“This looks fabulous,” I say to Bonnie, the fiftysomething Energizer Bunny–like housekeeper who’s standing by to help with serving. She’s been with the Keatons for over two decades and is a total gem.
“Thanks, Summer,” she says, cocking her head toward Claire, “but of course you know who the real maestro is.”
After helping Henry pick and choose from the buffet, I return to the line and load up my own plate. I end up sitting between Gabe’s uncle and Blake, whom I’ve yet to connect with today. His short, prematurely gray hair, which matches his trimmed beard and mustache, is still slightly damp from his swim, and he’s dressed in slacks and a long-sleeve white linen shirt. A little formal for outdoor dining, but that’s Blake for you.
“Dr. Keaton,” I say, giving him a peck on the cheek. “At long last.”
“I know, I know, sorry about that. Wendy’s been crushed, traveling a lot for work, and I’ve been busier than I ever imagined.”
Blake’s a dermatologist, an anomaly in a family of entrepreneurs. He’s forty-one and a bit square compared to his younger brothers—I could make him blush simply by saying the wordsass crackorlady parts—but he’s also genial and inquisitive, with a big heart. I always enjoy his company.
Before we can chat anymore, Bonnie and a young, pink-haired female helper, whom I vaguely recall from anotherevent, approach with bottles of red and white Italian wines, compliments of Gabe and Marcus’s company. When they’ve finished filling our glasses, my father-in-law rises and raises his glass in a toast.
“Claire, my dearest, you’ve done it again,” he says, leveling his gaze at her. “Thank you. And to everyone else: Welcome, enjoy, and we’re so glad you’re able to share this wonderful family time with us.”
After what seems like endless clinking of glasses, I turn back to Blake. “Well, I’m just glad that with all the work on your plate, you both managed to get away this week.”
“My mother wouldstrangleme if we ever skipped a year.”
“Really?” It’s hard for me to imagine Claire annoyed at any of her sons, but especially Blake. He’s such a solid citizen.
“I’m kidding, of course. We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We all have so much to catch up on.”
I’m reminded suddenly of the swell in Wendy’s belly. Maybe sheispregnant, and they’re planning to tell us this week.
“The last time we spoke at length,” he says, “you were picking my brain about fillers and Botox for a play you were writing. Are you still working on that?”
“Oh, you’re sweet to remember, Blake. Yes, I’m still tweaking it. It’s about five women planning to do an intervention with a friend and at first you think it’s about alcohol or drugs—if I’m doing my job right—but then you realize it’s about the friend having had way too many cosmetic procedures. The good news is that it was accepted into a small playwriting festival and is going to be staged in November.”
“How clever, Summer. It sounds wonderful.”
Well, it’s not a damnNetflixpilot, but it’s something. “Thank you, Blake.”
“Is there a part for you, I hope?”
I smile. “Better be.”
“The voice-over stuff sounds great, too. When we were in the pool, Gabe mentioned that you set up a recording studio right in the loft.”
“True, though it’s nothing fancy. I just put up some acoustical foam in a walk-in closet. But I can do a lot of voice-over jobs that way—even if it sometimes seems like I’m in a padded cell.”
“Ah, but to have so much freedom in your professional life. There are days when I feel like I’m stuck on a gerbil wheel.”
The comment surprises me. I always assumed Blake, the responsible oldest child, was thriving in his work or at least convinced it was worth all the spoils: a huge house in the suburbs; a condo in Aspen; weekend jaunts to the Caribbean. Is it possible he’d like a break from always having to follow the rules?
“What about a short sabbatical?”
“It’s hard to do in my world, and I don’t know if it would help. I’ve always envied Gabe. He parlayed his passions for wine and travel into a business and gets to do what he really loves every day. I like medicine, but it’s hard to be passionate about removing endless moles from people who refuse to stay out of the sun.”
Before I can ask him to elaborate, he switches gears back to the voice-over work. Though I appreciate his friendly questions,they have the unfortunate effect of forcing my mind on the morning’s recording session, and I start to wonder if I should have attempted any kind of damage control with the director.
As Bonnie and her helper clear away the plates from the first course, I excuse myself, head to the powder room off the main hall in the house, and shoot Shawna a text.
Sorry abt all the back and forth today. Hope everyone’s happy with the final results.
I give it a minute, waiting to see if she’ll respond. No reply appears. I slip my phone back into my purse and step outside, but I don’t return to the table yet. Instead, I pause in the corridor, leaning against the row of tan slickers that hang on wall pegs, placed there by Claire for anyone in the house to borrow in foul weather.
There’s something else on my mind and I fish my phone from my purse again and send another text, this one to Billy Dean, my college friend who is now an actor-barista-tour guide in New York. It happens that he was in that West Village showcase with me.
