Rory stood over the Rules’ butcher-block kitchen table, an unopened bottle of wine tucked under her arm like a weapon.
“When you pour, don’t stand too far away,” Fee advised, pulling Rory a bit closer to the table. “You need to be close. Otherwise the wine’ll plop into the glass and you’re liable to get drops on the table.”
“Got it,” Rory said, miming the act with the bottle. “Pour close to the glass.”
“But not too close,” Fee cautioned. “Then you might slip and crack the glass.” Fee moved the crystal wineglass a few inches away from the place setting that she’d arranged on the table for practice. “I know, it’s confusing. And no pressure, but that’s a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine.”
Rory put the bottle down on the table. “So now you tell me,” she said.
Ten feet away Eduardo, the chef, pirouetted between the eight-burner stove and the marble-topped kitchen island. He was a small man with a scruff of black hair and surprisingly muscular arms, and he worked with fierce concentration as he chopped, sprinkled, and diced. He wore the same forest-green polo and khaki pants as Fee, along with a stained apron that seemed to have followed him from cooking school. Looking around, Rory could see that the Rules had spared no expense with their kitchen. Four Cornish hens roasted on a spit in a glass chamber, rotisserie-style, while three miniature pizzas bubbled in the wood-burning pizza oven.
“If you don’t want to do this,” Fee said softly, “just tell me. We can try to find someone else. This wasn’t supposed to even be something you would—”
“No, it’s fine,” she fibbed. “It’ll be great.” She smiled, and Fee seemed to buy it, though she did give Rory a sympathetic look as she put away the silverware.
The low-level panic Rory had been feeling all afternoon was getting harder to hide. It had started while she finished unpacking, and by the time Fee had brought her into the kitchen and served her a grilled cheese with a side of frilly greens, she’d barely been able to eat a bite. Later, as Bianca gave her a tour of the lower floors of the house, her anxiety had only increased. Each room had a title—the screening room, the breakfast room, the mudroom—and each was more elegantly put together than the one before. The Rules liked long white couches with rattan frames and thick, soft-looking cushions, chairs stuffed with needlepoint throw pillows, and coffee tables made out of knotty pieces of driftwood. They also liked art—expensive-looking, modern paintings in vivid colors—and other eye-catching pieces. As they walked from room to room, Bianca would point out one of the more exquisite items on display, and combine it with a little piece of trivia. “You’ll notice the Francis Bacon painting on the wall—Mrs. Rule got that at auction in London,” or “You’ll see the Bösendorfer piano in the corner—Mr. Rule loves to play Chopin.” Outside on the spacious flagstone patio, as they stood next to a narrow lap pool built right beside the larger, rectangular pool, Bianca said, “This is for Connor, their youngest son. He’s on the swim team at USC.” And downstairs in the rec room, which boasted a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, a Wurlitzer jukebox, and a generous stack of board games, Bianca said, “The Rules love to play table tennis, especially before dinner.”
Whenever they passed by a framed photograph on the wall or on one of the end tables, Rory caught a glimpse of one or two of the Rules, or sometimes the entire family together. They were definitely attractive, with hair that varied in blond shades from corn silk to caramel and tan, glowing complexions. But Isabel was the beauty of the family. She stood out in every picture, as much for her large, light blue eyes as for her refusal to smile.
When Rory returned to her room, her mind reeling from all the data from the tour, she grabbed one of her notebooks and jotted down as much as she could remember.
Sloane—tennis
Mr. Rule—Chopin
Mrs. Rule—Francis Bacon, art
Connor—swimming
Gregory—Harvard
The only one of the Rules whom Bianca hadn’t mentioned, curiously, was Isabel. But perhaps the less she heard about Isabel Rule, Rory thought, the better.
“Let’s go over the rest,” Fee said, leaning against one of the kitchen’s stainless steel counters. “What side do you serve from?”
“The left if I’m serving from a platter or taking around the bread basket. The right if the food is already plated.”
“Good. And tonight we’re doing platters, right, Eduardo?” Fee asked.
Eduardo stood bent over a knob of peeled ginger, mincing it with superhuman speed. “Hmm-hmm,” he murmured, totally engrossed.
“Yes, we’re doing platters,” Bianca announced as she breezed into the kitchen. “But the gazpacho is coming out first.”
Rory was starting to notice that Bianca had a knack for joining conversations that began before she entered a room. She’d changed into a black shift dress and a string of tiny pearls, and looked so elegant that Rory wondered if she was going to be joining the Rules for dinner. “Is it ready, Eduardo?” she asked, crossing her arms. “The gazpacho?”
“Yes,” Eduardo said, finally looking up from the stove. “It’s chilled.”
“Good. Then it seems we’re on schedule.” Bianca turned to Rory and appraised her outfit. “My, we’re bright tonight,” she said.
Rory looked down at her white ruffled top with see-through gauzy sleeves. “Should I change?” she asked with a sinking feeling.
“It’s fine,” Bianca said with a tight smile. “So, everyone serves themselves from the platters except for the dinner rolls,” she explained, lifting off the lid of a saucepan, “which you’ll place on the bread plates, and then you’ll also bring around the teriyaki sauce for the chicken and ladle it onto the plates. Understood?”
Rory nodded.
She replaced the lid. “I think that might need a bit more saffron,” Bianca said to Eduardo.
Eduardo grabbed a pinch of red herbs from a small glass jar and dashed over to the saucepan.
“I think we’ve got it covered,” Fee said. “Rory’s going to do an excellent job.”
“I’m sure she is,” Bianca said.
A loud beep sounded through the room. Rory flinched. Both Fee and Bianca started for the intercom attached to the wall, but Bianca got there first. “Yes,” she said, pressing a button.
“Can someone send down something to drink?” a woman’s voice said over the intercom. “And what about Fee’s niece? Can she come down, too?”
“Right away,” Bianca replied. She turned to Rory. “You remember how to get to the rec room?”
“I’ll take her,” Fee said. She walked to a small wine refrigerator that Rory hadn’t noticed and took out a bottle of pink wine.
“Who’s that for?” Rory asked.
“Mrs. Rule always likes a sip before dinner.” Fee poured some into a wineglass. Rory thought of her mom’s disdain for rosé. “So trashy,” Lana would say, shaking her head. As usual, she hadn’t known what she was talking about.
“All right,” Fee said when she’d poured a healthy amount. “Let’s go.”
When they were out of the kitchen and in the hall, Rory couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Do I look ridiculous or something?”
“Please don’t pay any attention to Bianca. I told you.”
“But I can change—”
“Rory,” Fee said with a stern look, “the last thing you should do is start kissing her butt. Then she’ll really know that she’s got you.”
Good advice, Rory thought as they began to descend the back stairs. Something else she would have to remember in this house. As they neared the bottom floor, she heard the high-pitched, rapid bounce of a Ping-Pong ball.
“They’re all very nice,” Fee said over her shoulder, as if she’d read Rory’s mind. “You’ll be great.”
“They’re not going to ask me to play Ping-Pong, are they?” Rory asked under her breath.
“I don’t think so,” Fee said. She didn’t sound sure.
Rory wondered if she was in for another encounter with Isabel, but when she reached the bottom of the stairs, the youngest Rule was nowhere in sight. Instead, four other blond people hovered around a table, playing Ping-Pong like maniacs.
“Come on! Get over there!”
The woman Rory assumed was Mrs. Rule—if only because of the glittering diamond ring on her left hand—leaped for the tiny ball and sent it whizzing over the net. She looked as if she might have been just a few years older than Rory. She was dressed in dark-rinse skinny jeans and a lemon-colored crochet tunic, and her bright blond hair was piled into a messy updo.
Across the net, a younger woman in a black wrap top and jeans lunged for the ball as if her very life were at stake. This had to be Sloane, Isabel’s older sister. She had dark blond hair and was taller than her mother, and as she made contact with the ball, she let out a tiny grunt. She sent it bouncing over the net.
“Got it!” yelled a young man with glasses and a tall, lanky frame. He moved in front of his mother and delivered the ball back over the net. Rory guessed this was the oldest son, Gregory.
A man with the lean build of a runner and the composed, unflappable face of a CEO stepped up to the table. With one smooth movement he returned the ball without a word. It bounced, arced over the net, and sailed right past his wife.
“Larry!” Mrs. Rule snapped, freezing in her tracks. “That was on the line! That was clearly on the line!”
“It was in, Luce. You just took your eye off the ball.” Mr. Rule smiled in a way that struck Rory as smug.
“No, I think Mom’s right,” Gregory said. “I think that ball was on the line.”
“It was totally in,” Sloane said testily, walking around the table to fetch the ball off the ground. “Okay, seventeen serving sixteen.”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Rule. She walked over to Rory, smiling warmly as if she were her long-lost daughter. “You must be Rory,” she said. “We’ve heard so much about you. I’m Lucy.”
“Hi.” Rory shook her hand, aware that she might be blushing.
“What do you think, Rory?” Mrs. Rule asked. “Was the ball in or out?”
Mrs. Rule’s face softened. “Sorry. I guess I’m putting you on the spot, aren’t I? It’s just that I think we’re going to have to install a referee around here one of these days,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at her husband. “This is my husband, Lawrence,” she said, gesturing to Mr. Rule. “And my two oldest—Sloane and Gregory.”
“Hi,” Rory said, returning Sloane’s and Gregory’s polite waves from across the room. “I hope I’m not interrupting the game.”
“Not at all. We always like to play a little before dinner,” Mrs. Rule said. “Works up an appetite.” She reached hungrily for the glass in Fee’s hand, took a sip of wine, and then brushed away a strand of runaway hair. “So, how’s your room? Do you have enough hangers?”
“Oh, uh, yes, plenty.”
“Good.” She turned to Gregory and Sloane. “Rory’s in the downstairs guest room.”
“Oh, I love that room,” Sloane said. “I’d have that be my room if I could.”
“It’s a great room,” Gregory agreed. “You can hear the ocean from there.”
“And feel free to use the beach anytime you’d like,” Mr. Rule said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.”
“And thank you for helping us out with the dinner party tonight,” Mrs. Rule added. “The local help here… well, sometimes they come down with a severe case of flakiness.”
As Sloane and Gregory put away their paddles, Rory noticed the row of tiny Evian bottles and rolled-up minitowels on the credenza, standing at the ready in case of sweat or thirst.
“I think playing something together as a family is extremely important,” Mrs. Rule went on. “When I was growing up, my father made sure that we were all very athletic. He wanted us playing tennis or taking diving lessons or riding our horses. Unfortunately, I never was good at much besides tennis. And Ping-Pong. Do you play anything?”
“Not really,” Rory answered.
“What about your mother?” Mrs. Rule asked as they walked to the stairs. “Does she like to exercise?”
“Not in the traditional sense, no.”
“Well, each of us is good at something,” Mrs. Rule said. “Connor—he’s not here yet; he’s coming in a few days—he’s on the swim team at USC.” She gestured to a boy in one of the framed photographs in the diamond-shaped cluster on the wall. Rory caught a glimpse of a preppy-looking guy with blond hair standing beside a sailboat before Mrs. Rule motioned for her to go first up the stairs.
“And Sloane here is one of the Georgica’s star doubles players.”
“Really?” Rory asked.
“So what do you like to do?” Mrs. Rule asked.
“She studies,” Fee put in, which made Rory blush.
“Well, that’s good,” Mrs. Rule said. “What do you think you want to be?”
Rory cleared her throat as they reached the landing. “I’m not really sure yet. Maybe a lawyer for children. I like making movies, but that’s probably not going to lead to anything.”
Mrs. Rule’s expression changed suddenly, as if a wind had just blown across her face and wiped it clean. “Has anyone seen my other daughter?” she asked, moving to the bottom of the steps. “Isabel?” she yelled up the stairs. “Isabel, are you coming down? It’s dinner!”
“Maybe she’s still recovering,” Sloane said acerbically.
Her brother nudged her. “Be nice.”
Rory heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
“I hope you’re dressed!” Mrs. Rule called out.
Isabel appeared on the landing in a wrinkled pink oxford and a pair of black board shorts. “I have a really bad headache,” she announced with a scowl. “If it’s okay with you, I’d just like to eat in my room.”
“Go back upstairs and put on a dress,” said Mrs. Rule.
“I almost drowned,” Isabel said.
“But you didn’t,” said Mr. Rule. “So I’d like you to do what your mother says and come down here and have some dinner.”
“Don’t order her, Larry,” Mrs. Rule murmured.
Isabel’s defiant eyes traveled over the crowd until they landed on Rory in a glare so intense that Rory felt the urge to hide. “I said I’m not hungry,” she said.
Rory stepped backward toward the swinging door. “I’ll just see if anyone needs me in the kitchen,” she said. “Excuse me.” Right before she turned to leave, Isabel’s eyes narrowed.
It wasn’t going to be easy, living with a family and yet staying outside of it. She would have to learn the right moments to become invisible.
Especially when Isabel Rule was in the room.
“It’s an incredible piece of land,” Isabel’s father said from across the table. “The whole lot’s probably worth about a hundred million. Almost fifty acres he’s got. I was lucky to get ten of them.”
Isabel sat at the long dining table, twisting her napkin on her lap over and over as she stared at the flickering candlelight. This afternoon felt like a violent, beautiful dream. And now she couldn’t stop thinking about him. His eyes and his dripping dark hair. The heat of his hands on her arms and her back. The way he’d grinned at her right before he’d turned around. Where was he right now? Was he thinking about her, too? And what was his name? And was there any way to find him?
“Who’s the owner again?” asked Elisa Crawford, the painter. Isabel’s mother collected her work, though Isabel had never figured out why.
“Some potato farmer,” said Mr. Rule, breaking apart a roll. “Family’s had the land for two hundred years. One of those old-timers who hates anyone who got there after the Civil War.”
“He didn’t like it that Larry was in finance,” said her mother, taking a dainty sip of gazpacho.
“But he loved that I was married to a Newcomb,” her dad said, looking proudly at her mom. “Lucy’s maiden name still gets you somewhere with the locals.”
Her mom smiled faintly into her soup.
“But get this,” her father went on. “We had to promise the crotchety old guy that the house, when it’s finished, would be under twelve thousand square feet.”
“Can he ask you to do that?” asked Bill Astergard, who hosted his own talk show on PBS that nobody watched but that everyone admired.
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Gregory, whom Isabel noticed liked to pipe in during their parents’ dinner parties. “He’s built it into the contract.”
“But I’ve figured out a way around that,” said her dad.
“And what’s that?” asked Elisa Crawford.
Her father winked as he sipped some water. “My lawyers know what they’re doing.”
“I love Sagaponack,” Sloane said, apropos of nothing. Isabel sighed softly. Her sister was so weird.
And so was the girl serving them. What was her name—Laurie? Rory? She kept shuffling into the room with the food, barely able to make eye contact as she stopped at each chair and shoved a platter in front of each person. And that white top with the Ice Capades sleeves… Ugh. Where’d this girl go shopping? She also didn’t like the look the girl had given her in the hall before dinner, like Isabel was a spoiled brat. It wasn’t her fault that her parents forced their kids to hang out with them and their friends, even after a near-death experience. She’d had no choice in the end but to go up to her room and put on a dress. It seemed a waste of a beautiful ivory Chloé shift to be wearing it here, but at least it had gotten her mom off her case.
“I’m not getting a good feeling about this, Lucy,” Felipe Santo Moreno, the art critic, said in his Cuban accent. “In fact, I’m getting some very strong negative energy.” Felipe, who was sitting beside Isabel, was by far the most interesting person at the table, thanks to his stories about hanging out with Andy Warhol in the eighties.
“Oh, that’s right,” said her mother with sudden interest. “You’re psychic, aren’t you, Felipe?”
“A little,” Felipe said shyly. “I’ve been known to have a sense about things. And this doesn’t feel good to me.”
“And you’re getting all of that through your psychic wavelengths?” asked her father with a smirk.
Isabel heard her brother snicker quietly on her other side.
Suddenly, the girl—Rory, was it?—edged up beside Isabel and shoved a platter of chicken in her face. “Chicken?” the girl whispered.
Isabel took the tongs without making eye contact and dumped a breast on her plate. The girl moved on to the next person. Hopefully that would be the extent of their contact this summer. She didn’t even know where this girl was sleeping, but she hoped it wasn’t anywhere near her bedroom.
“I really am psychic, you know,” Felipe said to Isabel when her father and mother began discussing architects. He leaned in close to her. “Like with you. You met somebody today. I can tell.”
Isabel blinked. “How can you tell?” she asked.
“He’s tall, dark, and handsome,” Felipe said, as a smile curled around his lips. “He’s made quite an impression on you.”
Isabel stared at him. “Huh. You’re actually kind of right.”
“Of course I am,” Felipe said proudly. “And just between you and me, I think it’s a good thing that your parents move. This house. It’s beautiful, but…” He looked around and gave a faint shudder. “Too many secrets.”
“What do you mean?” Isabel asked. In her peripheral vision, she saw the girl start to come around the table again with a small tureen and a spoon.
“Ask them,” Felipe said, nodding toward her mother and father.
“But what kind of secrets?” Isabel asked.
Her view of Felipe was suddenly blotted out by the girl’s anxious face. “Teriyaki sauce?” she offered.
“Fine.” Isabel turned back to Felipe and was about to repeat the question when she felt something cool and wet. She looked down. Brown teriyaki sauce lay in a pool on her lap.
“Eeeew!” Isabel exclaimed, standing up from the table.
“What is it?” her mother asked.
“She just spilled on me!” Isabel said, pointing at the girl. “Look!” She held out the stained part of her dress.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. Her face had gone sheet-white. “I’m so sorry.”
“Isabel, please sit down.” Her mom’s voice struggled to stay calm.
“It’s not gonna come out,” Isabel said. “She ruined it!” Isabel ran to the kitchen. To her irritation, she heard the girl follow her.
“What is it?” Eduardo asked as they charged into the kitchen.
“Do we have any club soda?” Isabel asked, going to the refrigerator.
“Really, I’m so, so sorry,” the girl said, hanging her head.
Isabel ignored her. “Club soda?” she repeated. “Anywhere?”
Eduardo opened the fridge and produced a minibottle of Seagram’s.
“Let me have it,” she said, taking it from him. She ripped off some paper towels from the roll at the sink and poured the soda over them.
“Really, I’m so, so sorry,” the girl said.
“What are you doing here?” Isabel asked her as she blotted the stain.
“Excuse me?” the girl asked.
“What are you doing here?” She finally looked at the girl, who had started to wring her hands. “Why are you even here?”
The girl didn’t speak.
“They shouldn’t have asked you to do this, you know.”
Bianca appeared in the doorway from the hall. “Isabel, what is the matter?” she asked in her usual condescending voice.
“Why did you make this girl serve us tonight?” Isabel demanded. “She had no clue what she was doing.”
“The person we hired canceled on us,” Bianca said. “This was the best we could do on such short notice.”
“Then it should have been a buffet.”
“Your mother didn’t want a buffet,” Bianca countered.
Isabel turned back to her dress. “Whatever,” she snapped.
“I really am sorry,” Rory said.
“Stop saying that,” Isabel said. She threw the paper towels in the garbage. “It’s done. Hopefully the cleaners can do something with it. But obviously, you don’t know what you’re doing.” She stalked out of the kitchen, making sure to avoid Bianca’s smug stare.
Rory watched her go, aware of her heart racing frantically inside her chest.
“That’s enough,” Bianca said. “I’ll handle the rest.”
“I really am sorry,” she mumbled.
“It was an accident,” Bianca said. Her voice didn’t hold a shred of sympathy.
Rory placed the tureen on the counter with shaky hands. She’d been waiting tables for two years and had never dropped so much as a slice of pepperoni on someone. Why couldn’t she ladle some sauce? What was wrong with her? The only thing to do was go to her room and try to recover. Rory headed for the door.
“Don’t you want some dinner?” Bianca asked. “Eduardo can make you a plate.”
“No, that’s all right,” Rory said. “I’m not that hungry.”
Nobody mentioned her outburst for the rest of dinner. Instead, they talked as if she weren’t even there, chewing over the usual dinnertime topics: who’d bought which house for how much, who’d been admitted to the Georgica lately, and how hard it was to find decent household help in the Hamptons these days. As soon as Bianca came out of the kitchen with bowls of lemon and blueberry gelato, Isabel pushed back from the table.
“Is it okay if I’m excused?” she asked.
Her mother flashed her a dark look. It was clear that she was still angry, but she gave a curt nod. Isabel left the room without another word and hurried upstairs.
As she left, she could feel Sloane and Gregory watching her. The two of them had ganged up on her constantly last summer, at least when they weren’t tattling on her to their parents. When she’d borrowed the Range Rover to drive to a party in Sagaponack, only twenty minutes away, Sloane had been the first to tell their mom that she’d taken the car for a “joyride.” When she’d stayed out all night with Aston to watch the sunrise, her brother told her in all seriousness that she was smearing the family name with her “antics.” And then the way they’d both freaked out last summer with the fire, which was a total accident… The last thing she needed right now was a lecture from both of them. She couldn’t wait for Connor to get home. He always defended her, and luckily, Sloane and Gregory always listened to him. Maybe it was because they knew that he was their mom’s favorite.
She opened the door to her bedroom and looked at the pink walls, billowy white curtains, and the antique chandelier that hung from the ceiling. When she was fourteen, her decorating influences had been Betsey Johnson’s boutiques and Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette. Now she wished that the walls were plain white and her curtains olive green, like her room at school. She walked on into her closet, which now seemed ridiculously over-the-top. It was amazing how one year away changed the way she saw things. She’d loved her closet so much when she’d first designed it, but now it just looked silly. Clothes were grouped by color, with a special section designed for stripes. Her shoe rack took up an entire wall, and in the corner, all her purses, bags, and clutches hung from fabric-covered nails. She pulled off her dress and changed into her school sweats and a T-shirt. Then she sat down on the curved chaise in the center of the room and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Maybe she’d sort of overdone it down there with that girl, she thought. Maybe she’d acted like a jerk.
After a few minutes, the sound of footsteps in the room outside made her sit up straight. “Isabel?” Her mother appeared on the threshold, her blue eyes stormy. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
“I thought it was pretty obvious,” Isabel said. “She ruined my dress.”
“So you politely excuse yourself to go to the kitchen,” Lucy said. “You do not carry on like that in front of people. And you will not yell at a member of the staff. That is for me to do, not you.” Her mom took a deep breath and clutched at her silk cardigan. “And I’m still waiting for you to explain today. Jumping in the ocean like that with no lifeguard, nobody around.”
“I felt like swimming.”
“Mrs. Dancy told me you walked onto the patio looking like a drowned rat.”
“Because I did almost drown.”
Her mother cocked her head, and several strands of blond hair fell out of her updo and down to her shoulder. “Don’t do that, Isabel,” she said. “Don’t play the martyr. Things are going to be different this summer. Do you understand? No staying out all night, no borrowing the car, no lying to us. Your father has had it up to here with you, if that means anything at all—”
“It doesn’t,” Isabel said.
“Don’t say that.”
“He doesn’t even talk to me,” Isabel said. “Why should I care what he thinks? And this is so not about me. She’s the one who messed up. God knows why you took her in.”
“You will be nice to that girl, do you understand?” her mom said. “She doesn’t have half the advantages you do. I’m trying to do a nice thing by having her here for the summer.”
“You’re just terrified Fee will finally quit and leave you,” Isabel muttered. “So you say yes to whatever she asks.”
Her mother was quiet. “Good night, Isabel,” she finally said, and walked out.
Isabel stayed on the chaise. The summer had barely started, and already she needed to get out of here. She closed her eyes. The sensation of a wave rocked her. Instantly, she saw him again. That dripping-wet hair. Those eyes. That grin.
He was here. Somewhere close by. And possibly thinking about her.
She walked out into her bedroom and over to the iPod dock on her bedside table. She turned on the playlist she’d made at school right before she’d come home and lay down on her bed. She wanted to think about him some more.
Rory lay curled on her bed in the gathering dark, unable to move or turn on a light. Pretty soon she would have to move, though, and decide what to do.
For most of her life, she’d always been cautious. Waking up an extra hour early to study before a test. Waiting until things went on sale. Saving enough money from her paycheck to make sure the electric bill got paid. So obviously it stood to reason that the one time she wasn’t cautious, it would be a disaster. Her mom had been right. Coming here had been a mistake. And it had taken only eight hours to figure that out.
When she finally sat up and looked out the window, it was dark. Shadows fell on the carpet from the house lights outside. She picked up the phone on the bedside table and stared at all the buttons for the different rooms—LIBRARY, POOLHOUSE, MASTER BEDROOM. She hung up the phone. Fee had said she was downstairs off the Ping-Pong room. It would be easier just to go find her.
She stepped out into the hall. The house felt quiet. The only living creature she could see or hear was Trixie, who raised her head from her bed and regarded Rory with surprisingly soulful dark eyes. She went down the back staircase, each step creaking, and hit the dimmer switch. The light came up over the Ping-Pong table. The paddles still lay on the credenza at odd angles to each other. Just looking at them, she felt covered in shame. She couldn’t even imagine what the Rules thought of her now. Though Isabel’s reaction had definitely been rude. But it seemed as if the family was well used to Isabel’s rudeness.
She walked down a hall until she reached a closed door with light seeping out from under it. Gently, she knocked. “Fee?” she said. “Can I come in? It’s Rory.”
The door opened. Fee stood in a long crew shirt that said THE GEORGICA CLUB in fancy script and a pair of pajama pants. “Well, hello, honey,” she said. “Thought you’d come by. I’m just doing my crossword puzzle. Come on in.”
Rory looked around the cramped room. It was just large enough to hold a twin bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser with a miniature flat-screen TV on top of it. There was no walk-in closet, no pair of overstuffed chairs. No floor-to-ceiling windows.
“This room is so small,” she said. “Sorry. I mean, compared with mine. I should be in this one.”
“I like it small,” Fee muttered. “And nobody comes down here. Which is even better.” She sat back down on her bed and picked up her crossword. “A six-letter word for ‘class,’ ” she said, squinting at the puzzle. “Starts with C.”
Rory thought. “Cachet?”
“Ca-chet,” Fee said, printing the letters. “Good. Very good. You’re a very smart girl.”
“Yeah, except I can’t ladle sauce,” Rory said.
“Now, don’t go feeling bad about that,” Fee said, putting down the newspaper. “You did the best you could. And, by the way, they should never have put you in that position.”
“Mrs. Rule probably thinks I’m a moron,” Rory said. “And Isabel—”
“Has an attitude problem the size of Nebraska,” Fee interrupted.
“I just think this might have been a mistake,” Rory said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Because Isabel Rule threw one of her tantrums? No. Spending all summer with your mother and her latest boy toy? That would have been a mistake.”
“I just don’t really have the experience for this,” Rory said. “I thought I did. But it’s so confusing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Fee.
“Well, the Rules. They were so friendly. They made me feel like a guest. You know, with the room, and how nice they were when I met them.” Rory picked up Fee’s pen, uncapped it, and capped it again. “And then all of a sudden I was serving them dinner. And not doing it well. It was just strange. I guess I just didn’t expect them to be so nice. That’s all.”
Fee opened a drawer in her nightstand and took out a bag of M&M’S. “Well, they’re not ogres, that’s for sure,” she said, offering the bag to Rory, who took one. “But I’ve never forgotten that I’m the housekeeper. Not for one moment.”
“Right,” Rory said, though she wasn’t quite sure what Fee was saying.
“Put tonight behind you,” she said. “And try to relax. Go to town, make some friends. And for God’s sake, don’t worry about Isabel. She’s a troubled kid.”
“How troubled?”
“She’s never fit in,” Fee said, biting into an M&M. “All the other kids, there was never any trouble. But Isabel—she’s always liked to test people. And then last summer, she almost burned down this house.”
Rory dropped the pen. “Are you serious?”
Fee nodded somberly. “She came home from a party three sheets to the wind and then fell asleep in the TV room with a lit cigarette in her hand. The rug caught fire and then the curtains, and she would have taken down the whole north wing of the house if her brother Connor hadn’t come down to the kitchen to get something to eat.”
“Yikes.”
“That’s when they decided to send her to school in California. She didn’t come back all year. Not even during Christmas. Not until a couple of weeks ago. So it’s been a bit bumpy here since she’s been back. I think the family’s wishing they could have kept her at school all summer, too.”
Rory picked at the rope bracelet on her right wrist.
“But don’t worry,” Fee said, putting a hand on Rory’s. “You’re going to be just fine here.”
Again, Fee didn’t sound that convincing, but she let it pass. “What time should I be up tomorrow?”
“Eight should be safe.”
“Okay. And thanks again. For everything.” She leaned down to give Fee a hug. “Good night.”
“G’night, dear.”
She closed Fee’s door. When she passed the paddles on the credenza, she no longer felt embarrassed. The Rules had to be good people if Fee had worked for them for so long. They would forgive her for one stupid mistake. She thought of them playing Ping-Pong, perfectly in sync with one another, competitive but in a friendly, supportive way. What family she knew did stuff like that? The only crack in their exterior so far was their crazy daughter.
She entered her room and kept it dark as she started to unmake the massive bed. She couldn’t wait to go to sleep. Music filtered down from above her room. A familiar melody. One of her favorite songs, in fact. Florence and the Machine.
Someone else in this house liked them, too.
