“I’ll give you the address,” Leo said with some resignation.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Everyone knows the house.”
“Astrid?” Eric’s face arranged into an expression of mild despair. He was working the crossword puzzle from the Saturday paper. He hadn’t shaved and didn’t want to shave.
“She didn’t ask,” Leo said, though Leo liked Astrid. The very fact that Eric didn’t like her was proof that she was doing her job.
“There goes lunch,” Eric said.
Marisol came down the stairs in a red swimsuit and a wide-brimmed hat. “I’m going to the pool,” she said.
“Astrid’s coming,” Eric said.
Marisol stopped and put on her sunglasses. “Well, she lives in Sag Harbor. It’s not like she’s going to stay over.”
Franny drove to Bridgehampton and bought lunch at a ridiculously expensive gourmet shop that sold prepared foods, put the food in the car, and then, struck by the clear and sudden understanding that no one would be leaving, walked straight back in and bought dinner. Leo had given her his credit card. The total for the two meals came to an unspeakable fortune. By the time she got back to the house Astrid was there with a pale young writer named Jonas who had shiny black hair and yellow linen pants. He ate twice as much as the rest of them put together. Franny realized sadly there would be no leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch.
“Why reprint Chekhov?” the young writer said to Eric, taking both the herbed chicken breast and the lemon-poached salmon to his plate. “Why not have the courage to publish some young Russian writers instead?”
“Maybe because I don’t work at a publishing house in Russia.” Eric poured himself a glass of wine and then topped off Marisol’s glass. “Oh, and I don’t speak Russian.”
“Jonas speaks Russian,” Astrid said, the proud mother.
“Konechno,” Jonas said.
Astrid nodded. “He’s very involved with the refuseniks.”
“There are no refuseniks,” Leo said. “They opened up the gate and let them out in the seventies.”
“The refuseniks were my field of study,” Jonas said. “And believe me, there are still plenty of oppressed Jews in Russia.”
“So shouldn’t I be publishing some young Russian writing about the refuseniks instead of an American who’s studied them? Wouldn’t that show more courage?”
“You don’t publish me.”
Eric smiled at so pleasing a thought. “Let’s call it a draw, shall we? Chekhov is my field of study, the refuseniks are yours. We’re both old news.”
“Is that couscous?” Marisol asked Franny, pointing at the salad with the cucumbers and tomatoes.
“Israeli,” Franny said, passing the dish. “It’s just bigger.”
Franny’s premonition in the gourmet shop proved to be correct. Come dinner, Leo and the guests were still lounging on various sofas throughout the house. Jonas appeared to be working on a manuscript, or at least he had a stack of paper in his lap, a pencil between his teeth. It was odd to think he’d brought a manuscript to lunch. Eric came in from the pool and allowed that while the idea of more food had seemed impossible just two short hours ago, he thought he might be getting hungry again. At the very least he needed a drink.
Leo looked up and smiled. “Now there’s a thought.”
After a very long evening, in which Franny didn’t have to cook but did need to heat and plate and serve, after the consumption of an extraordinary amount of wine and then the raiding of the actress’s Calvados and Sauternes for after-dinner drinks (“Franny, make a note of what we’re stealing,” Leo said, rifling through the rack in the pantry. “I want to remember to replace it.”) when everyone had wandered back out to the side porch to smoke, Franny was left with a dining room that looked like Bacchus had thrown a bash. She drew in her breath and began to stack plates.
The tall young novelist followed her to the kitchen. For a minute she thought he was interested in helping before realizing that he was in fact just interested. He was wearing glasses now, though she didn’t remember him wearing them earlier when he was reading.
“My contract is with Knopf,” he told her, picking up a wineglass and holding it in a dish towel. “Entre nous, I was hoping for FSG. Ever since I was in college I’ve wanted to be published by FSG, but”—he shrugged at Franny and leaned against the sink—“you know.”
“They didn’t want the book?” she asked.
Jonas looked hurt. “Money,” he said. “Everyone knows FSG never has real money.”
Franny was rinsing the plates when Leo came in. “There you are!” he called to the young novelist. His arms were wide open and he was holding a highball glass in one hand. “I’ve been wanting to show you a tree.” He could bellow sometimes when he was drinking, and Franny wondered, with all the windows open, if the neighbors could hear him.
“A tree?” Jonas said. His glasses were lightly steamed from his proximity to the sink.
Leo put his arm around the young man’s shoulder and led him away. “Come and see it. There’s a beautiful night sky.”
“Really, Leo?” Franny called after them. “A tree? That’s the best you can come up with?”
Astrid didn’t spend the night but somehow the young writer did. Jonas said he was prone to car sickness if he’d been drinking and certainly he’d been drinking. He looked around the house and declared the entire situation straight-up Fitzgerald, so much so that sleeping over would have to be part of it. Astrid, who would have stayed herself had an invitation been extended, volunteered to drive back for him tomorrow around lunch.
When the last of the actress’s Danish china had been returned to the glass-fronted cabinets and the zinc countertops had been wiped down and the trash taken out, Franny stopped to survey her good work. The houseguests had provided her with three days’ hard labor, but it was a kind of labor she was used to. Not the cooking maybe, but the refilling of glasses and the emptying of ashtrays, the straightening and fetching, the quiet audience to conversation. Tomorrow was Sunday and on Sunday it would be over. Franny felt proud of herself: she’d been a good sport. Leo would be grateful for all the many kindnesses she’d shown his friends.
After a hungover breakfast in which everyone who requested eggs requested them cooked a different way, Leo announced that he had to work. He put his legal pad and pens and scotch and two volumes of Chekhov (Eric had convinced him to write the introduction to the new edition, though, of course, not until his own novel was finished) in a canvas tote bag and walked across the lawn to the tiny one-room cottage at the back of the property. With its little desk and single bed and overstuffed chair, its ottoman and floor lamp, it was easy to imagine that the place had been built for exactly this purpose: not to write, because Leo was not writing, but to get away from the hordes of moths that had been drawn to the house’s magnificent flame.
“It’s good that he’s working,” Eric said to Franny. He was holding his coffee cup with both hands, looking wistfully in the direction where Leo had disappeared, the way a woman standing on the beach will look at the place on the horizon where the whaling vessel had disappeared. “We’ve got to encourage him, make sure he keeps at it. He can’t lose his momentum again.”