Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [87]
—That’s Holly’s yawl, Jack explained.
—His baby, Generous corrected. He leaves it bobbing on its buoy so everyone can ooh and aah. Anyhow. Your friend was going on and on about the boat and just like that, all nonchalant, Holly says, Why don’t you two take her for a spin? Well, you could have burned us to the ground like Atlanta—Holly lending his boat! But he and Tinker had planned the whole thing, you see—the swim on the dock, the on and on, the nonchalance. There was even a bottle of bubbly and a stuffed chicken stowed on board.
—What does that tell you? asked Jack.
—That someone’s thrown in the towel, said Bitsy.
There it was again. That slight stinging sensation of the cheeks. It’s our body’s light-speed response to the world showing us up; and it’s one of life’s most unpleasant feelings—leaving one to wonder what evolutionary purpose it could possibly serve.
Jack held up an imaginary trumpet and gave it a bah bup bup baah as everyone laughed.
—But here comes the best part, said Jack, egging Generous on.
—Holly assumed they’d be out for an hour or two. Six hours later, they still hadn’t come back. Holly began worrying they’d made a run for Mexico. When up to the dock come two brats in a dory. They say they came across Splendide—run aground on a sandbar. And the man on board promised them twenty dollars if they could find him a tow.
—God save us from romantics, said Bitsy.
Someone ran up wild-eyed, choking with laughter.
—They’re coming in. Towed by a lobster boat!
—We’ve got to see this, said Jack.
Everyone made for the terrace. I made for the front door.
I suppose I was in a state of modified shock; though God knows why. Anne had seen it coming for months. Wyss too. The whole crowd at Whileaway seemed prepped and ready to gather on the dock for the impromptu celebration.
Waiting for my coat, I looked back toward the great room. It was emptying out as the last gawkers made for the French doors. A man a little older than me in a white dinner jacket stood in front of the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he seemed lost in sober reflection. Cutting in front of him, a celebrant grabbed a magnum by the neck and then knocked over an urn filled with hydrangea while heading back outside. The dinner-jacketed man watched with an expression of moral disappointment.
The footman returned with my coat and I said thanks, conscious a moment too late that like the college boys at the beginning of the evening, I hadn’t looked him in the eye either.
—You’re not leaving us so soon!
It was old Mr. Hollingsworth coming in from the driveway.
—The party’s lovely, Mr. Hollingsworth. And you were so kind to invite me. But I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit under the weather.
—Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you staying nearby?
—I took the train in from the city. I was just going to ask someone to call me a cab.
—My dear, that’s out of the question.
He looked back toward the great room.
—Valentine!
The young man in the white dinner jacket turned. With his fair-haired good looks and serious mien, he seemed like a cross between an aviator and a judge. He took his hands out of his pockets and walked quickly across the lobby.
—Yes, father.
—You remember Miss Kontent. Wallace’s friend. She’s not feeling well and is headed back to the city. Can you take her to the station?
—Of course.
—Why don’t you take the Spider.
Outside, the Labor Day wind was scattering leaves to the ground. You could just tell it was going to pour. The rest of the weekend would have to be cribbage and tea to the tune of a banging screen door. The casinos would be shuttered, the tennis nets lowered, and the dinghies, like the dreams of teenage girls, would be dragged ashore.
We crossed the white gravel drive to a six-bay garage. The Spider was a two-seater, fire engine red. Valentine passed it, opting for the 1936 Cadillac, bulky and black.
Along the drive there must have been a hundred cars parked on the grass. One had its lights on, its doors