immediately aware of her bare legs, one crooked under the other, in a way she wasn't before.
She is aware, too, that Ben is studying her, and she minds the scrutiny. He has a fashionable stubble on his cheeks and chin, simply the result, Sydney guesses, of two days without a razor. At work, he would be clean-shaven.
"I'll bet you play a mean game of tennis," he says, eyeing her.
"Not as mean as yours," she says, staring at the top of her beer.
"I hear you got Julie in the water."
"I think she got herself in the water."
"You're too modest."
"Not really," she says, taking a sip.
"It must be hard to be at a party where you don't know anyone."
"I know Julie. I know your father," she says, and then immediately regrets her defensive tone.
"And that's enough?"
"For the time being."
"Two more weeks of the grind, and then freedom," Ben says.
Sydney wonders how she will negotiate Ben's vacation. "You don't have a girlfriend yourself?" she asks.
"No," he says, as if he understands exactly Sydney's wariness. "Not anymore."
Sydney is quite sure that if Ben and Jeff were presented in a lineup, seven out of ten women would prefer Ben to his brother. He has the stronger face, certainly the stronger body, dark eyes, and long lashes. A sense of confidence that teeters on arrogance but doesn't quite cross the line. There is, too, about Ben, a bit of mystery, an unreadable face, a quality many women would find intriguing.
"You play golf?" Ben asks.
"No."
"So what do you do on your days off?"
Is the question intended to remind Sydney that she is hired help? "Depends on the weather," she says.
"More of the same tomorrow," Ben predicts, gesturing to indicate the sky and the Atlantic and, possibly, the entire universe.
"Read," Sydney says. "Walk."
"We might all go into Portsmouth," Ben says casually.
"Sounds like fun," Sydney says, though she is hard-pressed to think of what can be happening in Portsmouth on a Sunday.
"Want to come with us?"
"Thanks, but I have to go in on Monday anyway. No point going in twice in a row."
Ben smiles at her. Sydney remembers her father saying, years ago, Somebody's always got your number.
Sydney stands.
"Where are you going?" Ben asks.
"To get another beer," she announces, desperate to get away.
In the kitchen, she presses her head to the stainless steel door of the Sub-Zero.
"Are you okay?"
The question is not an entirely sympathetic one, suggesting that this is not an opportune moment to be indisposed. Mrs. Edwards sets an empty plate on the granite island.
"I'm fine," Sydney says, turning.
"Would you mind giving me a hand?" Mrs. Edwards asks.
"I'd be glad to," she answers.
Sydney is seated at a part of the oval table that can only be described as nonexistent. She has a chair, in which she is trapped, and space enough for a plate, but not enough for silverware, which has been set near her water glass. She eats with her arms pressed to her sides so as not to bother Mrs. Edwards to her right or Ferris to her left. There might as well have been a children's table, Sydney thinks, and then wonders if, possibly, she is not meant to be at the dinner. No, she decides, Mr. Edwards would never allow her absence.
"Washington and Tehran have crucial interests in common," Jeff is saying, "but for historical and ideological reasons, neither wants to be seen dealing with the other."
"Bush has made no secret of his intention to help liberate the Iraqis from Saddam," Art offers.
"An objective that was part of the late Ayatollah Khomeini's primary agenda," Jeff points out.
Mr. and Mrs. Edwards once again anchor the table. Claire and Will, generationally cast adrift (they are not as old as Mrs. Edwards; not as young as Ben), present a united front, even managing to pull their chairs together, upsetting Mrs. Edwards's seating plan, which almost immediately has to be abandoned. Marissa, imagined slights forgotten, seems mesmerized by Wendy's inside scoop of the New York magazine world. Sydney sees
She is aware, too, that Ben is studying her, and she minds the scrutiny. He has a fashionable stubble on his cheeks and chin, simply the result, Sydney guesses, of two days without a razor. At work, he would be clean-shaven.
"I'll bet you play a mean game of tennis," he says, eyeing her.
"Not as mean as yours," she says, staring at the top of her beer.
"I hear you got Julie in the water."
"I think she got herself in the water."
"You're too modest."
"Not really," she says, taking a sip.
"It must be hard to be at a party where you don't know anyone."
"I know Julie. I know your father," she says, and then immediately regrets her defensive tone.
"And that's enough?"
"For the time being."
"Two more weeks of the grind, and then freedom," Ben says.
Sydney wonders how she will negotiate Ben's vacation. "You don't have a girlfriend yourself?" she asks.
"No," he says, as if he understands exactly Sydney's wariness. "Not anymore."
Sydney is quite sure that if Ben and Jeff were presented in a lineup, seven out of ten women would prefer Ben to his brother. He has the stronger face, certainly the stronger body, dark eyes, and long lashes. A sense of confidence that teeters on arrogance but doesn't quite cross the line. There is, too, about Ben, a bit of mystery, an unreadable face, a quality many women would find intriguing.
"You play golf?" Ben asks.
"No."
"So what do you do on your days off?"
Is the question intended to remind Sydney that she is hired help? "Depends on the weather," she says.
"More of the same tomorrow," Ben predicts, gesturing to indicate the sky and the Atlantic and, possibly, the entire universe.
"Read," Sydney says. "Walk."
"We might all go into Portsmouth," Ben says casually.
"Sounds like fun," Sydney says, though she is hard-pressed to think of what can be happening in Portsmouth on a Sunday.
"Want to come with us?"
"Thanks, but I have to go in on Monday anyway. No point going in twice in a row."
Ben smiles at her. Sydney remembers her father saying, years ago, Somebody's always got your number.
Sydney stands.
"Where are you going?" Ben asks.
"To get another beer," she announces, desperate to get away.
In the kitchen, she presses her head to the stainless steel door of the Sub-Zero.
"Are you okay?"
The question is not an entirely sympathetic one, suggesting that this is not an opportune moment to be indisposed. Mrs. Edwards sets an empty plate on the granite island.
"I'm fine," Sydney says, turning.
"Would you mind giving me a hand?" Mrs. Edwards asks.
"I'd be glad to," she answers.
Sydney is seated at a part of the oval table that can only be described as nonexistent. She has a chair, in which she is trapped, and space enough for a plate, but not enough for silverware, which has been set near her water glass. She eats with her arms pressed to her sides so as not to bother Mrs. Edwards to her right or Ferris to her left. There might as well have been a children's table, Sydney thinks, and then wonders if, possibly, she is not meant to be at the dinner. No, she decides, Mr. Edwards would never allow her absence.
"Washington and Tehran have crucial interests in common," Jeff is saying, "but for historical and ideological reasons, neither wants to be seen dealing with the other."
"Bush has made no secret of his intention to help liberate the Iraqis from Saddam," Art offers.
"An objective that was part of the late Ayatollah Khomeini's primary agenda," Jeff points out.
Mr. and Mrs. Edwards once again anchor the table. Claire and Will, generationally cast adrift (they are not as old as Mrs. Edwards; not as young as Ben), present a united front, even managing to pull their chairs together, upsetting Mrs. Edwards's seating plan, which almost immediately has to be abandoned. Marissa, imagined slights forgotten, seems mesmerized by Wendy's inside scoop of the New York magazine world. Sydney sees
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