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“The Lancasters?” He gives her a confused look. “Gwyn Lancaster, you mean? That’s my mother. That’s her maiden name. This is the right house, right here.” He points at Hunt Hall.
Eve pulls a small red notebook out of her pocket—a drawing of Karl Marx on the front. She looks between it and the house, like either might give her a clue about what she is missing.
“Weird,” she says. “I have written down that I am supposed to go next door.”
“Maybe she just wanted you to set up over there. The Buckleys are good friends of ours, so it’s possible.”
Good friends of ours? Maggie gives Nate a look, which he either misses or ignores. They are?
Nate is still looking at Eve. “Has my mother been difficult? My sister seems to think this party is causing her strain.”
“Your mother? Oh, no, she’s been lovely. I think her previous caterer had to cancel last minute. She just called me two days ago about this, totally desperate.” She pauses. “But nice, even in the desperation. And offering me a lot of money. Too much money. But I guess if you’re having two hundred people at your house—”
“Two hundred?” Maggie says, turning to Nate. I thought tonightwas small. . . .
Nate shrugs back, and for a second she thinks it is to say, Me too. But she sees the recognition fall over his face, as though he has been told tonight is this big, and has just forgotten to tell Maggie, or even to acknowledge it to himself.
“Well, let me get the keys from my sister so we can get out of your way, so you can get inside, and started.” He calls out to Georgia, but she doesn’t answer him, not even to say one second. So Nate gets louder, starts walking toward her. “Hey, Miss Huntington! Can we borrow those keys for a second?”
Eve reaches out and touches Maggie’s arm. “Wait, what did he just call his sister?”
Maggie turns and looks at Eve, who is looking more than a little pale and uncomfortable. She is confused at first, trying to put the chain of conversation back in order.
“You mean when he called her Miss Huntington? That’s her name, Georgia Huntington.”
“And he’s Nate Huntington? And so . . . they are the children of Gwyn and Thomas? Their parents are Thomas and Gwyn Huntington.”
The last part doesn’t seem like a question, so Maggie doesn’t answer, just stands there watching Eve compose herself, and wondering if they are that well known, her future in-laws, that intimidating. That a socialist surfer-chick—who strikes Maggie as someone who rarely allows herself to get too worked up about anything—looks like she’d rather do anything than deal wit
h them?
Maggie’s eyes inadvertently sweep back to the house. The widow’s walk near the top, luminous in the air. And she can guess at it: Gwyn using her maiden name to avoid this very moment when Eve is freaked out. Why shouldn’t she be? She imagines a party like this could be potentially huge for a young caterer. Lots of people with lots of money, who want to utilize the hot, new thing for their next event. For their next Friday night dinner, for their next clambake.
Eve looks beyond freaked out by this proposition, which makes Maggie feel compelled to joke, balance things out. “See, now you’re freaking me out here a little,” Maggie says. “It’s my first time meeting them.”
Eve shakes her head, and, as if remembering herself, clears her throat. “Don’t be freaked out, I’m sorry,” she says. “They are nice people. I’ve heard they’re nice people, at least. Mrs. Huntington just has a reputation around here.”
“A reputation for what?”
“For being Mrs. Huntington.”
But just then, before Eve explains, Nate heads back to the car—Georgia’s keys in his hand.
“Let me get this car moved for you,” he says, walking toward them. “And I’d be happy to help you carry some of this stuff inside. You can’t manage all by yourself.”
Maggie looks in the back of the van to make out platter after platter of hors d’oeuvres, which, from beneath their plastic covers, seem to be different variations of oversized mushroom caps.
“I’m okay. Tyler and I have it under control. Right, T?” She bangs on the passenger side of the van. The guy inside jerks awake, looks around, and this time stays awake.
“Well, consider this our open invitation to help you today in any way you need,” Nate says. “We can do runs for you, locate a hard-to-find vegetable. Even if it means we have to drive an hour away. Two hours away is fine too.”
Maggie gives Nate a look as if to say, very funny.
Eve smiles. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she says. “Thank you for the offer.”
Maggie reaches out, covers the scratch on the Volvo. “And we’ll take care of the damage,” she says. “If it even needs to be taken care of. Nate’s parents won’t have to know.”
Maybe it isn’t her place to say this, but she decides she’ll pay for the scratch if she has to—anything so Eve stops looking like she is about to have a nervous breakdown right in front of them.
