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Stripe switches every year. The founder chooses what sport we’ll do. Sailing, rowing, kayaking, canoeing. All boating, of course. Chrissie is apparently an excellent kayaker—she’s from the West Coast—and Mother thought she’d be a ringer for this year. Then the race was deemed to be sailing again, not kayaking. So here we are.”
    â€œYour mother is not going to take a mediocre placement in a water-sports event very well.”
    â€œNo. Nor is Bing. It’s going to break them up. Which is perhaps the point. It should be a fun show, I suppose.”
    Hamilton nosed Preston’s thigh as Nick and Scot entered. “Nice to see you again, man,” said Preston to Scot, his tone now all urban masculinity.
    A door at the other end of the house banged, and Mrs. Hacking came hurtling through with a sheaf of papers in her hand, her curly gray hair bobby-pinned above her ears. Evelyn had never seen her in anything other than sensible all-weather clothing that could take her from fixing a motorboat to a committee meeting to a brisk walk around the lake with Hamilton, and, in her L.L. Bean Norwegian sweater and ankle-length khakis, she did not disappoint.
    â€œHello! Everyone! Hamilton, sit. Evelyn, hello, the Fruit Stripe is sailing again this year so you won’t be helping on the rigging. You must be Scot, welcome. Nick, thank you for doing pickup. I’m on my way to the Fruit Stripe meeting and then I have to stop by the town library before it closes. Preston, will you call the librarian and have her keep it open for me until six-fifteen? And it will be drinks at six-thirty, dinner at eight.”
    In Boston, where Preston’s parents lived most of the year, Mrs. Hacking had joined a highly competitive masters’ rowing team called Mildred’s Moms and had taken to doing weight lifting. She was an excellent gardener, and had recently enrolled in a landscaping course. She had a fine memory, as evidenced by her vivid recollection of Evelyn’s rigging error from years ago. She was a fierce hostess, and had been one of the top fund-raisers for Romney for Governor. The one thing Mrs. Hacking did not do was dishes.
    The phone rang, and Mrs. Hacking picked it up and began arguing over how many trays of crudités the Fruit Stripe would require. Evelyn peeked into the living room, where Mr. Hacking was sitting in front of the fire with a thick hardbound book, and Bing, a hearty, doughy type, was telling a story about the Porcellian to the room, though no one appeared to be listening.
    Toward the window, which looked out onto a porch and then down to the ice-calm lake, an anxious-looking red-haired woman with a thin ponytail was pacing, talking at eight-year-old Pip, who was curled up in a chair with her eyes closed. “Do you think I should practice? I’m afraid it’s going to rain. The weather report said it would rain earlier in the day, but it didn’t, and I should take a boat out, but it looks like it’s going to rain. Don’t you think it looks like it’s going to rain?” Chrissie, Evelyn knew without having to check with Preston.
    Evelyn took this all in, then looked back to Mrs. Hacking, who held up one finger as she listened to the other end of the line. “Margot, there are thirty-three boats entered this year, so that’s at least sixty-six people in need of sustenance—fine, fine. Very well.” She hung up the phone, then clapped at the group. “Now, let’s see. Evelyn, you’ll be on the second floor in the writing room, and Charlotte will be just down the hall. Nick and Scot, I’m sorry to say that you’ll be in the maid’s quarters this weekend, at the back of the house; we’re simply oversubscribed.”
    â€œMrs. Hacking,” Evelyn said, realizing she needed to atone for the rigging error if she wanted help with PLU introductions this weekend, “I’d love to be in the maid’s