There were four cars parked side by side, and she considered leaving; the last thing Bridget wanted was to have lunch with actual people. It was bad enough having to face her sister and father in sweatpants. A quick look at the cars, however, convinced her that she wasn’t getting pulled into a photo op: a beat-up pickup truck, Gwen’s Range Rover, a minivan, and, on the far side, a Subaru with a half-ripped-off I Brake for Chipm— sticker.
In an effort to primp, she tilted the rearview mirror down, checking her face and trying to run her fingers through her unbrushed hair; it was a lost cause. She got her purse and phone from the passenger seat, and walked across the cobblestone courtyard to ring the bell. It made a deep, soft gonging sound. Bridget had never had a key to the Castle; there was always someone manning the door.
The door opened silently, and her sister, Gwen, appeared on the other side. Gwen smiled, put her finger to her lips, and pointed down the hall to the living room, where Mahler’s Fifth was playing on Edward’s fancy sound system. Bridget stepped out of her shoes and left them in the row next to all the others, as Gwen took her hand and led her barefoot into the kitchen. Not until the heavy swinging door closed behind them did Gwen say, “You’re here!” giving Bridget a hug with her perfectly toned arms. “Welcome to another summer in crazy town.”
Bridget, assuming Gwen had been stuck in the living room for one of Edward’s famous listening session slash musicianship lectures, said, “Did I just rescue you?”
“No, he’s wrapped up with some musicologist from, I don’t know, Yale or Harvard probably,” Gwen said. “Nicholas somebody. They were talking for at least an hour when I heard this nightmare start playing.”
Bridget laughed. “Nightmare?”
“I hate Mahler, always have. And don’t try to shame me. Do you think they’re going to listen to the whole godawful thing? It’s making my teeth itch.”
“At least it’s not as long as the Second Symphony, so be grateful.”
Checking the time on her phone, Gwen said, “I wish I’d known you were coming. I made plans.”
Bridget began to realize that she’d missed something. Gwen was not dressed for lunch, and what they were hearing from the speakers was only the first movement of the symphony. Edward wouldn’t be coming out of the living room anytime soon.
“Our lunch was moved to tomorrow,” Gwen said. “You should check your email more often.”
“My computer blew up, and I—” Bridget had to think before she could remember her very reasonable excuse. “I got electrocuted.”
Gwen tilted her head, looking concerned. “Sweetie. Is that what happened to your hair?”
Bridget ignored her.
“Whoever the guy is in there, he’s clearly more important than us,” said Gwen.
“That’s okay. Tomorrow’s better for me anyway,” Bridget said, relieved she could go home.
Gwen picked up a turquoise Nalgene bottle and filled it with water. “Did you hear Dad hired a new assistant?”
Edward’s assistants rarely stuck around. He hired smart, young people, usually with degrees in arts administration, and expected them to anticipate his every need, understand his every thought, and be quick about it. They needed a musical background, administrative smarts, and thick skin, an elusive combination.
“Jacob,” Bridget said. “I met him already.”
“Jacob’s gone. It’s Jackie now.”
Bridget wasn’t surprised. “At least their names are similar,” she said.
“I talked to her for a few minutes on the phone this morning, and she seemed nervous.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “I said something about what it’s like here, bear sightings, lightning storms, psychotic composers, and she got very quiet.”
“You scared her on purpose.” Bridget started to ask Gwen how she was doing, but the answer was as clear as the sparkle in Gwen’s eyes and the flex of muscle showing through her expensive patterned yoga pants. She’d never had kids, and Bridget wondered if that was why she looked so damn young and perky. Once a week she interviewed visual and performing artists, writers, and thinkers, on camera from her living room on Fifth Avenue; she made introverted men and women feel comfortable and extroverts feel deep. She brought out the most interesting parts of people and sometimes got them to divulge secrets. Her interviews were run in a segment each week as part of a popular program on Netflix called Influence. Everything she’d ever gotten from Edward—her contacts, her conversational skills, her ability to hold people’s attention, and her money—she’d put to excellent use.
Bridget picked up her keys.
“Don’t go yet,” Gwen said.
“I have to take a shower,” said Bridget, feeling sorry for herself. “I slept terribly, and my morning got off to a rotten start.”
“Same,” Gwen said. “I’m a mess.”
Gwen was not a mess. Gwen was never a mess, not as a child, not throughout her bad marriage, and not since her divorce. Even now, she looked like she was auditioning for the part of a celebrity fitness trainer with her hair pulled back into a slick ponytail and her zip-up, fitted, white Nike sweatshirt. Bridget’s top was a stretched-out knit sweater she was pretty sure had once belonged to her son, and her mismatched socks had bright yellow stars on the left one and black and green stripes on the right.
“But I’ll be better once my masseur arrives,” Gwen said.
“How did you find a masseur around here?”
“I asked Meryl Streep.”
Bridget flashed a look: Are you kidding me? Gwen had a way of dropping names effortlessly into conversations in a way that made her life seem ideal and glamorous, which it hadn’t always been. Bridget liked to keep her circle small, whereas Gwen’s grew and grew over time, and she loved the idea, not of showing this fact off, but of introducing all of her favorite people to each other.
“I injured my left shoulder yesterday,” Gwen said, “and since I promised I’d come this weekend, I asked Meryl for the name of someone local. I’m hoping I’ll be okay to go riding later. Are you hungry?” Gwen said with a quick lift of her eyebrows.
Not only was Bridget hungry; she also knew exactly what she was hungry for. Gwen went to the fridge for skim milk, while Bridget got glasses and pulled two big chocolate chip oatmeal cookies from a jar on the counter. They sat on stools at the island, and Bridget pushed up her sleeves.
“I can’t wait for you to meet Sterling.”
“I’ve met him before, around five years ago at the New Yorker Festival.”
“I mean get to know him. He’ll be here for eight weeks, and we’ve never spent this much consecutive time together.” The idea was both thrilling and mildly terrifying. Bridget got her phone and showed Gwen a bad selfie: Sterling’s face was too close for comfort, and her eyes were closed.
“Adorable,” said Gwen flatly. “How old is he?”
“Fifty-six.” Bridget took a bite of her cookie and swiveled on her stool. “But,” she said with her mouth full, “he looks like he’s in his forties.”
“My producer sent me his new novel.”