"How's this acquisition going to get you back in the fold?" I asked.

"It'll be in the family," said Linette. "If he can't have me at the next desk, he'll settle for me managing a satellite location."

"What if it's a complete disaster?" Kris asked. "What if you can't undo the damage and no one comes?"

"They'll come," said Linette. "I'll see to it."

"It might take time," said Nelson.

"And if they still don't come," Linette said, "he can always sell."

"Or book a couple of headliners," said Kris.

I knew enough to ask if her father's offer had been presented in writing, with a binder, and Linette said, "Of course."

"Have they accepted?"

"They will. There's been no takers," Linette confided. "Not one other offer tendered."

"Are they furious?" I asked.

"Not exactly," said Nelson.

Linette held out her winegla.s.s. "It's America, remember? If the Berrys don't want Hal Feldman's money, they can send him away."

TWENTY-EIGHT.

Gretel became Mrs. Donald Fife, Jr., at the Dogteam Tavern in early May. Kris was an usher, and I was nothing official, although my pink moire sheath and dyed-to-match high heels had served as my bridesmaid outfit at my sister's wedding. Rosy and plump but not obviously pregnant, Gretel wore her mother's satin wedding dress and 1940s pageboy to great effect. I was sure her fashion decision was purely one of fit and cut, but I still gave her credit for wearing an old-fashioned dress that would not remind anyone of Robin's. The Bobolinks, Middlebury's a cappella group, sang "One Hand, One Heart," which I found an ironic and sad choice, in view of the single-ring ceremony and the smirk on Chip's face from start to finish.

The Fife sons were sober enough to perform their groom and best-man duties but drunk enough to infuriate Kris, who demanded a caucus in the men's room. Immediately afterward, a chastened Chip held his child bride close for two slow dances. Gretel looked pleased with her husband, snuggling against him, her wide gold wedding band on display. In marked contrast to his wife's blissful smile, Chip mugged for his friends, as if an unpopular girl had snagged him for a ladies' choice.

At the head table, Kris asked me, smoking the only cigar I'd ever known him to light, "Is it as clear to everyone else as it is to me?"

I said, "You can't always tell. Maybe when they're alone, he's different."

"He's twenty-six years old," said Kris. "He shoots hoops every night in his driveway. He's going to an amus.e.m.e.nt park for his honeymoon."

I said, "Look at her. She's beaming. And you know they're going to have their picture taken with Goofy and Pluto, which will become their Christmas card."

He stubbed out his cigar and kissed me. At the other end of the head table, as if we had reminded him of a duty yet to be performed, Mr. Fife tapped his champagne gla.s.s with a knife until the guests took note. I steeled myself for the inevitable eulogy to the near wedding of Robin and Nelson and the near union of these two families. Instead, he toasted Kris and me, taking credit for our meeting as children and finding each other again as adults, to the muted applause of the mildly bored spectators.

Eventually Gretel, in her peach-linen ensemble and black straw boater, lobbed tea roses into the brood of Bobolinks, none of whom, I noticed, had been asked to dance by a single former fraternity brother of the groom. On impulse, I kissed Gretel, who surprised me with the intensity of the hug she returned.

Kris and I left shortly after Chip's Mustang honked its way out of sight, crepe paper flying and hubcaps clanging. By way of good-byes, I complimented Ingrid on her ice-blue raw-silk outfit and the fruit cup, the london broil, the wild-rice pilaf, the green beans almondine, the mimosa salad, the lemon wedding cake, and the champagne punch. "Excellent choices," I told her.

"Thank you, Natalie," she said, and offered me her cheek.

My parents gave us a wedding check I didn't think they could afford, and-when Linette created our jobs at the Inn-the t.i.tle to my mother's car, which she claimed did not have enough leg room for clients. We received an enormous carton, parcel post, from my in-laws shortly after Gretel's wedding. Nestled in newspaper confetti were a pressed-gla.s.s punch bowl and twenty-three dainty cups. The card said, "Kris, you probably recognize this from many happy occasions. It is a family heirloom, one we didn't want to auction along with the rest of the contents. Please think of us when you use it. (Scoops of sherbet floating on top are a nice decorative touch.) With our best wishes, Mother and Dad."

Gretel gave birth to Berry, quite adorable, in September, on schedule, on the very day Squeaky Fromme aimed a pistol at President Ford. Because she looked like Chip, lean rather than round, baby Berry also looked like her Aunt Robin, or maybe it was wishful thinking on all our parts. To my astonishment, Kris and I were asked to be her G.o.dparents. Gretel explained in less than flattering fashion that of the three brother-candidates, Jeff had no interest in or apt.i.tude for babies; Nelson-well, who knew when he'd ever be back to normal; which left Kris, who had been a decent enough brother, and even had a wife to help.

As G.o.dparents by default, we tried a little too hard when visiting, offering to change diapers and to negotiate Berry's unwieldy navy-blue English perambulator around the neighborhood. Often it would be Mr. Fife accompanying me, pushing the carriage proudly, calling out to neighbors as they raked leaves and washed cars, "Come see our new little girl. Come meet my granddaughter." He'd introduce me as the baby's aunt, his daughter-in-law's brother's wife, then would always add, quietly if inaccurately, "Natalie was a dear friend of our Robin's." As he and I would move dolefully on to the next house, I'd cheer him slightly by saying, "I think you're her favorite. She coos and smiles a lot more when you're pushing the carriage. It must be your voice." On solo walks, he serenaded her the whole time-Rodgers and Hammerstein, mostly, or early Peter, Paul, and Mary. Before long, he noticed a sound coming from inside the carriage-a toneless, steady, one-note hum: tiny Berry trying to sing.

As soon as their granddaughter was christened and the papers were pa.s.sed, Karl and Ingrid moved to Florida. They claimed it was what they had always dreamed of-to live in a condo, free of responsibility, no guests, no employees. They kept up their subscription to the Gilbert Independent, and sent the occasional clipping and help-wanted ad, which they thought might interest Kris. Once in a while, Ingrid would report some social tidbit by telephone, dropping a Jewish surname so I'd understand that she had won friends around the swimming pool by mentioning the heritage of her second son's wife.

She tried golf and tennis, and somewhere within those circles found a crowd and a purpose. Her Christmas card was a photograph of her new prides and joy-two adult miniature schnauzers with papers and long names. Training and showing her ready-made champions not only kept her busy but suited her, temperamentally and socially. "She likes the other owners as much as she likes the dogs," reported Karl. "Her boys have won two second-place ribbons so far, and she's not-so-secretly hoping for Best of Breed in Tampa."

Mr. Berry wrote to us every week, telling us more than we wanted to know about his new garden-his lemon, lime, and date trees; his hibiscus and gardenia bushes; his orchids, bougainvillea, and birds-of-paradise, none of which, he bragged, would survive Vermont winters. "I'm thinking of a part-time job," he eventually wrote. "Maybe as a volunteer guide. Looking into the Everglades, or helping out at the Thomas A. Edison and Henry Ford winter home in Fort Myers a couple days a week. It's an arboretum, and, as you know, I'm pretty handy with the flora and the fauna."

Linette and I recommended, and Kris and Nelson agreed, that the former owners' name should not be printed on any promotional materials, and that the word mushroom must never appear on the menu-in any form, in any dish, in any language. We wanted the appearance of a new management, a new kitchen, a new spirit. Linette said, "What we want to achieve is the sense that the old Inn burned to the ground and we started over fresh, not risen from the ashes; no ghosts, no leftover monogrammed plates and towels; no matchbooks, no vans still registered to the old regime."

Kris said, Okay, then; two could play this game. For his part: no bingo, no Simon Says, no Polynesian nights, no shuffleboard, no boiled meat, no non-dairy coffee creamer, no Harry of Harry's Hairpieces fitting toupees in the lobby.

Nelson insisted on one concession to his dignity and to his years in the cla.s.sroom-that his branch of the Halcyon, on his lake, be spelled correctly. He also asked one day, well into the renovations, if we could relocate instead of junk the old porch sign, perhaps hang it indoors on an inconspicuous wall, like folk art; like a memorial plaque.

"Absolutely not," said Linette. "We're severing that tie."

"The matriarchy is dead; long live the matriarchy," intoned Kris, paintbrush in hand. The four of us were turning the big gray dining room to a soft yellow with a glossy white trim that afternoon.

Linette said, "But you know what we can do? In terms of an archive? Those old photos of guests in the Adirondack chairs and the men in knickers playing croquet? We'll frame them and make a grouping in the office-those, and that adorable one of you two holding Gretel on the dock, in matching outfits, scowling into the sun."

"Any photo, in other words," said Nelson, "that doesn't identify the place."

"No?" said Linette airily. "Not a good idea?"

"Sounds cute to me," I said. "As long as we're not sweeping too much under the rug."

"You know what else we could do?" Linette continued. "We could keep that sign out front-it's got a nice shape and it's in good condition-and just paint The Halcyon on top of it in the new colors and the new typeface."

I said, "I like that. It would still be there-'The Inn at Lake Devine, established nineteen twenty-two'-and you two would know it was underneath, its maiden name, so to speak, even if no one could see it."

"What would be the point of that?" asked Nelson.

"Like an undercoat," I said. "A primer."

Nelson said to Kris, "Do you notice how they patronize us?"

Kris said, "They think we're shlemiels."

Linette said, "Really, think about it: We agreed it's not good business to remind people of what was here ... as much as we hate to be unsentimental about the birthplace of our loved ones."

Nelson went to work. He dipped his brush into yellow paint and began writing THE INN AT LAKE DEVINE across the old gray wall. Kris caught on after the first few letters and joined in. Their graffiti contest raged from there: BERRY BROS., PROP ... CHRISTIANS WELCOME ... FOR A GOOD TIME CALL NATALIE @ EXT. 07 ... And the one that left them hanging off each other: HOME OF THE LITTLE BROWN MUSHROOM.

To amuse only myself, I wrote discreetly in one corner, "Long Live Chez Natalie." I painted a bulging, anatomically correct heart around it, an arrow through it, an aorta ascending, various arteries, four chambers in a cross-section, and a set of initials in each.

Kris saw it, nudged Nelson, and in two strokes it was gone.

Linette and I smiled-at the boys, at each other, in general. Good sports and gracious winners, we collapsed the ladders and declared the workday done.

Acknowledgments.

I wouldn't have started or finished this book without the support of the following exceptional people: Mameve Medwed and Stacy Schiff, my first readers, safety nets, and inexhaustible friends; my editor, Deborah Futter, who made me feel that revisions were gifts from me to her, and inspired them in the most doting, constructive, and good-humored way; Ginger Barber and every blessed person at the Virginia Barber Literary Agency; Madeleine Blais, who claimed, when I called, that she had always wanted to go to the Catskills; Ben Austin, Nick Katzenbach, and Justine Katzenbach for their company and contributions to that trip; Bob Austin, the model for my dear fictional husbands; Pat McDonagh, who taught me everything I know about mushrooms; Caroline Leavitt, who got well and back to her computer; and my mother, Julia Lipman, who remembered after thirty-five years the exact wording of the letter from the hotel on the lake.

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