My cousin Yardley’s sporty figure is wrapped tight in a yellow floral dress with her bright blue bra straps showing. Her hair is pulled off her face with a headband. She helps Luda （all in white with a white apron） lay out the final details of the drinks table. There are three different kinds of lemonade—regular, strawberry, and lemon-lime—with club soda, tonic, and alcoholic options for mixing. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony plays on the stereo. It is one of my mother’s favorites.
Penny and Erin walk up from the Big Beach, carrying their shoes. Erin is wearing Penny’s clothes—a yellow T-shirt and a pair of white carpenter overalls. Penny wears her white sundress. Erin is short and sturdily built, with wavy red-brown hair that she’s pulled back in a high ponytail. Her face is like an angel’s—heart-shaped with pretty red lips and dark eyebrows—and at school she favors black turtlenecks and long, narrow skirts with Doc Martens. Next to languid Penny, Erin always seems bristling with energy.
I walk down to them as Penny flops on the grass, heedless of her dress, to brush the sand off her feet. “I hardly saw you on the dock,” I say to Erin.
“My head was spinning from all the manhood in the boat,” she says. “I didn’t know Yardley was bringing an entourage.”
“Neither did I.”
“That Pfeff is pretty fine,” says Penny from her seat.
“Major will look better when he’s not ralphing,” says Erin. “I told you, he’s the cool one.”
“I don’t know how you can think about a guy who chundered his guts out right in front of you,” says Penny. “Mother’s good with them all being here?” she asks me. Feet clean, she puts on her espadrilles.
“She’s pissed. But they charmed her. And I put some pressure on her to let them stay.”
“Where will they all sleep?” asks Erin.
“There’s room in Goose,” says Penny. “They’re in Goose, right?”
“Um-hm.”
“Oh my god, this place,” says Erin. “I was saying to Penny: I had no idea what to expect.”
I don’t want her to feel strange here. “It’s just a—”
“It’s just a whole island,” interrupts Erin. “With an extra house for when you have guests. Who has an extra house? You weirdos.”
“You can get stuff out of the kitchen whenever you’re hungry,” I tell her. “I mean, like, if you see a whole pie or something, don’t eat that, but apples or potato chips or cookies or whatever. Drinks and coffee. Definitely help yourself. And supper’s usually at seven unless it’s a special night, like tonight. And um, let’s see, what else? Use all the shampoo and conditioner and that stuff. Sunblock. And did you meet Luda?” I point her out. “You can ask her if you need anything.”
Erin grins. “Thank you. Penny didn’t tell me any of that.”
“Oh please,” says Penny. “I would have gotten around to it.”
“She didn’t tell you to bring white clothes, either. Did she?” I ask.
“No.” Erin looks at the group on the lawn. “I’m underdressed.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “The entourage will be underdressed as well.”
* * *
—
THE BOYS ARRIVE late, making an entrance as they run together down the walkway and up the sloping lawn to pay tribute to my mother. George is all in white. The color is unflattering to his beige face and hair, but he looks extremely put-together: polo shirt with a jacket and trousers, like a tennis player from the 1920s. The other two are in white T-shirts and pale tan chinos, Major with black Converse （a bit of New York edge） and Pfeff wearing flip-flops （devil-may-care）。
Tipper is smiling and laughing, making sure everyone has drinks. She is glad to have guests, I realize, whatever she said to Uncle Dean. The family has always hunted lemons, so many summers past. We take for granted Tipper’s lemon pound cake, her foamy lemon mousse in jelly jars. These boys and Erin are a fresh audience.
We eat on the lawn instead of at the picnic table. White and yellow cotton blankets, old and mismatched, some of them patchwork quilts, are laid out for people to sit on as supper is served.
George cozies up to Yardley on the porch hammock. Penny, Erin, and I sit with Pfeff and Major, while Bess and Tomkin get out croquet mallets and hoops. Those two have little interest in chicken and salad and sourdough bread. They are saving themselves for dessert.
We watch them play. Our croquet set is old and used to belong to Harris’s mother. We don’t use it often. It’s more of an affectation than an actual game. Bess and Tomkin perform beautifully, batting the colored balls, running and laughing, being picturesque.