Class - Cecily Von Ziegesar [54]
Eliza was very good with the map. They took the Merritt Parkway south from Darien, getting off at the Round Hill Road exit in Greenwich. Round Hill led to Bedford Banksville and on to Greenwich Road, followed by Oliver, a country road with only a few large properties. Number 149 was all the way at the end, a stately gray colonial with a wide front porch, a pink door, and a vast green lawn punctuated by mounds of raked leaves. Elegant old trees surrounded the property. A deep flower bed skirted the house, wherein hunkered November’s spoils of rhododendrons, hydrangeas, hostas, lilacs, lilies of the valley, irises, and peonies. Beside the house was a fenced-in tennis court, and behind that a swimming pool covered with a green tarp. A black Jeep Cherokee a few years older than Tom’s was parked outside the two-car garage.
Shipley eased the car around the cul-de-sac where the road ended and circled past the house again. Indiana Jones, the Fergusons’ arthritic Bernese mountain dog, rose from his roost by the front door, gazed at them curiously, and then lay down again. A middle-aged couple and their grown-up son sat in white wooden Adirondack chairs on the porch, eating pie.
“Is this Tom’s house?” Eliza pressed her face against the window. “Do you think those are his parents?”
“Yes,” Shipley said, barely breathing. The house was bigger and more authentic somehow than her own. She imagined the whole family played doubles tennis together, and Tom’s dad had probably taught the boys to swim. Tom’s mother was probably passionate about her flowers, and everyone pitched in to rake the leaves. Shipley’s mother employed a gardening service staffed by migrant Mexican workers. Her family never did anything together except go on an annual Caribbean beach vacation, during which they would sit in separate locations on the sand, depending on their tolerance to the sun, reading books.
Eliza put her window down and stuck out her arm to wave.
“What are you doing?” Shipley hissed. To her horror, the entire family stood up and descended the porch steps, pie plates balanced in their hands. As they approached, Shipley recognized Tom’s features in all of them. He had his mother’s blue eyes, her thick brown hair, and her determined chin, but he was built like his father. His father even walked in the same floppy-footed style, like he’d never quite grown into his feet. Tom’s older brother, Matt, was blond and stocky, but with the same blue eyes and chin.
“What do we say?” Shipley whispered.
Eliza was never at a loss for words. “Hi there,” she called. “We’re friends of Tom’s. He asked us to stop by and apologize for him not coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“How nice of him to send you as envoys,” Mrs. Ferguson quipped. “Would you like a slice of pecan pie? It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and lowered her voice. “Highly alcoholic.”
Eliza laughed and glanced at Shipley, whose face and neck were flushed pink. “Sorry, but we can’t. We’re actually sort of late for our own Thanksgiving.” She jabbed her thumb at Shipley. “We’re having it at her house, in Greenwich. This is Tom’s girlfriend, by the way. This is Shipley.”
“Hi,” Shipley croaked.
Matt chuckled. “So you’re Shipley. I’ve heard a lot about you. We all have. Apparently you’re the love of his life. He’s going to marry you one day.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Shipley giggled and gripped the steering wheel to steady herself.
Mr. Ferguson leaned against the car and ducked his head into Eliza’s open window. He smelled like freshly laundered sheets