The Pact. Jennifer Sturman
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to ask her if everything was all right between Richard and her. Up until that point our conversation had skipped easily from a movie that we’d both seen to a discussion of my work and then of her work. Emma had her first gallery show when she was only twenty-one, and although there were more than a few disgruntled followers of the New York art scene who complained that Emma’s father had smoothed her way, few could dispute her artistic talent. Whereas her father’s work was still entirely abstract, Emma focused on landscapes and portraits that inspired comparisons to Edward Hopper and John Singer Sargent. The first show as well as the ones that followed in the ensuing years met with great critical acclaim. Now, however, she seemed worried. “I think I have the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block,” she confided. “I can’t get anything done.”
It was then that I asked her about Richard, thinking that the question would seem like a natural part of the discussion. I had hoped that she would open up a bit and allow me the opportunity to voice my concerns. Instead, it seemed as if an invisible wall suddenly went up around her. “Oh, Richard’s just fine,” she answered quickly, and then she abruptly changed the subject.
The rest of our conversation that night was stilted, and I went home wondering if I should have forced the issue but hesitant lest I should alienate her. Her response had felt like a warning to me, a clear sign that she did not want to talk about her relationship with Richard. And, except for the occasional glancing reference, we didn’t talk about him in the months that followed. It was awkward maintaining a friendship when there was such a large and obvious topic that we danced around without discussing.
This wasn’t the first time that I’d been upset by how Emma let herself be treated like a doormat by a boyfriend. But this time was serious; it was marriage.
I hoped she knew what she was doing. I sure didn’t.
CHAPTER 4
It was easy to lose one’s way on the twisting roads that led to the Furlongs’ house. Streetlights and signposts were kept to a bare minimum, and the trees effectively blocked out the sky. I suspected the families who had houses in the area preferred it that way—the last thing they wanted was to point out their tranquil country refuge to strangers.
Yuppies from Manhattan and Boston had already descended upon old-money enclaves in the Hamptons and Cape Cod. From Water Mill to Osterville, and even on Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, they were busily buying up modest summer cottages for exorbitant prices, tearing them down and replacing them with sprawling mansions. Their slick German luxury sedans and Land Rovers clogged the country roads and vied for parking spaces with the battered Buicks and Lincolns favored by WASP holdouts.
By comparison, the Furlongs’ corner of the Adirondacks had remained pristine. The general store in town continued to do a healthy trade in Wonder bread and domestic beer. If you were looking for goat cheese, Chilean sea bass, or imported mineral water, you were definitely in the wrong place.
It was so dark that Jane nearly missed the turn for the Furlongs’ house. The stone pillars on either side of the gate were almost completely hidden by bramble, and ivy draped over a faded sign that read Quail Lake. Luisa dug the slip of paper on which she’d written the gate code out of her purse, and Jane rolled down her window and punched the numbers into the keypad. The wrought iron panels slid soundlessly apart and then closed shut behind us.
The house itself was nearly a mile from the road, and we were quiet as Jane carefully steered along the narrow drive. I listened to our wheels crunching on the loose gravel. The thick woods on either side contributed to a sense of isolation that had always felt peaceful when I’d visited before. The crisp northern air with its scent of pine brought to mind unbidden memories of long-ago evenings as a child at summer camp, an unfortunate experiment initiated by my parents in the vain hope of instilling in me a love of nature.
We rounded the last turn and the house came into view. From this angle it looked deceptively modest. Every time I came here I wondered how Mrs. Furlong managed to maintain the wooden shingles in exactly the same state of shabbiness, not quite dilapidated but dangerously close. In this case, however, looks were completely deceiving. There were five bedrooms in the house, along with a number of rooms for sitting and lounging, all luxuriously appointed in a manner that was so discreetly expensive that only the most finely trained eyes could appreciate the value of the well-worn rugs, the graceful lines of the Early American antique furnishings, and the sheer scale of investment required to maintain such a lavish household in this simple but elegant comfort.
Light spilled from an upstairs window onto the wide circle before the house. Jane parked the truck next to the line of cars that had accumulated in the clearing along the edge of the drive. I recognized Mrs. Furlong’s aged Mercedes convertible, Mr. Furlong’s even older Volvo, Richard’s spanking new BMW, and Matthew’s battered Saab. Only family members and family equivalents were staying at the house tonight.
The front door was unlatched—the gate at the drive and the high fence around the property made locks unnecessary—and we passed through it single file just in time to catch Lily Furlong ascending the stairs to the second floor. Hearing us come in, she paused and turned to greet us, stifling a ladylike yawn in a delicate fist.
“Oh, there you are, girls,” she said, giving us all a warm smile. “We were getting worried that you’d gotten lost. The roads up here can be so confusing. Did you all have a nice time at the dinner? And, Rachel, what a lovely toast you gave! It was very charming, dear. I know Emma was touched by it.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” I said. Somehow, even when I knew I was saying the right thing, Mrs. Furlong always made me feel gauche.
“Well, I was just about to turn in. We have such a big day ahead of us tomorrow. I think the boys are all sitting out by the pool having a nightcap if you want to join them. The seamstress is coming early in the morning to put some final touches on Emma’s dress, and the poor child was exhausted, so I sent her to bed.” I was sad to hear this; I was impatient for some time alone with Emma before she became Mrs. Richard Mallory. I toyed with the idea of following Mrs. Furlong upstairs and waking Emma up but resolved instead that I would sit her down for a long talk in the morning, seamstress notwithstanding. Besides, I doubted if Mrs. Furlong would appreciate my interfering with Emma’s mandated beauty sleep.
Lily smiled tiredly in our direction. “You all know which rooms you’re staying in, don’t you?” We nodded our acquiescence. “Good, good. Well, don’t stay up too much longer,” she called over her shoulder. “I don’t want any of you ladies dozing off tomorrow during the ceremony. Everything must be perfect for Emma’s big day.”
We bid her good-night, and I led the way toward the back of the house. I’d spent so many summer vacations as a guest here that I knew nobody would begrudge us taking a bottle of champagne from the kitchen refrigerator and borrowing four plastic tumblers from a cupboard.
We’d decided in the car that some private time was in order, so we let ourselves out the kitchen door and tiptoed down the path that led to the lake. I could hear the low rumble of male voices from around the corner of the house, but we continued toward the dock. One by one we removed our shoes and padded out along the planks that stretched over the water.
We lowered ourselves down to sit side by side at the end of the dock, dangling our legs over the edge. The icy water was soothing, and I waggled my toes with pleasure; my feet had had a rough evening, between the three-inch heels I’d worn and the damage Emma’s great-aunt had inflicted. A promising lump was beginning to rise on my instep. I peeled the foil off the top of the champagne bottle and gently worked the cork free. It came loose with a subdued but satisfying pop, and I poured some of the sparkling wine into each of our glasses and passed them down the row.
“Should we toast?” I asked when everyone had a drink in hand.
“Toast what?” asked Hilary. “The wedding?” She made no effort to disguise the sulky tone in her voice.
“No, I’m definitely not in the mood for that,” said Jane. Things were bleak indeed if even Jane couldn’t find a way to put a positive spin on the situation.
Luisa