Everybody Rise by Stephanie Clifford Page B

long legs jammed up against the motor covering in front of him, and Charlotte sat precariously on the gunwale. As Mrs. Hacking slowly backed out of the boathouse, and Mr. Hacking began to fill plastic tumblers with wine, Evelyn balanced herself next to Charlotte.
    â€œSo I’m totally on-plan, Char,” Evelyn said.
    â€œWith PLU? What, have you signed up Mrs. Hacking?”
    â€œNope, but the camp we’re going to, Sachem? It’s Camilla Rutherford’s camp and she’s, like, target number one for PLU.”
    â€œShe summahs in Lake James, how mahvelous,” Charlotte said. “Who is she?”
    â€œCamilla? Well, she has a bit of a complicated history. She went to St. Paul’s—”
    â€œOf course,” Charlotte said, biting into her cheese straw. St. Paul’s was as preppy as schools came, and Charlotte had become fascinated with it at Sheffield after she swam against them and noted the whole girls’ swim team carried monogrammed towels.
    â€œYour favorite. Then Trinity for college, but in her senior year her parents got divorced. You have to have heard of them. It was on Page Six basically constantly. Susan, Souse, is the mother. And her father is Fritz Rutherford.”
    â€œWait, sorry, Rutherford like Rutherford Rutherford? As in, she probably owns founders’ shares in J. P. Morgan?”
    â€œSssshh,” said Evelyn, indicating her head toward the Hackings. “Yes.”
    â€œAnd our heroine couldn’t even get through Camp Trin-Trin?”
    Evelyn had dropped her voice to a whisper. “She ended up getting her degree in Hawaii or Ecuador or someplace. She fled town after the parents’ divorce. I looked up the details—apparently it had to do with Fritz’s refusal to support the Guggenheim.”
    â€œI can’t hear you. What was the divorce about?” Charlotte seemed to be increasing her volume on purpose.
    â€œFritz’s refusal to support the Guggenheim,” Evelyn hissed, again casting a look over her shoulder to see if Mrs. Hacking had heard her.
    â€œWe all think we have our problems, but thank God we don’t have husbands who don’t support the Guggenheim.”
    â€œCharlotte, keep your voice down. She does events for Vogue . I think even the heads of PLU will be impressed if I get her.”
    â€œI’m not quite sure what to say, Beegan, but I like your moxie,” Charlotte said.
    Mrs. Hacking slowed the boat as they approached Sachem, which was on a private island in the middle of the lake. Scot and Charlotte began peppering Mr. Hacking with questions about how, exactly, provisions for a private island were supplied, but the wind carried their words past the bow of the boat and the American flag whose wake-wetted fabric slapped against Evelyn’s head.
    When Mrs. Hacking downshifted again and the boat made grunting leaps toward a dock, Preston sprang out and tied up the Chris-Craft with a few quick knots. The dock was less elegant than Evelyn was expecting, just a wooden roof making a V over a platform with some benches on it, and a long, thin dock bobbing next to it where a variety of motorboats and rowboats were tied up.
    Evelyn had gotten out of the boat ahead of everyone else and, trying to look like she knew where she was going, started up a path to an A-frame structure that seemed to be made of giant Lincoln Logs. She heard a whistle from behind her.
    â€œWrong way, Ev,” Preston said.
    â€œIsn’t that the house?”
    â€œThat’s the teepee.”
    â€œThat’s a teepee?”
    Mr. Hacking, who had overtaken Evelyn on the uphill path and was studying the house like it was a rare raptor, stepped in. “It’s called the Typee. After Melville. Where the men would carouse. Far enough away from the main lodge that they could have their liquor and smoke cigars without the women knowing. The whole hill below it is, legend has it, covered in glass. Can you