The Summer We Read Gatsby (26 page)

This one was so well thought out that every sight line offered something else that was visually arresting, and I wandered through the space in awe. The energy of the house was happy, as though many generations of children had been born under its roof, though it was technically only a few years old. I couldn’t imagine anyone possessing such a gift, one that allowed them to create a home like this.

“When my dad died,” he said softly, “I gave my brother Seamus the lease on my apartment and moved out here full-time. I built this place with my father in mind. And I had to stay. I wanted to get away from the world. I’ve lived here for three years.”

“I wouldn’t want to leave here either,” I said, gazing about with admiration and wonder.

“I hardly did. After this summer, though, my brother’s moving to the suburbs. His wife is pregnant again with another boy.”

“So you’ll get back your old apartment?”

He nodded. “I think I’ll split my time. I like to work out here. I’ve got an office upstairs.”

The staircase to the second floor had a hand-crafted bronze railing Finn had designed himself. I knew this only because I asked him, but he did look pleased that I was so enthralled with the place. In fact, I was so busy admiring all of it, I missed a step going up and tripped over my feet.

“Am I making you nervous?” He laughed as he pulled me up, holding my hand lightly in his bigger one.

“Yes,” I said, telling the truth. He
was
making me nervous. He was so obviously talented, and despite my earlier conviction that there must something wrong with him that would explain why he was still single at his age, I couldn’t help being drawn to him. Our eyes met and we paused there, on the stairs. The physical tension between us was palpable and I strained toward him, half expecting that he would wrap his arms around me and put his lips to mine. Why else would he have invited me to his house? After a beat or two, though, he looked away and continued up the stairs with my hand in his. I was confused, not just by his behavior, but by my own. I kept telling myself I wasn’t ready to get involved with anyone at all, let alone someone who lived on the other side of the ocean from me. And yet there I was mooning up at him like a teenager in lust. Meanwhile, he didn’t seem to even notice. Was my imagination vivid enough to conjure up this kind of attraction? I hadn’t thought so, but perhaps I’d been more effective at getting my creative juices flowing than I believed.

Upstairs, he showed me his bedroom quickly—the bed with a simple metal frame piled high with crisp white pillows, linen curtains framing the window, a comfortable leather chair, a fireplace with a box of firewood, again, all of it so
neat
—and then the second bedroom and another room for music. This one was filled with vintage guitars, hanging from special clamps on the wall. “Check this out,” he said, pulling a banjo down from its spot. “This was Jerry’s.”

“Jerry Garcia? How did you get his banjo?”

He shrugged, holding it out so I could see it. “It was for sale. He’d given it to his driver, or so they told me.”

I took the banjo. It was heavier than I expected it to be, with a faded Grateful Dead sticker on one side. It didn’t have strings, so it couldn’t be played. “
Why
do you have this?”

“I’m a geek,” he said. “A fan. It’s probably not even real. I mean, I have a letter authenticating it. The guy who had it got from the driver, or so he said. But it could just as easily be worth
nothing
.”

I gestured toward the guitars. “Play something for me.”

“It’s been a while,” he said, but he pulled an old Les Paul from the wall and took a pick from a bowl he kept on a small table. There was a low sofa along one of the walls and we sat there. He propped one foot on the table and cradled the guitar in his lap. “How’s this?” He picked out a few chords and I recognized the tune. A Bruce Springsteen song.

He sang the beginning of the song in his unique, raspy voice. “We’ll walk together, side by side.” He had a really good singing voice, perfectly pitched, but with a hoarseness that made each word so sexy. It was one of those God-given talents that always fascinate me in their foreignness—the ability to carry a tune.

“You’re good,” I told him when he stopped. I could have listened to him play all night. “Really good.”

“Thanks.” He stood and held the guitar at his side, looking down at me, his eyes locked on mine. My heart flipped over. Now he was going to kiss me, that was obvious. And I was going to kiss him back. That was obvious too. But then he held out a hand to help me up. “I’d better get you home,” he said, pulling me to stand.

“Home?” I didn’t want to go anywhere, let alone home, wherever that was. My life in Switzerland seemed small and far away at that moment.

I started to head to the door. “You’re right. It’s late. I have to check on the dog. And who knows what Biggsy’s been up to in our absence?” I was determined not to let him know that I was disappointed, so I kept talking as he followed me back out to his car. “I met a guy tonight who collects first editions of books. Do you know that a first-edition
Gatsby
with a dust jacket is the holy grail for book collectors? I’ve been reading Lydia’s copy, an old hardcover with its dust jacket.” I was babbling, but he nodded as though I were making sense and we slid into our seats in the jeep for the short ride to Fool’s House.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked at the door. I was just being polite, I told myself. His actions up to now had made it clear we would not be having a physical relationship and that was absolutely fine with me. It was much better not to be distracted by him for the rest of my stay. I decided I would go with him the next day to visit his mother, only to ask her about the painting, and then I would put him out of my mind until my flight home, at which point it would be easy, I imagined—out of sight, out of mind—to forget all about him

He paused. “I do. I really do. But you’d better rest up for tomorrow. The Killians can be intense. If you have a lacrosse stick, you might want to bring it.”

“A lacrosse stick?” I laughed, holding the screen door open. “What would
I
be doing with a lacrosse stick?”

He shrugged. “My sisters-in-law will have extras. They always do.” He looked around. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay here alone?”

Biggsy’s motorcycle was not in its usual spot, so he obviously wasn’t around, but I assured Finn I’d be fine.

“I changed my mind,” he said suddenly, sliding past me into the house as Trimalchio wandered lazily in from the kitchen to greet us. “I’m coming in. In fact, I’m staying the night.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I protested.

He held up one hand. “I insist. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t,” I replied in a sharp tone. “There’s no need for misplaced chivalry.” I’d moved toward the coffee table in the living room, where I remembered leaving Lydia’s copy of
The Great Gatsby
after I’d spent a little time reading that afternoon on the porch.

Finn ignored my sharp tone. “I don’t trust that guy,” he was saying, gesturing through the screen door toward the garage. “You told me you thought he tripped you on purpose, didn’t you?”

“I’m a big girl,” I said, glancing over at the bookshelf. Perhaps I’d moved the book and didn’t remember. Or had Peck put it back on the shelf in an effort to tidy up? I was distracted and annoyed that he was foiling my plan to ignore him. I don’t need you to stay up on guard watch all night.”

“It’ll just be tonight. While Peck’s out,” he said, looking around as though assessing potential danger “The guy’s unstable. Who knows what else he might do?”

“I think he took my book, actually. Well, Lydia’s book.”

“The
Gatsby
?” He’d slipped off his shoes and was lying back on the couch like he was settling in for the night. Trimalchio, who’d gotten into the habit of sleeping at the foot of my bed, had hopped up next to him and curled into a ball. “That clinches it. I’m staying. I want to be here when he comes back.

I gave him an extra blanket from the closet under the stairs and got us each a glass of water before heading up to my own room, feeling very self-conscious. I thought there was no way I’d be able to fall asleep with Finn downstairs, but after a quick check of the rooms upstairs to look for the missing book, I got into bed. Within minutes I must have slept, and I didn’t stir until the light streaming through my window indicated that it was already late morning.

I wandered downstairs and followed the smell of coffee and bacon into the kitchen. There I found Finn in the exact position as the last time he was at Fool’s House in the morning, at the stove making omelets. “Good morning,” he sang out, as if it were totally normal that the two of us should be alone together on a Sunday morning. And it actually felt kind of ordinary. I thought I would have been caught up in the strangeness of having the morning-after without the night-before, but I’d slept so well I felt as relaxed as I’d been all summer. “Breakfast on the porch in three minutes. The newspaper and coffee are already out there.”

I made my way out to the porch, where Finn had set the table with Lydia’s linens and put out fresh-squeezed juices and glasses, a bowl of cut-up fruit, a pitcher of milk, and the sugar bowl, as well as the pot of coffee. I poured myself a cup and hugged it in two hands as Martin Sexton—another musician Finn and I had discovered we both liked—was on the stereo singing fittingly about feeling happy on a Sunday morning.

He came out a few minutes later with a platter piled high with eggs, bacon, and pancakes. “Dig in,” he said, depositing the platter in front of me. “I’ll just grab the syrup.” Then we sat on the porch with the newspaper, like an old married couple, eating and reading aloud to each other certain odd details of stories we found interesting. Finn was a politics junkie and had a lot to share about the race for president. Now, looking back, I realize something shifted between us that morning. But at the time I was only struck by the recognition that I was happy, just like the song that played like a sound track in the background. Happy wasn’t a state with which I’d been familiar, not in a long time, but it felt great.

Lydia would have gotten a big kick out of this, I thought to myself as I poured us each another cup of coffee from the pot. I could almost picture her grinning with delight as she gazed down from the heavens at Finn and me around the table. There was one rainy afternoon that last summer I was there, the summer I met Finn for the first time, that now popped into sharp relief in my memory. I was in the same bedroom—“the white room”—I always occupied when I visited Fool’s House, curled up with
The Beautiful and Damned
, which I went on to read after finishing
Gatsby
, when I heard her call for me from downstairs. Finn was taking his godson to Montauk, she yelled up the stairs, and she thought I might go with them. She’d been trying to push us together all summer, I remembered now. I didn’t want to go anywhere and I kept myself very still that afternoon on my bed, not answering, hoping she would think I’d gone out on my own, although I’d spent most of my time that summer reading, either on the porch or at the beach or in my room. She must have known I was in the house. It was pouring down rain, so I was obviously not at the beach. But I heard her tell him I’d probably gone to the market with Peck. He must have known that wasn’t true, because Peck and I didn’t willingly go very many places together that summer, but he left. And I remember feeling disappointed all of sudden that he was gone.

I was reading the Style section when I looked up to see Hamilton and Scotty making their way up the driveway, loaded down with newspapers and shopping bags and a to-go carton containing four paper cups of coffee.

“We come bearing news,” Scotty called out. At least I think that’s what he said. His Scottish brogue was so thick it wasn’t always easy to decipher his words.

“Literally,” Hamilton added, holding up a stack of newspapers. “We’ve brought every paper. Even the
Financial Times
. I love their weekend section.”

As they drew closer they assessed the scene before them: both of us with tousled hair, at the table with the Sunday
New York Times
spread all over it, and remnants of breakfast. “Look how cozy,” Hamilton intoned with approval. “Finn and our Cassie on a Sunday morning.”

“It’s not what you think,” I was quick to say. “Finn stayed on the sofa.”

They both stared down at us with suspicion. “Right,” Hamilton said, clearly not believing me. “Well, we’re obviously interrupting, so we’ll just go in and find Peck.”

“Peck’s not here,” I said. “And you’re not interrupting anything at all. We’re finished. Please join us.”

Scotty looked to Hamilton for guidance on whether to sit or not. “We brought breakfast,” he added. After a pause Hamilton held up the bag he was holding. “Fresh croissants,” he said, pulling out one of the chairs. “And cinnamon buns. One of the great seductions of American life.”

“I’ve never had one,” Scotty explained as he took a seat, once Hamilton had indicated that they should. He piled the newspapers on top of the one we’d already been reading and handed us each a paper cup of coffee. “Hamilton took me to a place called Ye Olde Bake Shop. Isn’t that charming?”

“Where’s Lady Pecksland?” Hamilton wanted to know.

I repeated that she wasn’t home but I didn’t offer any more information than that. This, of course, would never work with Hamilton, who liked to know
everything
and wasn’t ever too British to ask.

“Not home on a Sunday morning?” He raised his eyebrows in comic fashion. “Well, we know she’s not at church.”

“She’s at a friend’s house,” I said, trying to be discreet. That morning Peck had updated me via text messages that began WARNING: MAY CONTAIN TMI. (TMI = Too Much Information.) On this, she was absolutely correct. I really did not need to hear how many times Miles Noble was able to get it up in the hot tub. Much as I suspected, they
had
watched from behind a curtain hanging in a second-floor window until Finn picked me up. Then Miles suggested a swim in the indoor pool, which was lit with all those candles. When the houseguests attempted to join them, he suggested they swim in the outdoor pool if they were so inclined, and asked them not to disturb their host and Peck when they left in the morning.