Patrick came on a Thursday. It was several weeks before the end of the summer, a week or so after the workmen had finished fixing the veranda (I remember that with clarity, because it was the week following the house warming party that Devon and I had so deliciously imagined.
Devon’s friends, true to his word, came and restored the veranda – to a glory that must have surpassed that of its former days. We had decided we wanted an actual veranda — not a balcony or one of the decks that were so popular in those days. The floor, already a white marble laced with black and blue veins, was buffed and polished to be breathtaking. Potted plants, primarily small trees and blossoming shrubs, were artistically placed around the railings, and that half of the house was wired for electricity. Twinkle lights were hung elegantly in between rows of white Japanese lanterns. We bought a small antique piano and rolled it out onto the veranda as well, hired a student from town to play throughout the evening. The music trickled down from the veranda onto the grounds below, where crowds of people milled about in light colors and bare feet, sipping cool drinks and reveling in the evening air.
At the time, I assumed that most of the people were Devon’s acquaintances, but later I came to suspect that many were just neighbors and townspeople who happened to be passing by. Perhaps some were even visitors from the other peninsula; I gave it little thought. I was entranced by the party itself; it was the kind of party you see in movies or dreams.
Devon’s friends had outdone themselves with the renovations, without a doubt, but Devon had also recommended some landscape artists who came and transformed the gardens by the veranda into a Eden. I milled around, weaving through groups of people, words and laughter wafting around me as I soaked it all in. In the course of my wandering, I found Ben and Caroline, and though I hadn’t realized it until the minute I saw them, it occurred to me that they were the first familiar faces I had seen all night.
They waved me over to them, and drew me into their little circle. Their circle consisted of Yvonne (Ben’s assistant or fellow lawyer), her fiancé, and an older couple. Introductions were quickly formalized, and talk turned to the house itself. The older gentleman, Theo, was one of the partners at the firm Ben and Yvonne worked for, and had been interested in property along this peninsula for years.
“Not that I have considered buying anything in this area,” he clarified, and though there wasn’t a trace of condescension or superiority in his tone, I took the liberty to assume that if Theo was buying property, it would have been on the other peninsula. “I just like to watch the property here. See what happens to it. Who owns and how it goes.”
“It’s like his version of a soap opera,” his wife, Eleanor, teased, resting her hand on his arm gently.
They shared a comfortable laugh, and we all joined in. “It really is,” Theo agreed, sipping his drink. “It’s a funny little peninsula, and it attracts all sorts of characters. Sometimes all the houses have been owned by families with money, and sometimes they’ve all lain wasted and abandoned for years.”
I was intrigued; Theo and Eleanor were older – but not ancient. They could not possibly have been following the property for more than thirty-five years, and to have so much turnover in that period of time seemed far-fetched.
Most Americans owned their houses in those days and the foreclosure frenzy had not yet even been dreamed of. My house had been vacant for years and years, as I had first suspected when I saw the clipping, and as the realtors had proved when I purchased it.
“A soap opera and a history book,” Eleanor amended, as if reading my mind. “Theo traced these houses back to the beginning of the twentieth-century, when most of them were built, and sort of re-created their histories in his head.”
“That’s right,” Theo gave a single nod. “Been following them ever since.”
“What kind of people own the other houses?” Caroline asked.
“Hm.” Theo thought for a moment, a vague look settling behind his eyes. “A few lawyers, some retirees. A retired military, too, a colonel, I believe. Nice people. None of them live here year-round, though. Most of them just come up for the summers with their families – it’s a nice place for a summer home. I believe the colonel is thinking about selling soon. Good people.”
A nice place for a summer home. Yes, I thought, as soon as Theo said it; that was exactly true. I would turn this place into my summer home. I still had my apartment back in Texas, and as much as I loved my house, I was loathe to spend a winter in the East – I was not braced for that harshness. But a summer house was the perfect solution. I would come up with friends, rent a boat or two, and spend lazy days in the garden, on the dock, in the water, and having parties just like this one. I was certain that, by the next summer, I would have the entire place fully renovated. Bedrooms and bathrooms and the kitchen and living rooms all reborn – it would be the perfect place to whisk off to for a few months of bliss.
Theo and Eleanor wandered off a short while later, mingling easily with people, whether they knew them or not. I stayed with Ben and Caroline; we were quiet for a long time, sipping drinks and watching the world around us. There seemed little worth saying, and I caught myself wondering if small talk could dispell the scene entirely.
“It’s a lovely party,” Ben said kindly after a while. His voice was clear, unafraid of, or perhaps unconcerned with, shattering the mood.
And then, out of nowhere – to this day, I don’t know why I said it – I remarked with uncharacteristic coolness: “It’s the perfect party. I can’t imagine a better party ever. It’s all so beautiful. But I feel like it’s someone else’s party and I accidentally stumbled in.”
“Yes,” Ben said with a nod. “Parties on the Sound are always someone else’s party. Everyone gets dressed up and comes down, hoping that no one will notice that they don’t really belong. Everyone here is hoping desperately that if he or she is lively and glamorous enough no one will notice that its him, that its her, here — and not someone who is supposed to be here.”
I thought about this for a while; I had invited a few people, but had left most of the invitations in Devon’s hands as he knew more people from the East.
“But Devon must have invited some people?”
“Oh, sure; definitely. And they think they were invited as a fluke – as a lucky break. They met Devon once, he happens to know about this party, etc. After all, this isn’t Devon’s house — it’s not like he invited them to his own party.”
“But it’s my party! I invited you guys!” I pointed out, confused.
“Yes. But if it had only been us here, it wouldn’t really be a Sound party — it’d be a little dinner engagement or an evening by the Sound.”
“You’re stressing her out, Ben,” Caroline chided, taking my arm and hugging me. “You’ll get the hang of it — it’s definitely mysterious — people just wander into these parties, wanting to have a good time, and knowing that the Sound is the place for it. It’s all a scam. But don’t worry — every party here is like that, everyone knows it, and everyone falls for it. But you’re right — this party is particularly lovely; it’s perfect.” She gave me a squeeze and I tried to look consoled.
It was a funny feeling I had then: for the first time in my house I felt terribly lonely. I say a funny feeling because I had never thought to be lonely in my own dream.
continue to chapter 4
return to chapter 2
(c) 2008. anothernicole
