioning look but ignored it. They then heard a crash, as Scot had apparently tripped and caught himself on the screen door. His face was deep red as he clung to the flimsy wood-and-screen frame.

“What's his story?” Evelyn asked Charlotte quietly, as Preston cut into a lime and the rest of the group pretended, kindly, not to have seen anything amiss.

“Scot? I don't really know him, but he's really smart. Graystone would hire him in a second. Undergrad somewhere random, HBS a couple years before me, where he met Greenbaum through some professor. I can't remember the story, but Greenbaum recruited him and made him a VP in a hot second. Single, obviously. He's brilliant on deal analysis, apparently. Nick can't stand him, though—Scot's a level above him now—but he's smart enough to get Scot on his side. Blatant suck-up-ery.”

“Hmm.” Evelyn turned to Preston. “Pres, could you make that two G and Ts?” She stepped into a pool of sunlight and put what she hoped was a placid look on her face.

Charlotte snorted when she saw the beatific smile Evelyn was displaying. “Ev, why do you look possessed?”

“Not possessed, Charlotte, dear. In recruitment mode.” PLU was going to need up-and-coming people on the site at some point. It would be smart to at least make the connection now. With the fresh gin and tonic in her hand, Evelyn approached Scot and offered it to him. “I thought you could use a drink after the long train ride,” she said.

”Oh. Gosh. Thanks. Thank you.” He wrapped his large fingers around it, sloshing some over the side onto Evelyn's hand; she let the liquid sit there rather than wringing it off and risk making him feel even more ill at ease. “I was late because I thought Hamilton's dog treats were cookies and ate some,” he blurted.

Evelyn gave him an it-happens-to-everyone smile.

*   *   *

At dinner, served at a long wooden table with antler candelabras, hunting-themed place mats, and stiff wooden-wicker seats, Evelyn practiced. A dinner party with old-money sorts was a series of hurdles that Evelyn had to clear if she wanted to come away from this weekend with PLU members. She remembered much of the etiquette that her mother had burned into her once they moved into Sag Neck, and as she flirt-talked with the ancient neighbors seated on either side of her, she revived her muscle memory to scoop her soup spoon away from her.

Still, she felt like an interloper. She was constantly afraid of using the wrong fork or overreaching for the salt or making some other mistake she wasn't even aware she was making. Like Scot, on the opposite end of the table, who was failing miserably. Evelyn had assumed that he'd have gone through enough HBS and firm dinners to pick up the rules of this set, but she detected as she watched him that he didn't know what he didn't know. He picked up his fork for the appetizer and dug in before anyone else, prompting a loud, “I have picked up my fork,” from Mrs. Hacking several moments later. He buttered his bread in one piece; he passed the saltshaker without the pepper; he didn't seem to have any idea what to do with the fish knife during the sole course and left it at the side of his plate.

Part of the game, Evelyn thought as she watched the rest of them separating the sole's flesh from its spine with their fish knives, was to prove that they all knew the same code, that they'd all grown up in the same great country houses using fish knives every night. They hadn't, of course—no one did anymore—but without any actual aristocracy in America, the best those who wanted to be upper class could do was create systems of exclusivity and codes of conduct. She wondered how well she was passing as she used her fish knife to lift a delicate flake of sole from the spine and turned to Mr. Desrochers to inquire about how iron-ore mining had changed in the last decade.

During dessert, Scot used his spoon to break into a chocolate torte and then dumped milk into his espresso shot, earning a sharp cough from Mr. Van Borgh on Evelyn's left.

Scot soon made himself welcome to at least Mr. Hacking, though, given the homework he had done.

“Shuh-shuh-gah is one of the great camps?” Scot was saying.

“It was once,” Mrs. Hacking said. “Split up and sold for parts when the Levelings needed money.”

“We'll see one of the great camps tomorrow,” said Mr. Hacking, an even thinner model of Preston who spent minimal time in the great outdoors but for golfing. He was taking dollhouse-spoon-sized bites of his torte, chewing each bite so mildly and slowly that Evelyn feared they would be at dinner for hours longer. “Camp Sachem. They're having the dinner for the Fruit Stripe.”

“I read about that camp,” said Scot with excitement. “It was a Rockefeller camp, wasn't it?”

“Thank you for not tipping your chair,” Mrs. Hacking said to her husband, who righted himself quickly.

“No, you're thinking of Wonundra,” Mr. Hacking said. “Sachem was owned by, among others, the Stokes family, the merchant line. A daughter inherited everything and then married into the Hennings, who, of course—”

“The Beech-Nut fortune!” Scot said, unable to contain his excitement.

Mr. Hacking looked immensely sad that his punch line had been stolen, and he gave a dour nod.

“The Beech-Nut fortune was a grand fortune,” Mr. Van Borgh opined through what sounded like ounces of phlegm; Evelyn tried to shield her torte from his spray. “Built much of the Erie Canal. And the Henning girls always married well. A Vanderbilt here, a Hunt there. Smart, I think, to limit the breeding. Kept it in the family.”

“What do you mean?” Evelyn asked.

“Primogeniture. The Hennings kept it at one child per generation. One reason why the camp was never carved up between fighting siblings. Direct inheritance. No fuss. Sachem über alles. That's the ticket.”

“Hold on,” said Charlotte. “They limited the number of kids they had so they could keep the camp in one piece?”

“Yes. Rather clever. Of course, Souse, who owns the camp now, didn't hew to that, did she? At least she had two girls, not two boys. Less of a fuss. Do you sail, child?” Mr. Van Borgh said.

Charlotte looked taken aback by this turn in conversation. “Not really. I mean, I can, but—”

“The Fruit Stripe, that's the Hennings' legacy as well. Souse runs the thing. You ought to race in it Sunday.”

“Fruit Stripe? Like the gum?” Charlotte said.

“It's a Beech-Nut gum,” Mr. Hacking said. “The company gave a chunk of money for the race years ago, when Souse threatened that either she was going to run for a board seat or the company had to fund this race.”

Something snapped into place, and Evelyn turned to Mr. Van Borgh. “Beech-Nut,” she said quietly. “Are they related to Camilla Rutherford?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Van Borgh said, wheezing away. “That's one of the daughters. Camilla is the elder, Phoebe the younger.”

Evelyn licked her lips, surprised at the whirr of excitement she was feeling. Camilla had been her top target for the weekend, and here, with barely any work, Evelyn already had an in to meet her. If she could land Camilla Rutherford as a member, she could make Arun and Jin-ho certain they'd hired the right person. “So the Fruit Stripe, that's their thing? The Rutherfords'?” she said.

“Yes, it's always been Souse's event, and she chooses what manner of race it will be each year. Participants have to have a boathouse full of all manner of boats; one year she chose Adirondack guide boats and only a handful of the camps had them at all and could participate. Indeed, Souse even changes what weekend it will be held every summer. When it's a May race, as it is this year, it's dreadful for the poor racers. So very cold. I prefer an August Fruit Stripe, myself,” Mr. Van Borgh said.

“Understandably,” said Evelyn. Of course the inhabitants of this world, she thought, would constantly change the rules of their race.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Camp Sachem

On Saturday, Evelyn roused herself at eight. No one else was up, or rather, those who were up were already gone, pursuing some character-building goal; Charlotte was on a run, and Mrs. Hacking had left a “Help yourself!” note in the kitchen, next to a big bowl of fruit, a thermos of coffee, and a good-looking walnut bread. Evelyn chewed on a piece as she rifled through the
Journal
, which was also sitting there, trying to position herself as an interesting conversationalist tonight; she wasn't sure what Camilla and her ilk would want to talk about. She marched through a story on the teetering housing market and the exurban housing developments that were now in danger, particularly in Arizona and California. Next was a personal-finance story about why adjustable-rate mortgages made sense for middle-income consumers. Finally, the Marketplace section, and a story that Walmart, encouraged by the economy, was trying to go upscale with more expensive milk, neater aisles, and designer clothes. She repeated the tenets of each story back to herself, like she'd done when memorizing Marlowe at Sheffield, then neatly folded the paper so it looked untouched and tucked it back where she had found it.

After a slow round of golf that took up almost the entire day, Evelyn was starving by the time the group was supposed to leave for the party at Camp Sachem. Or the dinner at Camp Sachem—she couldn't figure out precisely what tonight's event was. Invitations at Lake James were always vaguely presented and executed. Sometimes “drinks” meant a glass of wine, and sometimes it meant a formal five-hour dinner crammed with toasts and stories of boarding-school exploits. She wondered if the hostesses of Lake James made their decisions on the spot, evaluating the hardiness of the various houseguests before they promoted them to a full-fledged meal.

Charlotte, who'd fit in a quick dip in the lake after golf, had dashed into the shower, leaving her sweaty golf clothes and wet bathing suit on the floor between the beds. Evelyn nudged them beneath Charlotte's bed with her toe and took a final look at herself in the mirror. She took off her headband, then, last minute, shimmied into the lime Lilly Pulitzer dress she'd brought.

From the laundry room across the hall, she heard Mrs. Hacking taking things out of the dryer. Evelyn walked to the laundry-room door, announcing her presence with a tap on the doorframe.

“Oh, hello, Evelyn!” Mrs. Hacking said, her arms full of sheets. “We were just getting ready to leave. I'm running behind.” She wore a double-breasted blazer with brass buttons and white pants, a confidence-inspiring ship's captain.

“What can I do? Do you need me to take those sheets somewhere?” Evelyn said. The day so far had been expensive. Someone had to pay for the dinners and the outings and the drinks, and Evelyn worried it was becoming obvious that that someone was never Evelyn. Preston had paid for the greens fees, Char had covered the golf-club rentals, Scot lunch at the club, and Nick a round of drinks. Chrissie got a pass, as she was Bing's girlfriend. The bottle of Veuve Evelyn had brought up, which cost her $90, had been rendered pitiful when she saw the two cases of it in the Hackings' pantry. She reached for a sheet and began to fold it before Mrs. Hacking could protest. Evelyn would need to offer payment in work if she wasn't going to cover other costs. Evelyn knew her place: she would volunteer for the bad rooms and she would help with the laundry and she would wash the dishes, as she had last night.

When she'd finished the folding, she laid out a box of Parmesan straws from the pantry on a tray, at Mrs. Hacking's direction, and took them down to the dock. Several yards ahead of her, Nick and Preston, in sockless loafers and sunglasses, and Scot, in what appeared to be Tevas, were strolling down to the water over the shallow stone stairs. After the rest of the group gathered on the dock, the smell of gasoline strong, Mr. Hacking, following directions from Mrs. Hacking, shoved the Chris-Craft from the dock and sprang in. Bing was off with some friends of his from Tuck, and Pip had lobbied to stay at home, though she looked like she regretted this decision when Chrissie announced that she would babysit and they could play Scrabble.

Scot sat on the floor of the boat, his long legs jammed up against the motor covering in front of him, and Charlotte sat precariously on the gunwale. As Mrs. Hacking slowly backed out of the boathouse, and Mr. Hacking began to fill plastic tumblers with wine, Evelyn balanced herself next to Charlotte.

“So I'm totally on-plan, Char,” Evelyn said.

“With PLU? What, have you signed up Mrs. Hacking?”

“Nope, but the camp we're going to, Sachem? It's Camilla Rutherford's camp and she's, like, target number one for PLU.”

“She summahs in Lake James, how mahvelous,” Charlotte said. “Who is she?”

“Camilla? Well, she has a bit of a complicated history. She went to St. Paul's—”

“Of course,” Charlotte said, biting into her cheese straw. St. Paul's was as preppy as schools came, and Charlotte had become fascinated with it at Sheffield after she swam against them and noted the whole girls' swim team carried monogrammed towels.

“Your favorite. Then Trinity for college, but in her senior year her parents got divorced. You have to have heard of them. It was on Page Six basically constantly. Susan, Souse, is the mother. And her father is Fritz Rutherford.”