The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing - Melissa Bank [30]
I say no and she sighs. "It was the way he said 'we.' I don't know." She thinks a minute. "It's dumb."
"He's brought Laurel," I say. "She's very nice."
"Great," she says with zero enthusiasm. "Where is he?"
"Liquor store."
Laurel comes out of the bedroom. She's just gotten up. "Hi," she says.
A few minutes later, P. K. follows me into the kitchen; she's taken off her stockings and shoes and put on my black T-shirt over her pleated skirt. "This one is no bimbo," she says softly.
I put her to work on the salad.
Laurel joins us. Now she's awake, and her hair is loose and curly to her shoulders. "How can I help?" she asks, and P. K. hands her the lettuce.
Barney comes back from the liquor store. When he sees P. K. he puts the bags down right where he is, which happens to be on the living-room floor, and hugs her. "Well, Counselor," he says, rubbing her back.
He sets up the dining room, and turns on the radio. Gladys Knight's version of "Heard It Through the Grapevine" is on. We're all dancing and singing, "Guess you wonder how I knew," when Isabelle and Giancarlo arrive.
Isabelle is the great beauty of the family. Tonight she's wearing motorcycle boots that make her look like she's nine feet tall. "Hey, you," she says, hugging Barney. She introduces Giancarlo all around. He's got a square jaw and long dark hair, and he is very handsome, very Italian.
When Barney introduces Laurel, Isabelle is breezy. She plays the glamour-puss, but that's not who she really is.
There's no room for her and Giancarlo in the kitchen, so they take drinks to the living room. I tell P. K. to go keep them company, but she says, "You go, Barney."
We all settle into the living room for cocktails. I'm on the footstool, and Barney leans all the way down to me and says in my ear, "They're bonding," meaning P. K. and Laurel. He kisses my head and stands up.
"Hey you guys," Isabelle says. "I've got a surprise." She turns to Laurel. "Has Barney told you anything about Water Mill?"
"A little."
"That's where Barney and I spent our formative years. It was a cooperative farm." To Giancarlo, she says, "Comunista." She describes the apple orchards, the other families, and how we used to cross the river to hear folk concerts.
P. K. is riveted. She feels she missed out on the good ol' days, and she isn't wrong.
Giancarlo is gazing at Isabelle, studying her face; I can't tell if he's madly in love or doesn't understand English.
"Cut to the chase, Iz," Barney says.
"No," P. K. says. "Go on."
Isabelle looks away from me, to Barney and then to P. K. and says, "Dad and I went up there last weekend." She pauses. "Remember we heard it was leveled?"
Barney nods.
"It was," she says. "Except for one thing." She takes photographs out of her bag. "Voila!" She passes them out.
They are pictures of the tiny village Barney built behind our house. We had the gardener's cottage, and Barney took over the huge flower bed at the end of the lawn. There was construction going on all over the estate, and Barney endeared himself to anyone who'd give him anything for his village. He got slate for the roofs, metal for his bridges, and blue glass for the swimming pools. He made hills and valleys, even a river, and dozens of brick-size houses out of his "secret formula"—a cement-and-stone mixture.
Now he gives Laurel a tour, pointing at the photograph. "Baseball diamond, drive-in movie theater ..."
P. K. says, "It looks so real."
Isabelle says, "Because everything's gone. There's no scale."
Which stops me. I look at the picture. The place where our house once stood is smooth orange dirt, crisscrossed with bulldozer tracks. "It's a ghost town," I say.
Barney nods. "Yup," he says.
Isabelle says, "Your Topia."
Barney's expression is dreamy, and I can tell he is remembering.
Isabelle says to Laurel, "Barney overheard the grownups talking about Utopia."
I remember Ben's speeches about creating our own world, and for a second I am myself at thirty-four, sitting Indian-style, Barney's head in my lap; we're in a big circle with all the families, at the