mumbled questions at us between bites of shrimp. Though I couldn’t understand but every fifth word, Alex answered deftly and with ease—he being well-versed in this secret Wasp language—before he pitched the conversation to me.
“You’d have to ask my wife,” he said as he put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s her domain.”
Oh no.
I bought time by pretending I couldn’t hear him. “Excuse me?”
The old man shuffled closer, his sour breath making my eyes sting. “I
mumble mumble
Alexander here
mumble mumble
the cottage. Is it coming along?”
A cottage? What cottage?
“Fine,” I replied. “Just fine.”
“
Mumble mumble.
So by New Year’s?”
I wanted to tell him,
I have no
mumble
idea
—anything to get him and his halitosis away from us—but I took a stab at an answer: “Yes.”
Alex started to laugh. “Are you kidding?”
I guessed again—“I mean maybe”—figuring that was safer. But at this, Alex turned and stared, eyebrows raised. Next, I went with the only remaining option: “No?”
Alex leaned over and yelled into the old man’s ear: “George, with the way my wife fires architects, we’ll be lucky to be in by
next
New Year’s.”
The two men laughed. I joined in a beat later while making a mental note: The van Holts were building a “cottage” so magnificent it required multiple architects and many years to build. Somewhere.
From another direction came a tall, steely-haired woman in a dark green plaid suit hanging like Spanish moss on her gaunt frame. Her skin was so pale and thin I could see the web of her veins, as if she’d just risen from the dead and rushed right over to Bloemveld. Her only adornment? A diamond salamander with sapphire eyes trying to escape over her bony shoulder.
“Abigail,” she snapped, stepping in front of the mumbler. “There are too many people here. Why don’t you van Holts pare down your lists?”
“Um, well…”
“And the crab is almost gone. Mirabelle should have used my man. He does a smacking good job.”
I nodded, smiling, but that seemed to irritate her more. She stood straighter and spoke louder. “And you haven’t responded to my note. We
will
be seeing you and the children at Jamaica Hill over the holidays, right?”
Jamaica Hill as in Jamaica? Count us in!
, I wanted to say. But then I noticed Alex looking down at the floor. I took a stab at an answer.
“I’m sorry. But we don’t have plans to travel this year.”
Her black eyes flew open in surprise, then narrowed with irritation. She stomped away.
“Really, Abbey?” asked Alex, annoyed. “I don’t think driving a mile down the road constitutes ‘traveling.’ Surely we can work her in.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, just then realizing that Jamaica Hill wasn’t a resort in the Caribbean but the name of her estate. And it was close to Bloemveld, maybe even just next door. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Yes, you did. You’ve always hated Aunt Tickle.”
Aunt Tickle? Who would tickle her? Rich people and their stupid names and their stupidly named estates. Didn’t they realize this was the twenty-first century?
“Should I go apologize?” I asked. But before Alex could respond, we were approached by yet another couple, these two looking like they’d just stepped off the Scottish moors, their tweed jackets, thick wool turtlenecks, and riding boots perfectly matched. Their most marked difference was their eyebrows: hers were drawn on messily while his stuck out like steel wool. I braced myself.
“Abigail, we’re so sorry about your little fall,” said the woman languidly. “I trust you’re feeling better?”
Finally, someone had asked me about something that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Something I could easily answer.
“I’m fine, thank you. Overnight in the hospital was just a precaution.”
“But what happened?” she asked. “Did you slip on something?”
“I… I just lost my footing. Everyone’s worst fear on an
“You’d have to ask my wife,” he said as he put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s her domain.”
Oh no.
I bought time by pretending I couldn’t hear him. “Excuse me?”
The old man shuffled closer, his sour breath making my eyes sting. “I
mumble mumble
Alexander here
mumble mumble
the cottage. Is it coming along?”
A cottage? What cottage?
“Fine,” I replied. “Just fine.”
“
Mumble mumble.
So by New Year’s?”
I wanted to tell him,
I have no
mumble
idea
—anything to get him and his halitosis away from us—but I took a stab at an answer: “Yes.”
Alex started to laugh. “Are you kidding?”
I guessed again—“I mean maybe”—figuring that was safer. But at this, Alex turned and stared, eyebrows raised. Next, I went with the only remaining option: “No?”
Alex leaned over and yelled into the old man’s ear: “George, with the way my wife fires architects, we’ll be lucky to be in by
next
New Year’s.”
The two men laughed. I joined in a beat later while making a mental note: The van Holts were building a “cottage” so magnificent it required multiple architects and many years to build. Somewhere.
From another direction came a tall, steely-haired woman in a dark green plaid suit hanging like Spanish moss on her gaunt frame. Her skin was so pale and thin I could see the web of her veins, as if she’d just risen from the dead and rushed right over to Bloemveld. Her only adornment? A diamond salamander with sapphire eyes trying to escape over her bony shoulder.
“Abigail,” she snapped, stepping in front of the mumbler. “There are too many people here. Why don’t you van Holts pare down your lists?”
“Um, well…”
“And the crab is almost gone. Mirabelle should have used my man. He does a smacking good job.”
I nodded, smiling, but that seemed to irritate her more. She stood straighter and spoke louder. “And you haven’t responded to my note. We
will
be seeing you and the children at Jamaica Hill over the holidays, right?”
Jamaica Hill as in Jamaica? Count us in!
, I wanted to say. But then I noticed Alex looking down at the floor. I took a stab at an answer.
“I’m sorry. But we don’t have plans to travel this year.”
Her black eyes flew open in surprise, then narrowed with irritation. She stomped away.
“Really, Abbey?” asked Alex, annoyed. “I don’t think driving a mile down the road constitutes ‘traveling.’ Surely we can work her in.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, just then realizing that Jamaica Hill wasn’t a resort in the Caribbean but the name of her estate. And it was close to Bloemveld, maybe even just next door. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Yes, you did. You’ve always hated Aunt Tickle.”
Aunt Tickle? Who would tickle her? Rich people and their stupid names and their stupidly named estates. Didn’t they realize this was the twenty-first century?
“Should I go apologize?” I asked. But before Alex could respond, we were approached by yet another couple, these two looking like they’d just stepped off the Scottish moors, their tweed jackets, thick wool turtlenecks, and riding boots perfectly matched. Their most marked difference was their eyebrows: hers were drawn on messily while his stuck out like steel wool. I braced myself.
“Abigail, we’re so sorry about your little fall,” said the woman languidly. “I trust you’re feeling better?”
Finally, someone had asked me about something that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Something I could easily answer.
“I’m fine, thank you. Overnight in the hospital was just a precaution.”
“But what happened?” she asked. “Did you slip on something?”
“I… I just lost my footing. Everyone’s worst fear on an
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