Elin Hilderbrand - The Rumor

Lunch at the Galley was fun and special, despite Grace announcing every five minutes how fun and special it was. Grace took their picture at the entrance to the beautiful beachfront restaurant, and then, once they were all seated, she had their waiter take a photo of the three of them.

“These are my twin girls,” Grace announced, loudly enough for half the restaurant to hear. “I can’t believe how lucky I am today. This is so special.”

Hope turned to Allegra to shoot an eye roll, but Allegra was smiling at their mother in earnest.

???? Hope thought. Allegra seemed totally into the mother-daughter-daughter luncheon. It was weird. A month ago, if Grace had suggested this outing, Allegra would have flat-out refused. Or if Grace had guilted or threatened her enough, she would have sat sullenly at the table and texted the entire time.

Of course, now there was no phone and no one to text.

Grace ordered a glass of white wine, Allegra a Diet Coke, Hope an iced tea. They did a cheers. Grace said, “This is so fun! This is so, so special. Thank you for joining me.”

“You don’t have to thank us for coming to lunch with you,” Allegra said. “You’re our mother.”

Maybe Allegra is being nice in an attempt to become ungrounded, Hope thought. She was doing such a good job, it might actually work.

Grace ordered the gazpacho and the Gruyère-and-spring-onion omelet. Allegra ordered the lobster salad. Hope ordered the mixed greens with blueberries and goat cheese, and a side of fries. They were seated with a view overlooking the white beach, the lifeguard stand, the blue, green, and yellow umbrellas of Cliffside, and the placid blue water of Nantucket Sound. Sailboats dotted the horizon, and the steamship cut its way over to Hyannis. A breeze lifted the lip of the awning.

“As I’m sure you probably know,” Grace said, “the Boston Globe is coming to do a photo shoot and feature article on our garden next week. So Benton will be around a lot to help me get the garden ready.”

Allegra said, “Benton who?”

“Mom’s gardener,” Hope said. “He’s the one who gave me Lolita.”

“I really like that book,” Allegra said. “I mean, it’s disturbing, but it’s holding my interest. What are you reading, Hope?”

Hope said, “House of Mirth, Edith Wharton.”

Grace said, “I read that a million years ago, during my freshman year at Holyoke.”

“Maybe I’ll read that next,” Allegra said.

Hope thought, Where’s my sister?

They ordered a brownie sundae with three spoons, and Grace got a cappuccino and the check. As Grace paid the bill, Allegra nudged Hope under the table. Mrs. Kraft, their English teacher, was headed straight for them.

“Look at the lovely Pancik ladies lunching,” Mrs. Kraft said. She beamed at the table.

Grace stood up and gave Mrs. Kraft an air kiss. “Hello, Ruth.”

Hope wondered if she and Allegra would be expected to greet Mrs. Kraft in such a manner. Air kiss her English teacher? She couldn’t bring herself to do anything but wave. Ruth Kraft-all the kids called her Ruthie behind her back-had a cumulus cloud of frizzy brown hair. She had been trained as an opera singer, and her classroom trademark was to belt out those phrases to which she wanted to give emphasis. Allegra, especially, liked to imitate her.

Shall I compare theeeeeeeeeee to a summer’s daaaaaaaaaay!

Mrs. Kraft had given Allegra a D, but there was Allegra, beaming an angelic smile anyway, saying, “Hiya, Mrs. Kraft!”

Mrs. Kraft said, “And how’s our summer going?” Something about the way she sang it out made it sound like she was fishing for information. Was it possible that Mrs. Kraft had heard about Allegra getting caught drinking and smoking pot while modeling her underwear for Ian Coburn? If Mrs. Kraft knew, then it was official: everyone knew. Had Mrs. Kraft seen the photo? Hope felt seriously bad for her sister. News like that would quickly make its way around the faculty room in the fall, and Allegra would have no one to ask for letters of recommendation. Last week, Hope would have found this gratifying. But now, she and Allegra were like the Corsican Brothers; someone kicked Allegra in the shin, and Hope felt the pain.

“The girls were just talking about all the books they’ve been reading,” Grace said.

“Speaking of reading!” Mrs. Kraft said. She turned her attention now to Grace. “Have you heard about the new Madeline King novel? It’s supposed to be quite scandalous.”

“I haven’t heard a thing,” Grace said. And with a hand motion like the one Father Declan used at Mass, she indicated that the girls should both stand up. “I’ve been busy with the garden and the hens.”

“I just figured you would know about it,” Mrs. Kraft said. “Since you and Madeline are such close friends.”

“Actually,” Grace said, “Madeline and I aren’t speaking at the moment.”

This seemed to throw Mrs. Kraft for a loop-de-loop. She answered in a normal speaking voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry… open mouth, insert espadrille. I should never have brought it up.”

Grace smiled ruefully and fiddled with the clasp of her purse. “Probably not.”

Hope studied her mother. She wasn’t speaking to Madeline? This was outrageous news, so outrageous that Hope thought her mother was lying-but then she realized that there had been an absence the past week or so; her mother hadn’t been locked in her study on the phone with Madeline, like she usually was. Was it because of what had happened between Allegra and Brick? Or was it because Grace was so engrossed by Benton and the garden? Every once in a while, it occurred to Hope that her mother was a human being with her own complicated set of emotions. She wondered if Grace and Madeline had had a fight, like Allegra and Hollis. But weren’t Grace and Madeline too old for that kind of behavior?

Hope shifted her weight. She wanted to tell Mrs. Kraft to buzz off, go sing her arias or recite her sonnets, leave their mother alone. As if sharing this very same thought, Allegra spoke up.

“It was nice to see you, Mrs. Kraft. Enjoy your lunch.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Kraft said. She seemed so taken aback by this polite rebuff from her worst student that she wobbled on the wedge heels of her espadrilles. “Yes, thank you, I will.”

Hope gave Mrs. Kraft a second little wave-this one of farewell-and followed her mother and sister out of the restaurant.

Nantucket had a week of heat, and when Grace said heat she meant temperatures in the high eighties and low nineties. It was hot enough that the girls would come home from their volunteer jobs and jump right into the pool and Grace would stay inside with the central air-conditioning cranked unless she was tending the chickens or Benton was around.

Benton came only for a perfunctory hour, and he was all business. He couldn’t stay for lunch or for any other reason. His other gardens were in crisis, he said.

Because of the heat.

Then the heat broke, and they got two and a half days of relentless, pounding rain.

On the first rainy day, Benton texted: Not coming today. Staying home to catch up on paperwork.

Grace curled up in bed and fought off a migraine. Was she really going to consider leaving Eddie for this man?

The second day, he texted, Not coming today. Doing bills. BTW, I have a substantial one for Eddie, you might want to warn him?

Migraine. Grace thought, Not coming today to see the woman you love, or your pet project; sending Eddie a substantial bill, which would send Eddie through the roof. He was still complaining about Hester Phan’s fee, and when Grace had broached the matter of Madeline and Trevor’s fifty thousand dollars, Eddie had glared at Grace and said, Honestly, Grace, what do you think I do all day?

Madeline hadn’t responded to Grace’s voice mail, and Grace began to worry that she’d done further damage to the relationship. She went back and forth between believing that Madeline was writing a novel about her and Benton-Two of the women at this table will betray the person on their left-and thinking that it was just a bad rumor cooked up by Blond Sharon.

But then Ruth Kraft mentioned Madeline’s book, and Grace wondered how ditzy Ruth Kraft would have found out about it?

It must be true?

It couldn’t be true. Madeline would never, ever do that, no matter how angry she was.

Would she?

If it were true, Grace would… she would… well, she would be so mad that she couldn’t fathom what she would do. She had shared everything with Madeline in confidence! They had been friends for nearly twenty years!

Madeline would never, Grace decided. It was just a rumor.

Unless Madeline was exacting some kind of revenge.

Allegra is a cheater, and you, Grace, are a cheater.

What Madeline clearly didn’t understand was that Grace was in love. There was nothing she could do about it!

The pain in her head descended, pressure like a lead helmet, squeezing, squeezing, crushing her skull. She was in love; she was dying to talk to Madeline and get the mess sorted out, but really, Grace wanted only Benton.

On a trip to the bathroom-the only reason she rose from bed-she stared out the window at her soggy backyard.

A garden was no good in the rain.

Happiness restored. The sun came out. Benton returned with a big smile and a ferocious appetite for Grace. He loved her again. The big day was nearly upon them.

Lawn mowed and trimmed, beds weeded, roses blooming, perennial bed freshly mulched, daylilies deadheaded, pool skimmed, chaises arranged with pillows plumped, grill scrubbed, deck swept, canvas umbrella cleaned, Adirondack chairs wiped down, hammock tightened. Together, Benton and Grace walked every inch of the property, clipping blossoms for an arrangement, smoothing imperfections in the white shell driveway, filling the bird feeders.

“It’s ready,” Benton said. He kissed Grace deeply up against the side of his truck. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Clara Teasdale, the Boston Globe’s home-and-garden editor, and Big George, a Globe staff photographer, arrived in a car driven by Bernie Wu. Bernie and Grace were friendly because Bernie Wu’s daughter, Chloe, played the flute in the student orchestra with Hope. Apparently, Bernie felt comfortable enough in his friendship with Grace that he showed up forty-five minutes early and bypassed the front door. He walked Clara and Big George around the side of the house, to the backyard. He had stopped at the henhouse and pointed at each chicken, indiscriminately naming them, “Martha, Dolly, Eleanor, Ladybird, Hillary.” Bernie Wu’s wife was a big fan of Grace’s eggs and was good for five dozen a month.

Clara laughed at the names. “First ladies,” she said.

Grace and Benton were making fast, furious love in the garden shed, Grace clinging to Benton, wanting him farther and farther inside of her, wanting to become him. He thrilled her, he challenged her, he was her great big shining sun.

Grace heard what she thought were voices. Then, she clearly heard a female voice say, First ladies. She pulled away from Benton. “They’re here.”

“Already?” Benton said. He checked his watch. “Forty-five minutes early?”

Silently, they adjusted their clothes. Grace tried to smooth the wrinkles out of her pale-pink linen shift. “You ready?” she asked.

Benton nodded, and Grace swung open the door to the shed and stepped out to greet their visitors. Grace noted the confused expression on Bernie’s face when Benton followed her out. He was, at least, holding a rake and a clipboard.

Bernie then started speaking very quickly. Grace could tell he was nervous, but whether that was because he had overstepped his bounds by barging into the backyard or because he realized he had interrupted something, she wasn’t sure. Maybe he was just impressed by Clara and Big George and by the idea of Grace and Eddie’s yard being featured in the Boston Globe. Grace hoped that was it, and she endeavored to set everything back to normal while continuously smoothing the front of her dress. She tried not to think of Benton’s hands lifting it.

“Well, I’m off,” Bernie said. “I’ll be back here to pick you up at twelve thirty.” He gave Grace a smile of what seemed like genuine good luck, and she waved. Big George was already at the far edge of the property, shooting a stream of photos of the Adirondack chairs and the placid blue surface of Polpis Harbor beyond, framed by Grace’s blue lace hydrangeas.