Home > A Palm Beach Scandal(7)

A Palm Beach Scandal(7)
Author: Susannah Marren

Still, she held back from introducing him to us, tough graders that we are. I see where Aubrey is going with this, that our approval matters less than he does. That she doesn’t care if Tyler isn’t more sophisticated or that our family will judge his every move. That’s why I catch my sister’s eye and wink. I do the smallest thumbs-up ever, the kind I taught her when she was in eighth grade at the Academy and searching for subtlety.

Aubrey does the same, smiling. The guys come close to where we stand.

“What do you think?” I open my arms wide, convey the space of our house-to-be.

“Wow. It will be something.” Aubrey pauses. “I read somewhere that houses are a big deal in a relationship. One of those monumental changes. A stressor.”

“Totally,” I say. “Katie Kutin sent me these anxiety texts, because after she started building her house on the ocean, she thought she’d lose it. I take what happened to her as a warning.”

“I’m not so sure that putting these ideas out there was friendly.” James sounds annoyed.

“She’s my best friend. If she can’t express what happened with her house—the truth about it—who can?” I ask. “She was trying to help me.”

“Right, but her work as a physician is grueling, Elodie, that’s a big part of it. Plus three children,” James says.

“Not that Katie’s saving lives can be compared to cultural programming, yet I believe her experience was separate from her kids and her career. She said that building a house is a black hole.”

James checks his iPhone. The sun streaks across the horizon as it sinks. Quickly we’re at nightfall.

“How’s her little boy—what’s his name?” Aubrey asks.

“Zachary. Adorable. Really, I try to spend time with him, since he’s my godchild. He comes with Katie to the Literary Society. When Katie’s on call—every other weekend in the ER—I sometimes take Zachary and Matt keeps the younger ones—with the nanny. Zachary’s five and easy—a book lover, too.”

“Isn’t their new house like right around the corner?”

I feel my sister’s question is skewed. Is she asking if we live on the same molehill?

“Yes, two streets over; she’s on Kings Road. She says that once she moved in, she was enticed. Then chained to the house and finally it’s an albatross. With some strange seduction that keeps going.”

“That’s grim,” Aubrey says.

We can’t help laughing. The men look at us. James of the clean-cut, chestnut-hair, broad-shoulder brigade, Tyler of the shaved-head, ripped-torso, dissenter squad.

“Hey, it’s going to be quite a house. Just like our digs,” Tyler says.

Digs. There is a slight freeze; then James says, “Elodie, you’ve been to Aubrey and Tyler’s place, haven’t you?”

“Yes, in October. When I had Columbus Day off. Mom had me bring duvets from Lucille’s on South County.”

“Duvets?” Tyler asks.

“They’re in the guest room closet,” Aubrey tells him. “I didn’t put them out yet. I haven’t even opened them.”

“Although it was an emergency delivery from Veronica,” I say.

Aubrey and I know what Veronica perceives as critical, including when one of her daughters is moving into a new place. James, too, gets her style. Tyler stands outside our invisible circle—he’s only just arrived. But how would he fit in? Will he ever fit in? He has walked into a period of our lives when James and I are filled with talk of kitchen cabinets, silent-flush toilets, or social aspirations and the ambushed subject: parenthood. When we lived on Riverside Drive and 101st Street with our dog Cupcake, an Airedale terrier, who could have predicted we would move back to Palm Beach within a year? I want to set my little sister free of any expectations—let her see where her life takes her. I’d like to whisper in her ear, Come and go. Be a visitor. Do not get caught in the web.

Although I haven’t asked him, plausibly Palm Beach meant little to Tyler before he met Aubrey. Tonight he must be saturated. Before he had time to recover from cocktails at our parents’, a true Veronica and Simon Show, James practically dragged us to our house, which is not much beyond skeletal. Except for the square footage, coming in at eleven thousand, large enough that one needn’t boast about it, the size is obvious. The copious closets and vast bathrooms seem obscene. Somehow the contrast of our home in the estate section with Aubrey’s rental apartment in South Beach, decorated in Ikea, feels like we’re braggarts, show-offs.

“C’mon, we’ll walk you guys around,” James says. “Before it gets too late.” James holds up a bottle of Chianti and hands me four plastic cups. With his free hand he dips into the metal storage chest. The workmen have stationed it near what will be our front door. He produces a battery-operated lantern and two ancient-looking Eveready flashlights.

“Are those from Green’s Pharmacy?” Aubrey asks. “Dad had them in the garage when we were growing up, didn’t he, Elodie?”

I nod. “For hurricanes.”

James hands Tyler a lantern and shines his own over the scaffolding and property.

“I don’t know,” I say. “We don’t have to do a tour. Does anybody need a tour?”

“We’re here, might as well.” James does a circle of light over the Intracoastal. A jagged shadow falls over our faces. Aubrey, my little sister, is exquisite.

“Right, right. Sometimes when we’re here, we can’t quite believe it. That we’re doing this. Building this,” I say.

“What a house. Great for a brood of young kids.” Tyler points to where the grand staircase will be. “Sliding down the banister!”

No one speaks for a beat. I imagine that my sister hasn’t filled Tyler in, given him the gory lowdown. I hold my empty wine cup out to James for a refill. He pours one for each of us. Then Aubrey clears her throat, takes Tyler’s hand. “Tyler’s right. It’s amazing.”

Again no one speaks. I try to read Aubrey’s face in the darkness. Who could blame her for wanting to head to South Beach now, skip the dinner, escape.

James holds up the bottle of Chianti. “Who wants more wine?”

Aubrey and I shake our heads, like we’ve rehearsed it, while Tyler thrusts his cup toward James. James pours as if he is a dashing host and we aren’t using plastic at a construction site. A future where he’ll stand on our stone veranda, pouring Patrón into our Tiffany Diamond Point highball glasses.

“Hey, good with me.” Tyler polishes off the wine.

For extra light he opens the flashlight app on his iPhone. He and James are ahead, male warriors on a mission. I stare at the two men as they stand together, both over six feet tall.

“We should be careful,” I say, avoiding the periphery, where one could fall two floors. I place my right hand below my belly button, as if I’m still pregnant. I tiptoe around, pointing to the scaffolding. “It’s rickety.”

James places his hand on my elbow. Tyler motions toward what will be the sunroom and a guest suite. He asks in a boom-box voice, “Up there, are those the bedrooms?”

The bedrooms. Including the nursery. Aubrey is watching in the dimness. Maybe it’s the first time in my life that she doesn’t seem in awe of me for anything. She comes close and slips her hand in mine.

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