Yet—my chores happened on autopilot. All I could think about was the lake. I heard it, the waves and the wind, as I made my coffee, as I got dressed, as I walked to the studio past all the empty buildings. I saw it through the windows beyond my painting every time I raised my eyes. No wonder Jack, and Jes, and Marlin, and Tyler were never here, I realized. The lake was too loud. It would never let them forget.

Humility

Humility

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

On Friday morning, a tattooed courier stood in the carport, holding out a creamy white envelope with my name drawn in cursive across the front. I thanked her, still groggy. She nodded, climbed on a motorcycle, and sped away without another word.

It was an invitation, letter-pressed onto a card stock too thick to bend:

MAX DE LACY and CHARLES ELIOT
DEMAND the honor of your presence
at their annual SUMMER PARTY
JUNE 10 // 7 PM

ELIOT HOUSE // UNION VALE, NEW YORK
dinner // drinks // dancing!!!! BLACK TIE !!!!

The party was tonight.

I was a late inclusion—obviously—but it didn’t matter. Max could have thrown an intimate dinner party with her mean friends from college and I still would have gone. That’s how desperate I was to see other people.

The day was spent cleaning up after the hurricane that Prudence had left in Marlin’s studio, working mechanically with the radio on, trying to sort and clean and scrape and sanitize, until the familiar chimes of All Things Considered came on at four o’clock.

I poured a drink and started picking the plastic and paint off my arms. My sunburned skin was sore to the touch, but the color, mercifully, had faded from tomato to peach. I did my nails, teased my curls into their fluffy champagne cloud, and put fresh masking tape over the glue bandage on my leg and injured ankle.

But I had nothing to bring, and nothing to wear. I hopped in my truck and drove the forty-five minutes into Hudson, intending to buy a bottle of wine and a dress. I parked, threw two quarters in the meter, and let myself stroll a few blocks of the sidewalks. At some point I passed a young couple pushing something I recognized from Tribeca: a four-thousand-dollar Silver Cross baby carriage. The dad had neck and face tattoos, wore a collared black cotton sweatshirt and matching drop-crotch sweatpants, and exuded an air of complete detachment; the mom, young enough to be in high school, wore a wispy, thrift-store dress, her arms covered in tattoos and cut scars, and a three-, maybe four-carat diamond ring.

I walked into a wine store and asked for a summer red. They came back to me with some wonderfully cold bottles in a clear, light-red color, a red Sancerre, they said, and I handed over my credit card.