A/N: You would think a story that has lived in my head for almost four years would get written faster. I had a head start on this chapter, but it required a lot of rearranging. The tinkering must end sometime, though.

This chapter has an unrealistically frank discussion on class, bordering on pedantic; a big violation of show, don't tell. But we've been perpetuating the bad example set for us. If anyone is interested in more nuanced observations/experiences of the upper-middle class (yes, upper-middle) than what this show had to offer (wASPs, let's call them), check out the blog Amid Privilege, Tad Friend's Cheerful Money, Paul Fussell's Class, and Lisa Birnbach's The Official Preppy Handbook. I liberally borrow from all of them. But if you want to make sense of Emily Gilmore, you're best served by Googling 'Jewish mother stereotype'. More on all this at my LJ.

XXX

Caroline Dugray carefully walked into the former master bedroom with a serving tray, where her husband was lying on the bed, his injured leg propped up. Janlen had given up the room for the spare one upstairs so Alex could stay on the main floor until he healed.

"Soup for the invalid," she announced.

Alex looked up from the book he'd been reading and sat it aside to make room for the tray. "Mmm, thank you." He swallowed a couple pain pills as she fluffed his pillows. Before starting on the soup. He asked, "Do you think you'll ever stop working?"

"You mean retire?" Caroline asked. She shrugged. "Eventually."

He looked at her doubtfully. "But not at 65, surely."

"I don't know. Why do you ask?"

He ate some more soup. "You just don't strike me as the type to ever stop." He adjusted himself on the bed to sit up straighter. "It's okay, work as long as you want, it bodes well with my plans," he said. "I'm think I can retire early."

"Oh really?" she sat at the edge of the bed to hear more.

"Mm-hmm."

"Clearly I've been too good of a nurse," she said. "What will you do with all your free time?"

He tilted his head in thought. "I could take up a hobby."

"Like what? Bird watching?"

"Maybe. I could maintain something."

"That's ambitious," Caroline said. "What will you maintain? The pool?"

"Maybe the driveway."

"Or your waistline."

He winced. "Too mean." He sprinkled some oyster crackers in his soup before eating another spoonful. "I need a pair of go-to-hell pants. Yellow, or something with a print."

"That's cute," she said dryly.

He wagged his spoon at her and with a twisted smile said, "Sometimes you're much preppier than you like to admit."

She rolled her eyes at him. "We should sell the house if you want to call it quits early. We could downsize."

It was quiet as he thought for a moment. "Why did we never move to northern California?" It was, after all, a good way to escape the repression and patriarchal baggage.

"Because I was intimidated by trophy wives," Caroline said as she stood back up. She didn't always know they were just grand dames in training. She paused at the door. "There's something for you under the bowl."

He lifted it to take a peek at the comic hiding underneath. "Marmaduke," he said pleasantly.

XXX

Caroline Huntzberger was in Hartford, Connecticut. She had her driver bring her to Janlen Dugray's office, where she was waiting to see him. She looked around the room, it was what she expected. Like her father's desk, Janlen's was made of teak wood, darkened with age. There was a black and white picture in a silver frame that she picked up to examine. Five faces looked back at her, tall and lanky boys in their shetland sweaters. Alexander was at the end, an arm around the brother next to him. Two of the brothers wore pants that were too short, and Alexander's sweater looked too big for him, probably one of his brothers' that he hadn't grown into yet. A big English setter walked in front of them, as though he fully intended to crash the picture.

This had to be, without a doubt, the preppiest family in Connecticut, Caroline thought.

"Miss Huntzberger, it's nice to see you again," Janlen said, stepping into the room. "To what do I owe the honor?"

He took a seat across from her at the desk as she said, "Oh, I just wanted to confirm some things for my internship next summer."

"All right," he said. "You can start as soon as your classes let out. If you don't want to come to Hartford from New York every day, you're welcome to stay at the house whenever you'd like."

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled kindly. When she hesitated, he asked, "Is there anything else?"

"Uh, actually, I was wondering if there was an address that one could write Alexander, while he's—away," she said awkwardly. "If one was inclined to do so."

He opened one of his top drawers and pulled out a slip of paper. "Yes." He copied down the address and passed it across the desk. "Now that's just where he's training. So there will be an address change when he's . . ."

"Right," Caroline said quickly, letting Janlen off the hook.

When she was back at home she sat down in front of a blank piece of paper. She wasn't sure what to write beyond Dear Alexander. What was she supposed to write after that? 'How are you?' That was a stupid question. He was probably nauseous every day. She was any time she thought about where he was going. She was so busy in her conviction the war was wrong, she never took the time to think about what it must feel like to be given marching orders.

She sat staring at the blank page for an hour. She put the pen in her other hand. Maybe this was a good time to switch, since as he pointed out, she did everything else left handed. Still, she stared at the paper. She didn't even know how to hold the pen.

This was ridiculous. She was a writer, capable of typing up a 500 word story in no time. This should not be so difficult. But reporting was conveying facts about something that had happened. Painting a picture for those who weren't there. What was her purpose here?

She was keeping in touch with an acquaintance, she reasoned. A friend-like acquaintance, who had kissed her before he left, for what could be forever. Caroline shook her head. No, it wouldn't be forever. She'd see him again.

She could just imagine Alexander's smug face when he opened a letter from her. As though one kiss could soften her. One kiss that, granted, she did think about a lot.

Caroline shook her head and crumpled up the piece of paper.

XXX

The slopes kicked the Dugray's butts this year. Alex blew out his knee in an accident and had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery. Guinevere went out one more time to snowboard on the morning they were to fly home, and had a tumble of her own that resulted in a broken arm. It was the arm she'd already broke once before, in an ill-fated attempt at gymnastics when she was 13. One might think she'd be ambidextrous by now, but one would be wrong.

Loading up all the luggage between the two uninjured family members, Caroline had huffed that she and Alex were going to Jamaica next Christmas, and that Guinevere and Tristan were on their own. The kids weren't convinced it was a joke.

Since their ski trip had been cut short, Tristan was back in time for Francie's mother to invite him to go to mass with their family on New Year's Eve, and he actually agreed to go.

"Did you find out what the Solemnity of Mary is?" Guinevere had asked him the next morning.

"No, I didn't really pay attention to the sermon," was his answer. "But they sang Hail Holy Queen, like they do in Sister Act. Did you know that's a real song?"

She looked at him like he was an idiot. "All the songs in that movie are real."

Grinning, he said, "I couldn't keep a straight face, thinking about how bad those nuns sang. Francie's dad gave me the evil eye for that."

When the doorbell rang, Tristan went down to meet Francie at the front door. When he was sure her Mom had driven far enough away, he gave Francie a kiss. She grinned at him and followed him inside the house to the den, where Guinevere was lying on the couch, flipping through an L.L. Bean catalog.

With a look at the older girl's cast, Francie asked, "Are you right handed?"

Guinevere looked down at her injured arm and nodded. "Yeah. I've never been good at bracing myself with my non-dominate arm. That would be way too convenient."

Francie looked around the room as she and Tristan took out their books and notebooks on the floor in front of the fireplace. The den was the favorite room in the house, and very lived in. There were several old oriental rugs on the floor, and a television with bunny ears in the corner. The pieces of furniture weren't a matching set, but somehow went together. One of the walls was covered by a full bookshelf. On the opposite side of the room, there was a wooden cabinet with a few bottles of liquor sitting on top. Above the cabinet on the wall, there were a few silver framed pictures. One was a picture of Alex and his four brothers with the family dog. The two other pictures were just the dog.

"Is something wrong?" Guinevere asked, causing the redhead to blush guilty.

"Oh, no. I'm just looking," Francie said. She gestured at the television set. "Last year a girl in my class was talking about their new flat screen TV. It hangs on the wall. I thought for sure you would have one."

"Why?"

"Because you're rich."

"Hmmmm." Guinevere turned back to her catalog, as though bored.

"Actually, your uncle's house was closer to what I was expecting when I came here the first time—a mansion, with servants."

Tristan said, "There are different kinds of rich. Dad's a Wasp."

Francie rolled her eyes. "Is that supposed to explain something?" she asked. "Doesn't it just mean the money is old, so you've been super rich forever?"

"It means it's so old, it's pretty much gone. The Dugrays have been here a long time—long enough to make a fortune and lose it," Guinevere said. "They ran out in the 60's, and haven't had servants since then." She added, "All that's left are impeccable manners and a lot of navy in their wardrobes. And the repression, of course."

It was not to say their dad didn't get a little something when his grandfather died. He inherited the coffee table and a few of the books over on the shelf, Tristan was pretty sure it was the green ones.

She said, "Dugrays aren't top-out-of-sight anymore."

"Then what are you?"

Guinevere bit down on her lips for a few seconds, not liking the question. It reminded Tristan of the time when he was younger and he asked his dad if they were rich. Alex had looked away like he was ashamed, and didn't really answer. Delicately, like she'd rather not say it out loud, she said, "Upper-middle."

Francie looked surprised. "I wouldn't have thought middle anything."

"And yet it explains why you're underwhelmed. Dad has to work if he doesn't want to be poor. And Wasps are afraid of being poor."

"So the Huntzberger money is new?" Francie asked.

Guinevere tilted her head in consideration. "Not anymore, it's just not as old. They haven't had enough time to lose their fortune yet. But Logan is the next patriarch, so I assume he'll gamble it away," she said. "You're still wrong about who would have a fancy TV, but it's crass to talk about money and class, so let's stop."

Francie turned to Tristan, her mouth open like she wanted to protest, but held it in. She flipped through her book to the chapter their teacher had told them to study. But when she picked up her pen, it wasn't to write any notes, but to tap it anxiously. She sat up suddenly to look at Guinevere with wide, triumphant eyes. "As a journalist, aren't you allowed to tell the truth about sensitive subjects?"

Guinevere eyed her. "Technically."

"And I clearly have a lot of misconceptions about people who are different from me. Isn't it your job to inform the ignorant?"

"Yes," she said slowly.

"It would be really helpful for me to learn more. I'm having trouble relating to the other kids at school. You could really help me understand them better."

The older girl just stared at first. Then she let out a long breath. Very reluctantly, she said, "Fine. But keep in mind, class is really complex."

Francie nodded, and getting down to the nitty-gritty, she bluntly asked, "Do you guys have trust funds?"

That Which Shan't Be Spoken.

Guinevere cringed. Lips firmly pressed together, she hesitantly said, "Mm-hmm." She gave her brother a warning look. "Don't talk about it. At all. Ever."

Tristan ducked his head down. "I know." The only details he knew was he'd get it when he turned 31, so late he could potentially forget about it, and that it was Not Enough. Living off their windfalls was not an option.

"This is a bad idea," Guinevere said, backpedaling. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the other half is loathed by the masses. There's a reason one of the guys running for president has cultivated the persona of a cowboy from Texas rather than a preppy who summers at the family compound in Kennebunkport."

"Come on, please," Francie said. "I promise I won't hate you for being more privileged than me. I'm just interested. Surely you can respect curiosity."

Tristan never gave this stuff any thought. Everyone he knew was like his family.

Guinevere closed her eyes, steeling for patience. When she opened them, she said, "First, we're all privileged to be alive. Second, let's not use the P word anymore."

"Okay, sorry."

She sighed again, like this was painful. To Tristan, she nodded toward the entrance. "Keep watch, tell me if anyone's coming." When he was in place, she turned back to Francie. "There are more important differences between the two sides of the family. The Dugrays are discreet, and repressed."

"You mentioned the repression."

"I know, their self-restraint is all encompassing. They refuse to bring attention to themselves, in any way. No paisley prints, no showing off, no complaining, no outward show of emotion, no gaudy decor," Guinevere said. "I can't stress to you enough how much they are obsessed with posture."

Tristan added, "And the manners."

His sister nodded. "Yes, etiquette is very important. Even if they're having an argument, it'll be excruciatingly polite," she said. "They proudly follow a complex system of obligations. They'll offer you a fruit plate, and then take it a step further and say they were overzealous out in their garden this spring, so you'll be doing them a huge favor by eating some."

"Why?"

"It lifts the burden of generosity off of you. It makes you comfortable to take what's being offered. It's not some phony facade. They genuinely want their guests to be at ease. The last thing they'd want is for someone to feel foolish or embarrassed for any reason." She frowned. "They aren't without their contradictions. They value hard work, but too much play and not enough work before the Depression helped them lose their money," she said. "And family is important, but they're perfectly fine with letting their kids struggle."

Tristan looked over at her. "What do you mean?"

His sister didn't seem to want to give an example. "Just, don't expect Dad to bail you out if you make bad choices, okay? He won't always take your spot in a poker game when you're down $7,000."

He didn't know what she could be talking about. She'd never gotten into any big trouble. Maybe she was thinking of a relative.

She turned her attention back to Francie. "They aren't snobs."

"I didn't think they were."

"Sure," Guinevere said skeptically. "The phrase 'rich snob' naturally rolls off the tongue, but the two aren't mutually exclusive. The New Yorker wouldn't have any subscribers if not for middle class pretensions."

"Uh, okay," Francie said, her eyes darting to the magazines and newspapers piled up next to one of the armchairs. The New Yorker wasn't among them. Instead there were a few issues of Town & Country and National Geographic.

"The Dugrays are good people. They aren't without a few alcoholics, but they're good people. They don't think they're better than anyone else." Guinevere muttered, "It's prep school that gives a person that strange idea."

"What about the Huntzbergers?" Francie asked.

"They are none of those things," Guinevere said. "Being upper, they're more ostentatious. Not quite Hearst Castle, but close. Huntzbergers want to be noticed, they like the special treatment. And it's important to know, they do not care about anyone's comfort. They will say whatever they're thinking to whomever they want."

"So they're like high school girls?"

Guinevere nodded in agreement. "It could be that the journalistic instinct runs too deep for them to bother with discretion. But they might just be jerks."

Tristan asked, "What does our TV have to do with anything?"

His sister glanced at him. "Oh, it's signaling," she said. "It's all the choices people make in life, regardless of their income that signals their class."

"You mean you don't have to have money to have class?" Francie asked.

The older girl rocked her head back and forth. "I won't go that far. It definitely helps to have it. But take a person's job, for example. You could earn more than your neighbor, but if you're under close supervision—or if you can get hurt—you're still lower class."

"Oh," Francie said, pondering that. "What are other signals?"

"Everything. Everything. Every choice one makes about everything," Guinevere said. "Absolutely everything."

"Such as?"

Guinevere blinked. "Your driveway."

Francie scoffed, like she thought it was a joke. "What about it?"

"High class people have long curvy driveways. Made of gravel—but not white." At Francie's blank look, she explained, "Long for the privacy, and curvy to take up more land. And no gate at the end. That's pretentious."

Francie frowned in disbelief. "Why off-white gravel?"

"It's inconvenient and expensive to maintain. It's called the leisure class for a reason. They have a lot of time and money."

"Oh," Francie said.

"Neither of which gets spent on the most up-to-date television." Guinevere eyed her brother. "I'm not saying a teenage kid wouldn't have some fun at the electronics store. But uppers in general don't care about the latest technology."

"Ah, that's why your TV is so old."

"Well, that's also because uppers love all things archaic," she explained. "Old schools are a favorite, where they teach old subjects like history and Latin, and English."

It made sense then, that Tristan's history class didn't interest him. He wanted to learn about modern conflicts, like the Vietnam War. His dad never talked about it, and he didn't feel comfortable asking.

Guinevere went on, "The humanities are high class. They aren't just old subjects, but also not practical. Uppers never worry about the future. That's why Columbia is the least preppy Ivy League school. It's very career oriented."

"What's your major?" Francie asked.

"Classics—ancient Greek and Roman civilizations," Guinevere answered. "But that's because I'd get lazy if I went to journalism school," she said. "And I wouldn't hustle to get articles published in small town papers if I had a fallback option. I need the fear of failure. I'd get it in my head that the brand name on the school is enough to impress."

"But don't you go to Harvard?"

Guinevere made a face. "No. Did someone say I do?" She gave her brother a look.

"It wasn't me," Tristan said at the accusation.

"I assumed," Francie said. "He said you go to school in Massachusetts. And someone at school is obsessed with Harvard."

"There are a lot of schools in Massachusetts." The older girl shook her head. "Did you know the Harvard Crimson calls all the staff writers editor? I could never go to a school where words lose their meaning. I go to Williams. It's a little Ivy."

"It's still old and distinguished," Tristan said.

"True. Anyway, the houses are old, with kitchens that aren't state-of-the-art." Francie looked around the room some more, with its old furniture and ancient oriental rugs. New rugs didn't have class. "Even clothes, like Dad's suits. They're impeccably tailored and he'll wear them until they fall apart before he buys new ones."

Speaking of clothes, Tristan was pretty sure his sister was wearing one of his flannel shirts.

Francie appeared skeptical at that. "I thought rich people can just replace their stuff whenever they want."

"It doesn't mean they do. It's the middles who are obsessed with new things," Guinevere said. "Why buy new pearls or bone china, or a summer house when it can be inherited?"

"House, not home?" Francie said, remembering how Tristan had clarified.

"Yeah, good point. The way a person speaks is a reliable giveaway," Guinevere said. "Euphemisms and metaphors are middle class. So are using big fancy words to sound eloquent. It's really just pretentious." Returning to the previous point, she said, "Dignity is what's expendable. If one is secure in their status, they don't care about things being perfect. They aren't worried about a little crab grass in their yard—"

"That's the bane of my mom's existence."

"And can drive a dirty car—"

"My mom hates dirty anything. What will people think?"

"Those people? They're the snobs." Guinevere smirked. "Showing effort is insecure."

"Don't try?"

"Don't make it look like you're trying."

Tristan wasn't sure if he'd ever seen his sister do homework. She'd skip class and attend every sporting event, but still managed to get decent grades.

Guinevere rubbed her forehead. "I know this isn't the full picture, but really, it is just everything. How you dress, your pet's name, what your food and clothes are made of—we prefer natural, things that used to be living." She held up her reading material. "The catalogs you order from. Can we please stop this dissection now? You can keep up with your own observations."

"Yeah, okay." Hesitantly, Francie said, "Just one more thing. Do you think your parents care that I'm . . . not so high class?"

"It's the 90's, Sabrina," Guinevere quoted in a bored voice.

"It's not the 90's anymore, and who's Sabrina?"

"Sabrina, the movie? The remake, not the original," she said. "The old one is terrible, but people like it because they're partial to Audrey Hepburn."

"But your partiality to space pirates is so different," Tristan said dryly.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, Harrison Ford's Linus Larrabee is witty and funny, but that isn't the only reason the remake is better. Audrey Hepburn tries to kill herself in the original," Guinevere said. "It's supposed to be a romantic comedy. Suicide will never be funny. And Hepburn and Bogart don't have any chemistry. Probably because he's so much older."

Francie interrupted, "I'm sorry, what was the point?"

"Oh. It's that we aren't living in an Edith Wharton novel. Linus Larrabee is from a rich family and Sabrina is their driver's daughter. No one cares about the gap between their social status."

After a silent moment of thought, Francie said, "I thought you said old stuff is classier. The original is old."

"I'm also too afraid of horses to get into equestrian sports, and just had a highly taboo discussion," Guinevere said. "Obviously, I am not the epitome of class." She added, "But I do wear a lot of layers, so I have that going for me."

"So no one cares that I'm a middle?"

Both siblings shook their heads.

"Everyone is pretty much stuck wherever they're born, but you do go to Chilton. Education is the most effective way to move up." Guinevere said, "And preppy can be faked." With her good arm, she reached for a book on the shelf and handed it to Francie. "Just refer to the handbook if you want to be really top drawer."

XXX

Caroline stood at the window of the Herald-Tribune subscription office, carefully copying the address Janlen had given her onto a form. Unable to come up with a brilliantly witty way to break the ice in a letter, she'd decided to send him her newspaper.

When she finished with the form, she pulled out a blank piece of paper from her bag, and again stared at it. Rolling her eyes at herself, she hastily wrote, 'I would hate for you to miss out on Marmaduke,' and signed it CH. She shook her head. Alex had better imagine her saying that in a condescending tone when he read it.

She handed the form over to the woman on the other side of the window and said, "Could you make sure this note is inside the first issue that's sent to this address?" She quickly added, "In the comic section."

The woman frowned at her. "Oh, we don't actually do that, sorry."

Caroline leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Well, I'm Caroline Huntzberger. My father owns and runs this paper, and one day I will. So maybe you can make an exception?"