The Summer We Read Gatsby (37 page)

Finn sat on the grass next to me and reached around to pull something from his pocket. It was a small box, exactly the size that might hold a piece of jewelry, wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a raffia ribbon. I slowly untied the ribbon and pulled off the paper. I could feel him watching me. Inside the paper was a small cardboard box with a lid that I opened with great anticipation, expecting, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to find a velvet box inside. But instead what I found, nestled inside the cardboard box in a bed of more white tissue, was a fake
rock.
No, not a fake diamond. An actual rock. Well, an actual
fake
rock.

“Just what I’ve always wanted.” I managed to deadpan. “A rock. For my collection.”

He smiled. “You’re funny, kid. Flip it over,” he said. “It opens.”

At the bottom of the fake rock was a panel that popped open, revealing a key. The key slid out onto my hand.

“It’s the key to my house,” he said, taking the rock from me and holding it up. “You hide it in this. It’s a couple of steps trickier than leaving it under the welcome mat.”

I held the key in my palm and closed my fingers over it as a wave of emotion ran through me. I’d never been a jewelry person anyway. “Whatever will they think of next?”

“When I designed that house,” he said, almost like he’d practiced what he wanted to say, “I wanted it to become a home. I always planned to share it with someone, and eventually to share it with a bunch of little someones too. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I always thought of you as that someone.”

My eyes filled with tears. He helped me up and we stood together, arms wrapped around each other as Fool’s House burned.

Peck made her way back to us, with Miles in tow. He held up one hand to meet mine. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you’re okay too.”

Finn still had one arm around my waist and Peck wrapped an arm around me on the other side. I hugged her with one arm, still holding the key to Finn’s house clutched in my fist. Miles was on her other side, and then Hamilton and Scotty joined us and we stood together, the six of us, watching the firefighters attempt to get the fire under control.

“Literally,” Peck said. “I think I prefer this ending.”

The six of us stood together watching as Fool’s House burned almost to the ground. Only the stone chimney didn’t burn and, miraculously, the Julian Powell painting we’d erroneously believed to be a Jackson Pollock hanging above the fireplace survived, slightly smoke damaged, but otherwise intact.

Epilogue

by Pecksland Moriarty

 

 

 

 

Summer again, 2009

 

P
ecksland Moriarty here with what
I
have to say about all this. Normally I loathe epilogues but right from the start—from the very first line—I take issue with my sister’s version of this story. For one thing, hats are almost
never
a mistake. For another, they aren’t anything like first husbands. I personally intend to have only one, one husband that is—a feat that is easily accomplished if one chooses well—so perhaps I’m not an authority. But that never stopped me from having an opinion. And hats are always chic.

I
never
insisted that my sister accompany me to the Gatsby party and I certainly never begged. If there’s one thing I don’t do, it’s beg. Stella was
dying
to join me. She even said, “I’m dying to come,” with absolutely no irony whatsoever, even though everything out of her mouth when she got to Fool’s House just dripped with sarcasm. I don’t start sentences with the word
literally
. That doesn’t even make any sense. I also
never
said, “A literary fetish is the new black.” And I certainly don’t scream during sex. I don’t know where she gets this stuff.

She twists the facts and puts words in people’s mouths, and when I complain, she says, “But it’s fiction.” She’s even more prone to hyperbole than ever now that she’s officially a writer. Plus, that’s roughly the same excuse—“Hey, man, it’s art,” he’d say—used by Biggs.

She left out a lot of the best parts. I had some really good lines last summer that she simply cut from her manuscript. If you ask me, that’s rude. And another thing: Miles says he truly didn’t plan the Gatsby theme party with me in mind. I’m totally willing to suspend my disbelief on that, so I don’t know what business my sister has constantly bringing it up. In fact, she’ll probably mention it this evening at the wedding.

Yes, this story ends with a wedding, as so many of the good ones do. She wanted to just leave you hanging there, in the smoke and fire at the end of last summer. What kind of an ending was that? She may have said she learned a few things about telling a story from me, but she never paid close enough attention. It’s not her fault; she has ADD. I’m sure I do too.

But this story can’t end with a fire. Comedies must end with a wedding. The kind where the bride and groom act like there’s never, ever been a wedding before, the kind where there are enormous tulle bows on the backs of the chairs and calligraphy on the invitations demanding that everyone wear white. And hats for the ladies, of course. Hamilton says that’s very British. Oh, and sugared almonds in little bags. Those were Hamilton’s idea too. It’s the kind of wedding where there is only the finest champagne and the best man is a dog wearing a bow tie.

Not Hamilton and Scotty’s wedding. Theirs took place on New Year’s Eve in Switzerland. None of us are sure it was actually legal, but it was mad beautiful in the snow with both grooms in white tie. The six of us did, in fact, spend Christmas in the mountains, exactly as I predicted we would. We ate fondue until I couldn’t even fit into my ski pants, but it didn’t matter because Miles and I didn’t spend much time on the slopes anyway.

We also spent Columbus Day weekend in Lausanne, where Finn was then designing a small museum for a client. Their life is all very glamorous and chaotic and involves a lot of air travel now as they’ve been dividing their time between Lausanne and New York, aka the greatest city in the world. Yes, Stella’s become one of
those
New Yorkers.

Miles’s house is still for sale—he couldn’t give the place away now—so we’re having the wedding there. Then I’m going to look into turning it into my version of Yaddo. Miles likes the idea. He says it’s good to give back. Since he’s lost almost all of his dough-remi, he’s had some firsthand experience with this.

Stella comes into my room now. She’s wearing the most fantastic dress, which I found for her. Vintage, of course, and there’s no tag, but I’m pretty sure it’s Geoffrey Beene. Or someone equally fabulous. You can’t even tell she’s two months pregnant.

“Here,” she says, holding out a tall cocktail on ice garnished with mint. “I brought you a dressing drink.”

I almost start to cry but I don’t want to muss my makeup. “You’re a very good sister.”

She smiles. “So are you.” She takes a sip. “You ready? They’re waiting for you.”

I fuss with my hat one more time, checking the mirror. It’s another Philip Treacy, quite absolutely fabulous, if I may say so. “Is Miles down there?”

“He’s a nervous wreck.” She takes my hand. “You are, without a doubt, the most outrageously stylish bride.”

Wait, you thought Stella was the bride? You think I was going to end with their wedding? God, no. For one thing, she still says she’s not getting married, even though she and Finn are disgustingly in love. Apparently it’s very chic and European to skip marriage and go straight to the babies. I, however, am a very American girl. And I’m not ashamed to admit I wanted a big wedding. Of course, it’s not
comme il faut
to throw big lavish theme parties anymore. So ours is a small affair. Just the six of us and Mum. And Trimalchio, of course.

a cognizant original v5 release october 08 2010

Acknowledgments

 

 

 

 

Acknowledgements in novels are problematic. When too short they appear terse and we read between the lines, seeing tension and ambiguity in the faint thanks. When too long, with endless lists of names and adjectives, they read like a high school yearbook page—
look how popular I am!
Some include celebrities—or, worse, famous writers who provided “inspiration”(!)—and sound horribly pretentious. Frankly, I wanted to skip the whole exercise. One, because I’ve been out of high school for a long time. Two, because I’m lazy and a procrastinator and just finishing the novel was hard enough. And three, because I’m terrified of offending anyone. Also, I don’t personally know any celebrities. But it would be rude and inaccurate not to express my extreme heart-felt (see? The adjectives immediately start to pile up in a way that seems cloying) gratitude to my editor, Kendra Harpster, and the other brilliant (yes, really) women at Viking: Clare Ferraro, Molly Stern, Nancy Sheppard, Tricia Conley, Veronica Windholz, Tory Klose, Rachel Burd, and Amanda Brower, who worked on this book with me. Thank you so much. I feel very lucky to adore my agent (sorry, do you think that sounds smug? I do), Leigh Feldman, and I have to tell her and the team at Darhansoff, Verill, Feldman how much all their efforts on my behalf have been appreciated. While my family and friends are all a little tired of this whole
novelist
thing, I want to thank them for their patience, especially my son Harry, who read
Gatsby
this year (or so he tells me), to whom this book is dedicated and my two younger children, Nick and Zoe, who were less than pleased to see their older brother singled out for attention. (Your turns will come, we hope.) And of course, I have to acknowledge and thank the man I’ve loved all of my adult life, my first, and presumably only, husband, David, who is not, I repeat, NOT, a character in this story and was most definitely not a mistake. (He
has
read
Gatsby
, though, or so he tells me).