“Sorry to hear Keira can’t stay for the full week,” I say.
“Yeah, you know, new job stuff. And it’s probably for the best. Unlike you, she always finds these vacations a bit overwhelming.”
I smile. “It’s a lot of people in one place, and she didn’t grow up in a big family.”
“No, I mean more the whole country estate thing. Thedecor, the gardens, the fancy-pants lettuces for dinner, the guest suites with sheets that cost as much as a used car.”
I get it. The Keatons aren’t billionaires, but they’ve clearly got plenty of millions, and their apartment in New York and their estate here are both spectacular. They also have a winter home in Palm Beach, a small but stunning house landscaped with saw grasses, cactus, and a gorgeous selection of palms. There’s an incredible easy, natural feel to all three places, and to the way the Keatons live, which is a trick in itself. Not everyone with big bucks is able to pull it off.
“Well, you guys have only been together a couple of years. The more she visits here, the more comfortable she’ll be.”
He shrugs. “I hope you’re right. I should get moving, Summer. Lunch is in less than an hour.”
“See you then.”
As I head back to the house, I find myself mulling over Marcus’s comment about how Keira feels being here. This spread certainly bears no resemblance to what I experienced growing up. My father has a small accounting firm and my mom’s a social worker, and we were brought up in a comfortable ranch-style house with a cute backyard in West Hartford, Connecticut, but we certainly didn’t have a full-time housekeeper or landscapers, bartenders, and cooks around.
And yet I’ve never felt ill at ease with Gabe’s parents. The first time I met them was at their sprawling Park Avenue apartment, which they’d gutted in the center to make it feel like a loft, wowing you the moment you open the door. But both Ash and Claire were warm and welcoming, seemingly eager to put me at ease with wine and appetizers on their terrace. As I commented on how much I liked the artichoke dip,his mother told a funny story about how once, as a young hostess, she served whole artichokes without realizing they needed to be steamed first. Everything about their world had the potential to be intimidating, but somehow I managed to find it enchanting instead, like I’d been cast in a play that involved performing on an enthralling stage set.
I return to the cottage, where I exchange my hiking boots for sandals, and then make my way to the main house. I can hear someone splashing in the pool, but Gabe, Henry, Blake, Nick, and Hannah are all sitting under the pergola, playing cards. Sidling up to the table, I see they’re still in swimsuits, though Hannah’s got a flowy vermillion cover-up over hers. She’s wearing makeup, too, applied in that artful way that probably makes even smart guys stupidly think she’s totally barefaced, sporting that natural look they claim to love.
“Summer,” Henry calls out, “come play B.S. with us, okay?”
Henry knows it’s really called Bullshit, but Gabe won’t let him use that word in mixed company.
“You’re not in the middle of a game?” I ask.
“No, we just finished a hand,” Gabe says. “Can I deal you in?”
“Sure,” I respond and slip into an empty spot next to my husband.
“I hear you’ve been working on your play this morning,” Blake says to me. “You’re making the rest of us look like slackers.”
“Blake, you couldn’t look like a slacker if you tried,” Nick says good-naturedly.
“Well, my goal for my forties is to tap into my inner lazy guy. Lots of golf and long walks.”
“Just so you know, I squeezed in a walk myself this morning,” I say, feeling a twinge of guilt over abandoning my play.
After an adroit shuffle, Gabe delivers everyone a hand. The goal of the game is to end up with no cards, and the action moves around the table, starting with the number two and requiring players to place a card or cards facedown in sequence while announcing what they’ve played—such as “four threes” and “one four.” You’re supposed to put downsomething, which means you have to fib at certain points if you don’t have a card with the right denomination or face, and you can even lie and add more cards to the pile than you’re admitting. If someone suspects you’re bluffing, he can call out “B.S.,” which obligates you to turn over the cards you played. If they’re indeed what you claimed, the person who called B.S. must add the entire discard pile to his or her hand. If you were lying, though,youinherit the entire pile.
“I should warn you,” Nick says to Hannah once all the cards have been dealt. “Summer could play on the B.S. pro circuit.”
“There’s aprocircuit, Uncle Nick?” Henry exclaims.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” Nick tells him. “Maybe the two of us could join it one day. Head out to Vegas for the winter.”
“Nick,stop,” Gabe says, smiling. “He’s going to think you’re serious.”
I take a minute to order the cards I’m holding. It’s a good hand, not a great one, but that’s okay. As Nick says, I’m a wizat this game. That’s because, thanks to years of drama training, I excel at bluffing as well as spotting other people’s tells.
With six players, the game takes a while, and I keep a fairly low profile throughout, mostly observing. At one point I notice that Gabe seems close to winning, but Henry correctly calls “B.S.” and Gabe is forced to swoop up a fistful of cards.
“Oh, Henry, you’re ruthless,” Hannah says with a laugh, though she’s already nailed Blake, Nick, and Gabe for bluffing.
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Henry replies.
I can’t tell if Hannah’s actually having fun or just pretending to. She’s across the table from me and seems to be mostly focused on the massage Nick is giving the back of her neck. At one point I catch her awarding him an intense I-can’t-wait-to-get-you-between-the-sheets-later stare that makes me want to gag.
