Page 45 of Dead of Summer
FAITH
On July 1, the cars begin to arrive at the Clarke estate without warning. Black town cars, four of them in total, pulling in through the main gate and moving up the drive like a funeral procession. Faith watches from the bedroom window as they stop at the main entryway, disgorging an assortment of middle-aged men clad in pressed khaki pants and shorts that look like dress pants cut off at the knee—leisure wear for rich old conservatives.
Faith goes down to the kitchen for an iced tea and sees they’ve already gathered on the veranda. There is a tight pack of them. The scent of cigar smoke hangs in the air. An occasional loud, humorless chuckle rises up from among them. Faith observes them from behind the glass, feeling like she’s watching some sort of nature special. David is out there with them. She’d pretended to be asleep this morning as he’d slipped out of bed. The last week has been tense, distrust simmering between them, though they pretend it isn’t. They have eaten together, making idle chitchat about the weather, and the party, coming up now in just a few days. Faith wonders what will happen. Will they be able to salvage it or should she start looking for new jobs and apartments with roommates? Geoffrey saunters out to the veranda and is immediately folded into the center of the men, the alpha male.
David spots her watching and comes into the kitchen next to her. He kisses her cheek. She flinches at the roughness of his stubble on her face. “Who are they?”
“Dad’s friends,” he answers simply.
“You don’t like them?” Faith says. He gives her a look.
“I didn’t say that,” he says quickly. When he sees her expression, he explains, “Look, they’re a certain type of man, right? From a different generation. It’s not that I like them or don’t like them, they just are.”
She looks up at David.Are what?
“Let’s get out of here,” David says, taking her hand and pulling her away from the veranda.
“Where to?” she asks him, trying to find the lightness in her voice. She isn’t going to say anything until she knows more.
“Wherever you want,” he says, leading her toward the main door. “I’ll have Jim bring round a car.”
“There’s something going on in town, an oyster festival or something,” Faith says, remembering the flyer she saw stapled to a board next to the town hall.
“That’ll be perfect.” He seems almost desperate to leave now, picking up his pace, and Faith wonders what he wants to escape.
“I have to change first,” Faith says, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs. She is wearing only a black one-piece swimsuit and a pair of gauze pants.
“You look great just as you are,” David says, his eyes pleading with her. She gives in.
Geoffrey Clarke steps into the foyer, cutting them off at the pass.
“Where are you dragging my son off to?” he booms.
“Faith and I were about to go downtown for the Oyster Festival,” David says quickly. “Some local thing. We shouldn’t be gone long.”
Geoffrey eyes the two of them. Faith can tell he is calculating something.
“I’d like to come,” Geoffrey says. “Would be good to show my face around town before the party, don’t you think?”
David pales. “Are you sure, Dad? I thought you were taking the boys down to the course later.” Geoffrey returns a defiant look.
“I think the boys can wait. Or they can come with. They love an oyster. You know that.”
“Aw, Dad, I was hoping that me and Faith—”
“What? Did you want a little private time? Don’t want your old pops tagging along on your little date?” Geoffrey says this last part antagonistically. Even though it is true that Faith desperately wants time alone with David, she won’t let Geoffrey see her sweating it. She gets the feeling he is toying with her. She puts a serene smile on her face.
“It’s fine, David,” Faith says, putting a hand to his arm. She turns to Geoffrey. “You are more than welcome to come. The more the merrier; besides, David and I get plenty of time alone together in New York.”
Geoffrey returns an aggressive smile that shows her she’s gotten to him. “Thank you, Faith. That’s very generous.”
“Jimmy!” he calls out, pushing past them to the door. “We’ll need three cars. SUVs. I’m bringing the boys.”
The air at the festival is briny with shucked oysters. Rows of white catering tents are set up at the site of an old fort next to a low concrete barracks in front of the sea. And Faith feels like part of an invading army as she walks next to David, behind all the men.
They come up to a stall where a father and son work in tandem. The young boy dumps a bucket of ice into the tray while the father lays out gray oyster shells on top. Behind them an oven lets out plumes of woodsmoke.
“Freshly harvested,” the man calls out to them, balking when he sees Geoffrey Clarke moving toward the front of the pack.
