Anna laughs. “Harsh.”
“He insulted my favorite place on earth.”
“You can’t condemn him because he doesn’t ‘get’ the pond. It was my fault. I forgot to tell him the name Paper Palace was ironic.”
“It’s not just the camp,” I say. “It’s his whole outlook on the world. Like everything should be made of Saltillo-fucking-tile and polished granite countertops.”
“That’s why I like him. He’s predictable. I know exactly what I’m getting.”
I roll my eyes.
“Elle, we all have different shit. Jeremy makes me feel safe. Anyway, not everyone can fall madly in love with a rich, dashing English journalist. Some of us have to settle for a kind-if-boring Californian guy with good pecs. So, don’t be such a judgmental cow.”
“That’s fair.” I will never like Jeremy. Not because, as Anna says, he’s predictable or, as Mum says, “bourgeois.” But because he makes her be less-than, and it pisses me off.
We are both quiet for a bit, our paddles cutting the glass-still surface of the pond, the canoe gliding silently into a reflection of pink sky. A heron stands statue-still in the reeds, letting us pass.
“What time is Peter driving up tomorrow?” Anna breaks the silence.
“Right after lunch. He wants to beat the rush hour.”
“If he’s taking the Merritt, ask him to pick up some bagels from H&H.”
Our canoe hits sand on the far side of the pond. I hop out into the shallows, trying not to soak the cuffs of my jeans.
Anna winces as she climbs out. “I shouldn’t have ridden my bike into town this morning. That dirt road is one big pothole. I think I bruised my vagina bones.”
“Gross.” I laugh.
We drag the canoe up onto the shore, into the thick grasses beyond the rough scrape of wet sand against metal, stash it in a gap between the trees.
“I haven’t seen any of these people in so long,” Anna says as we walk down the red clay road toward the beach. “It’s going to be weird.”
“It’s like riding a bike, only more boring,” I say. “And less painful.”
Anna laughs. “I wish I didn’t feel so fat.” She pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “I’m not in the mood to be judged by these fuckers.”
Anna has been model-thin for years, but she still thinks she’s a fat kid. “Fat thighs are like a phantom limb,” Anna tells me. “Years after you lose them, you can still feel them rubbing together.”
“You look amazing, Anna. I, on the other hand, spent the winter holed up in the apartment with Peter eating Milanos. I need to starve myself between now and the wedding.”
We walk on the road single file, Anna in front, skirting thickets of poison ivy. The back ends of her flip-flops raise little puffs of red dust.
“You know which ones are underrated?” Anna says. “Brussels.”
“And Chessmen.”
“Dad’s favorite.”
“Have you talked to him recently?” I ask. I haven’t spoken to him since our grandmother’s funeral.
“He calls me every once in a while,” Anna says. “We have these awkward conversations where all I want to do is get off the phone. The whole thing is ridiculous. You two are the ones who’ve always been close, not me.”
“Not anymore.”
“The only reason he calls is because Mary forces him to. She likes to tell her friends what a doting husband and father he is. She’s trying to get them into some country club in Southampton. One of those no-Jews places.”
“I hate her.”
“Anyway, I’ve told him he needs to call you. He’s the father, for fuck’s sake.”
“That’s the last thing I want. Honestly? It’s a relief. I don’t have to wait for him to disappoint me all the time.”
We stop at the top of the high dune. Down below us, a hundred yards to the right, there’s a crowd of linen. Someone has planted Chinese fish flags on poles in the sand—a brightly colored circle of wind socks. The bonfire has been lit, its flames mostly invisible in the still-light summer evening, heat oiling the sky above it.
“P.S., I know you’re mad at me because you think I acted like a total pussy for forgiving him. I just don’t care enough about him to care. I’ll freeze him out if you want me to,” Anna says.
“I did want you to, but thinking about it, I’d rather you be the one getting Belgian loafers for Christmas, stuck in a needlepoint chair in the sitting room drinking eggnog with the evil cunt.”