The Summer We Read Gatsby Part 19

17.

Peck came back from Paris with an enormous feathered hat she'd found at the flea market. "I'm afraid it may have have fleas," she said of the thing, which she insisted on wearing over to Hamilton's house for our showdown with Biggsy three days later. "Or the avian flu. But isn't it fleas," she said of the thing, which she insisted on wearing over to Hamilton's house for our showdown with Biggsy three days later. "Or the avian flu. But isn't it fabulous fabulous?"

Hamilton and Scotty certainly thought so. "It's so risky," Scotty decreed. "And thus, frisky frisky," Hamilton added.

We gathered Wednesday evening, the six of us-Peck, Miles, Scotty, Hamilton, Finn, and me-on the patio behind Hamilton's house. This was the first time Finn and I had been in the presence of another human being since our night at the beach. I felt as though I'd been drugged for those three days, so distracted was I by the intensity of my feelings for him. He said he felt the same way and called in sick to the office. Afterward he said, "I didn't lie, I am am sick. I'm dizzy, weak, I can't think straight. What have you done to me?" sick. I'm dizzy, weak, I can't think straight. What have you done to me?"

I didn't know that one could feel this way about another person. Romantic love had always seemed like an abstract concept to me, I realized, until these raw waves of emotion overtook me so strongly I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. I was taken by total surprise, not only by the feelings, but that Finn-Lydia's Finn was how I thought of him-was the source of them.

We sat together in one of the enormous wicker chairs with navy cus.h.i.+ons pulled up to a low table on Hamilton's patio. The others all took their own seats but Finn pulled me down next to him with an arm around my shoulders, prompting Peck to comment that we should get a room. Hamilton had instructed Scotty on the proper preparation of the traditional Pimm's Cup, and they pa.s.sed around tall frosted gla.s.ses garnished with fruit.

"Are we certain it's not still alive?" Finn asked, wrinkling his nose as he inspected Peck's hat. "I think it's moving moving."

"It's probably in horribly bad taste," she explained in the self-deprecating manner that she adopted when she knew she was wearing something truly fabulous. "But I'd rather have bad taste than no taste any day of the week."

"Oh, me too," Scotty cooed. He was enamored of Peck's outrageous fas.h.i.+on sense. "What does your beau think of it?"

"My beau?" she scoffed from under the ma.s.s of drooping feathers. "He bought bought it for me. And then he had to carry the thing on the plane. He almost had to buy it its own seat, didn't you, Miles?" it for me. And then he had to carry the thing on the plane. He almost had to buy it its own seat, didn't you, Miles?"

Miles nodded distractedly, scrolling on his BlackBerry as he shoveled potato chips into his mouth. He spoke through a spray of crumbs. "When is that punk going to show up?"

On cue, Biggsy appeared on the patio, shocked to see the six of us gathered there. He was dressed in a tight-fitting seersucker suit and he too wore a hat. His was a small porkpie with jaunty red trim, and he looked too young and good-looking for this role, like a heartthrob leading man trying unsuccessfully to play the part of the bad guy. We're used to crooks looking like rats, with beady eyes and bad s.h.i.+rts, and crazy people looking ugly and unkempt. But Biggsy was so beautiful, with those razor-sharp cheekbones and full lips, that in the movies he could only be cast as the love interest. Or possibly the villain who would then turn out to have been on the good side the whole time. It had been so easy for him to fool us. We'd been so willing to be fooled.

"Uh . . . h.e.l.lo," he stammered, stopped short by the sight of all of us. He'd only expected Hamilton and someone-Scotty-who looked like an art dealer, and he was shocked to see me, Peck, Finn, and Miles on the patio.

"h.e.l.lo, young man," Hamilton boomed. "Won't you have a Pimm's?"

"Um . . . sure." Biggsy didn't move his feet. He was empty-handed, despite the plan set in motion by Hamilton for him to bring the painting to this meeting. "What's going on?"

"It's an intervention," Peck cried out, the feathers on her hat bobbing madly. "We've had a few of those this summer."

Biggsy looked flummoxed. "It was only a couple of joints. I have ADD. I take it to relax."

"Not drugs, you idiot. Art." Peck said, glancing over at me.

"We want the painting back," I explained, speaking as calmly as I could, even though I wanted to strangle the good-looking young guy who stood there trying to look wide-eyed and innocent. "And then we want you to take your stuff and leave."

His eyes darted nervously between Peck and me. "I live here. This is my home home."

"Jonathan," I said firmly. "We know you stole from us. And we know you faked that letter from Lydia."

He paused for a second, calculating a next move. "I just wanted you to like like me," he said with a pout, like he was trying to be cute about it. "Lydia loved me so much. I was just putting onto paper the words she herself used about me. And she encouraged me to do those pranks. She called it art." me," he said with a pout, like he was trying to be cute about it. "Lydia loved me so much. I was just putting onto paper the words she herself used about me. And she encouraged me to do those pranks. She called it art."

At this, Miles let out a snort. "Art?"

"That was a mean thing to do." I sounded like a stern school-teacher. "You've been nothing but trouble since we got here."

"And then you let me believe Miles took it," Peck added, pointing a finger at him. "You almost f.u.c.ked the whole thing up for me. I should've kicked you the h.e.l.l out right then."

"I think of you as my family family," he tried to explain. "We have no more living family, any of us. And I thought . . . you, me, Peck-"

"Peck's mother is alive and well and living in a condo in Palm Springs," I interjected, losing what little patience I might have had for this charade.

"Where she belongs," Peck said with a nod in my direction.

"And we we, Peck and I, are sisters, related by blood," I continued as Peck beamed her approval at me. "You, on the other hand, are a freeloader we've tolerated for too long. So don't try to put yourself in any category with us."

He looked down at his feet. "I can't let you do it. You can't let Fool's House go." He looked up then with a vicious gleam in his eyes as he directed his words to me. "You think you're so f.u.c.king worldly, just because you live somewhere else. But you're myopic myopic. You and your sister."

Finn had been watching calmly from the big wicker chair, but now he stood. "Hey. Just give them the painting."

"And the book," I interjected.

"And anything else you took," Finn continued. "And then move on. Show's over."

"What the h.e.l.l do you you know?" There was a rehea.r.s.ed quality to the venom in his voice, like he'd been watching soap operas for techniques on how to play the villain, and it made me want to laugh. "You're a f.u.c.king architect." know?" There was a rehea.r.s.ed quality to the venom in his voice, like he'd been watching soap operas for techniques on how to play the villain, and it made me want to laugh. "You're a f.u.c.king architect."

Finn gave him a bemused look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Architects are all failed artists." Biggsy was still standing at the edge of the patio, staring in at the six of us, who formed a circle in the wicker chairs around the low table with its bowls of chips and other "nibbles," as Hamilton insisted on calling them.

I stood and folded my arms over my chest, glaring at Biggsy. "Where's the painting?"

He didn't answer me but took a step toward Scotty. The elfin Scotsman was perched on the edge of his huge cus.h.i.+oned chair like a child at a tennis match, head swiveling from side to side as he observed the action with delight. "Are you the art dealer?"

"The dealer dealer?" I repeated as I realized that Biggsy still didn't seem to understand what was going on here.

"I'm not an art dealer," Scotty announced, pulling himself upright in his seat.

"But he plays one on TV," Peck added. "This time the prank's on you, Biggs. There's no dealer. There's only us. And we want our painting back."

"And the book," I repeated.

He swiveled to look at me. "What book book?"

"Just give us back Lydia's painting," Peck said. "And then get the h.e.l.l out of here."

Biggsy answered with a sneer. "You can have the d.a.m.n painting," he said. "It's not worth s.h.i.+t."

We all seemed to speak at once. "How do you know?"

He put both hands on his hips before he spoke. "It's no Jackson Pollock, that's for f.u.c.king sure." He appeared to be almost enjoying himself, in full performance mode now that he felt he had command of his audience.

"So who painted it?" I asked him.

He shrugged. "Someone short on talent. There's a lot of them."

"We don't care," Peck cried out. "It has sentimental value and we want it back. And then you've got to get out."

"I'll get you the painting," he said. "But you can't make me leave Fool's House."

There was a brief pause when n.o.body spoke. All this time I'd had Lydia's revolver in my back pocket and I pulled it out now and pointed it at the young fool. "Yes, we can," I said, trying to hold the gun as steady as possible as I focused it right between his lovely blue eyes. I'd never pointed a gun at anyone. I'd never even held one in my hand until that morning, when I pulled it out of the c.o.c.ktail shaker in preparation for this afternoon. It felt surprisingly natural, though, to bring out this extra little bit of force, even though the unloaded revolver wasn't anything more than a prop.

He looked startled. And then quickly his bravado returned. "You could never shoot that thing."

"Watch me," I said, willing my hand not to shake.

Finn was grinning at me as he said to Biggsy, "Just get them their stuff, dude. n.o.body has to get hurt."

Biggsy lifted his hands in protest. "All right," he said. "Don't get your panties in a wad. The painting was at Fool's House all along." He turned and gestured that we should follow him.

We fell into a line behind him down the path that led around the house to the driveway. I went first with the gun and the others fell in after me in close succession, like we were in a conga line at a party. "Wait until you see where that painting is," Biggsy called out from his spot as the leader in front of us. "You'll be blown away."

I'm sure we must have looked ridiculous, like costumed inmates from an asylum being let out for a parade, to anyone on the street as we filed out of Hamilton's driveway. There was Biggsy in the lead in his shrunken suit and hat, and then me with a gun. Behind me was tall Finn and then shorter Miles, who somehow managed to be texting on his BlackBerry while he walked. Tiny Scotty, in a purple paisley s.h.i.+rt tucked into orange Bermuda shorts with a red ribbon belt, traipsed along behind him, stepping daintily on the gravel in his flimsy espadrilles. At the rear, looking like they were actually supposed to be in an Easter parade, were Peck and Hamilton, arm in arm, he in a blazer and tie and she in a s.h.i.+ny long dress with that enormous drooping hat.

When Biggsy got to the porch, he stopped and turned to face the rest of us, looking both sly and stupid at the same time. "I told you, it's in the house. Can you guess where?"

"I know, I know," Peck exclaimed as she drew close. "The bar cart."

Biggsy looked confused. "The bar cart? Where would I hide a framed oil painting in a bar cart?"

Peck shrugged. "I hid the gun in it. In Grandma Nonah's silver c.o.c.ktail shaker."

Biggsy turned and opened the screen door and we followed him into the house one by one. Peck had to hold the sides of her hat down so she could fit through the doorway.

In the hall Biggsy pointed at the Pink Lady, the doll that had kept vigil from the top of the stairs since Lydia moved into the place. "She knows all," he intoned, and then he opened the door to the overstuffed closet under the stairs that Peck and I had not had a chance to clear out.

"We looked in there," I said.

"Not all the way in the back," he replied with a grin. "And I dropped so many hints hints."

We watched as he burrowed into the closet, tossing aside blankets, sweats.h.i.+rts, and an old-fas.h.i.+oned wicker picnic basket before emerging, his porkpie hat askew as he held up the painting that had been missing for more than two weeks. He handed it to me without making eye contact.

"Why did you take it?" I asked him, still holding the gun.

He shrugged. "I knew the way Lydia felt about that painting. When you said a thing of utmost value, I knew it had to be that."

"Did you think it was a Jackson Pollock?" Peck wanted to know.

He shook his head. "I didn't know what it was. But I figured it was something." We all went quiet then, looking at the painting. It had seemed to have such power when we were trying to find it. Now it was once more just a canvas rather amateurishly covered with oil paint in abstract fas.h.i.+on. "I didn't steal it," he added, gazing at me with imploring eyes. "I never stole stole anything from you. I was just doing what Lydia had always wanted me to do. Entertain. And all I want now is to be able to stay here." anything from you. I was just doing what Lydia had always wanted me to do. Entertain. And all I want now is to be able to stay here."

I still had the gun in one hand and I lifted it again. "Where's my book?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he cried out, the picture of innocence. "Why would I take a book? I don't even read read."

"Go get your things," I said, gesturing with the gun. "And get out."

"And if you ever come within fifteen feet of the two of them . . . or their shoes," Miles added, "I'll have you killed."

"He will too," Peck chimed in. "He has a phone number in his wallet for just that purpose."

Peck took the canvas from me, shoved the chair over to the fireplace so she could stand on it, and placed the painting back on its hook above the mantel. Then we all followed Biggsy out to the garage and up the stairs to the studio. His camera equipment and a couple of packed bags were piled neatly by the door, and the mess of papers and other junk in the second room had been cleared out.

"I thought you couldn't leave Fool's House," I said. "But it seems like you got yourself ready to go after your supposed meeting with the art dealer who was going to broker a deal for the painting you claimed to have for sale."

He didn't answer me as he lifted the camera and quickly switched it on before aiming the lens at the six of us crammed into the small s.p.a.ce. "One more shot before I go?" he asked, but he was already filming.

"That's enough," Finn said to him. "Get moving."

Biggsy didn't listen to him. He kept the camera rolling as he approached Miles. "I'd still be interested in discussing my piece A Fool and His Money A Fool and His Money."

"Get. The f.u.c.k. Out of here," Miles said. "Now. Or you'll wish you'd taken the easy way."

Biggsy turned the camera on Peck, "You could be be somebody," he said, focusing a tight shot on her face. somebody," he said, focusing a tight shot on her face.

"Honey," she said, mugging for the camera like an old-time movie queen, "I already am am somebody." somebody."

I swung the gun into his line of vision and said, "Jonathan. It's time to go." He reluctantly switched the camera off. As he slung one of the bags over his shoulder something fell out of a side pocket and clattered loudly to the floor. It was Lydia's copy of Gatsby Gatsby.

I reached down and picked it up. "I thought you said you never read."

He shrugged. "You said it was a first edition. It's not, by the way. I had it checked out."

I thought for a moment before responding. "How did you know about that?"

He shrugged. "As I always say, you have to pay attention."

"I've never heard you say that," Peck cried out indignantly. "That's my my line." line."

We all started speaking at once then, insisting that he go. Finally he did, roaring off on his motorcycle, which was loaded down with all his belongings. We stood in the driveway to watch him leave.

18.

With Biggsy gone, Fool's House seemed a different place, airier and happier. It wasn't so much to do with Biggsy, or even with the fact that the rooms themselves seemed lighter and larger once we removed all the paintings from the walls except the one above the mantel. I think it was just that I was so happy that the whole world seemed different, lit with a clear golden light.