But—Robert! How could her mind wander under these circumstances?
* * *
She hadn’t driven up the east side of Cape Deel—known as the Diamond Coast for the sparkling sea, though the wags said it was a jab at the rich residents—in about a year, and now noticed the changes. Spiffing up, mainly. Signs of away people encroaching. Additions, fences and gates. Pickup trucks everywhere, men at work. Volvos, Volkswagens, Saabs, and Mercedes whizzed by her. Even a Porsche!
The enormous cottages on the Diamond Coast were downhill of the road and could only be seen from the water. By land, one might spot an occasional roofline behind the tips of the pines. Driveways were ruthlessly unmarked and nearly undetectable. The houses had names, and all one had to do was say one, and name a time, and guests would arrive at lawn parties, fireworks viewings, afternoons of croquet and picnics on the rocks to which the social group was invited, including babies in arms. The babies became children became teenagers who had their own clandestine parties, by which time they all knew who lived down every hidden ingress along Shore Road, perpetuating the whole system of initiation into an invisible realm of money and beauty that was inculcated without those involved realizing it wasn’t organic or natural or simple. They took it for granted and felt misapprehended when they were called exclusive. They simply liked one another’s company and desired privacy. What could be wrong with that?
Agnes had a strong opinion on the subject that she largely kept to herself. But once at a dinner party, prompted by a particularly disingenuous conversation on the subject and a few glasses of burgundy too delicious to moderate, she said she supposed it was all right for all the ethnic groups of Philadelphia to belong to their own exclusive clubs if it were agreed that no business be done anywhere on the premises. She saw brows furrow when she used the word ethnic to include present company, and it took a moment for her meaning to sink in. Then one of the women at the table told Agnes she’d gotten that from Pauline Schulz! It was in the Franklin Square novels! Agnes was, for once, struck dumb. What could she say? It rankled her to be accused of a borrowed opinion, and the fact that she was borrowing from herself didn’t allay the pique of being so accused in front of a table full of her erstwhile kind.
There were exceptions to the rule of hidden mansions on the Point. A few properties were conspicuously marked, and Archie Lee’s EasterLee was one of them. He could very easily have chosen invisibility, with all the advantages and good manners it offered. For that matter, he could have chosen to stay at WesterLee. Instead, after his marriage, his second, to Seela, her third—Agnes hadn’t had time to memorize her last name, so eager was she to swap it for his—he built a behemoth on the Diamond Coast and had the name “EasterLee” carved into two wide stone pillars at the end of the drive. It reached him that he’d caused perturbation in his circles by announcing his presence so loudly, but he was of the modern mind that there was no such thing as bad publicity. He felt this sincerely and robustly, and the two traits combined to create a charm persuasive to all but the most conventional of his neighbors. The others adapted, for nothing quelled a revolution more quickly—wrote Pauline Schulz—than the prevailing powers inviting it in for drinks. The final verdict was that Archie was eccentric, and his penchant for being easy to find was turned to their advantage, with EasterLee serving as a marker to offer directions to deliverymen or visitors. Grudgingly, the neighbors admitted it didn’t hurt to have it for orientation after a sodden club dance.
Agnes tootled along Shore Road, shifting her intelligence, which she could turn on and beam like the Fresnel lens in a lighthouse, to how to handle Archie, her young cousin. She must prevail.
When he was a boy, Archie had once told Agnes that he wasn’t going to stay at WesterLee when he grew up because he loved it too much. That had endeared him to her forever. His personality was playful and wry and droopy and finally louche. In his fifties now, he still looked boyish, his sandy hair having grayed but not retreated, and his thin figure still assuming postures and poses that suggested agility. He paid his Fellowship Point bills and taxes on time, loaned WesterLee to his children and his friends, and always checked with Polly about when her sons were coming so they could spill over into his bedrooms.
This all reflected well on him, and she pointed it out when others made note of his ostentatious ways and faults. Her opinion of him had formed decades earlier, and she didn’t believe people really ever changed. She’d forgiven Archie for his divorce from a person Agnes liked a lot, and his inexplicable marriage to a sour woman fifteen years his elder that Agnes couldn’t bear. Who knew what people really needed? He had three children, an apartment in Manhattan, EasterLee, WesterLee, a partnership at an investment bank, a seat on the board of Lee & Sons, and friendships and habits and hobbies that kept him amused. She was arriving with an agenda—drop the suit against Robert, first, and agree to dissolve the association for the purpose of donating the lands to a trust—but coached herself that it would be wise to consider his concerns before she asked for anything. Archie wore a gilded cape of male vanity and would need it admired.
She frowned as she turned through Archie’s massive plinths and headed up the slope on his pink granite drive through an allée of flashing silver beech trees. Just beyond them, walls of fir covered the terrain, and the spicy cool heavy air settled on her arms. At the top of the rise the sea rolled out miles and miles to a soft horizon. In between stood the house, part stone, part weathered barn wood, all festooned with flowers and vines and trees and bushes. She pictured the formal gardens in the back, where she presumed the topiary was a vaunted feature and the white garden would be dug in, and she shook her head. Versailles sur mer. So many people wished they were king.
As always after a drive, Agnes needed the bathroom first thing. Thank God Nora O’Connor answered the door, so Agnes didn’t have to directly ask Archie. It embarrassed her to reveal to men that she inhabited a body—it was none of their business! Agnes had known Nora for decades and made meaningful small talk while heading straight for what Seela called “the powder room.” Agnes opened the door and, though she’d been in there before, gasped at its sumptuousness. Pink granite again for the sink table, and an inset sink of jade marble. Brass fixtures—she hoped. What if they were gold? Soaps and lotions that all smelled divine. She could have whiled away half an hour if she weren’t embarrassed by the thought of Archie imagining her occupied with the room’s central function. She dried her hands and got out.
Archie materialized, a vision of how aging men delude themselves into believing they have achieved peak allure. He was groomed to the crown of his head, clothes pressed to the point of stoniness. His face, sweet in childhood, now sported lines revealing pastimes of predation. So, he was at that stage. Poor Seela, or lucky Seela, depending on how much she hated the way he ate and snored.
He was smiling, as if nothing had happened. Agnes used all her will to disguise her upset and smiled back. He opened his arms to her.
“Cuz! Please, please come in. I have a feeling I know why you’re here. An awful mess. And here we are before I’ve even come over to visit. How are you?”