Chapter 5: Sun, Fun, and Intrigue
They spent the afternoon swimming, dozing on the docks, eating prosciutto and mozzarella sandwiches, reading, and chatting. After lunch, Emily and Rory took the small motorboat out on the lake.
Emily showed Rory how to drive, which was similar to a car except for the hand brake. Although Rory picked up the skill quickly, Emily only let her cruise between the docks at ten miles an hour.
The sun reflected off the water directly into Rory's eyes; her t-shirt clung to her back. Driving so slowly, in high summer with practically no wind to cool them, was akin to skating on a frying pan with sticks of butter on her feet, like Jerry the cartoon mouse.
"Am I ready for open water yet?" Rory asked.
"I'm not so sure about that, Rory." Emily said cautiously. "I always let your grandfather drive."
"C'mon, Grandma. We're women of the modern era! We don't need no stinkin' men to operate our motorized vehicles for us!"
Emily evaluated Rory warily, but finally said, "All right. But no more than twenty-five miles per – Rory!" she cried as the boat tore away from the bank at top speed.
Back on the pebbly beach, Lorelai and Luke listened to Rory's whoop and watched the boat's wake curl like Hawaii 5-0.
"It's times like this that I see your influence," Luke said drolly.
"Ha, very funny, my friend," Lorelai grinned. "That's my girl out there, scaring the hell out of my mother. I couldn't be more proud."
"Are you two getting along all right?" Luke asked.
"My mother and me? We are, actually. It's like, ever since she and my dad separated, she's been making all this extra effort to talk to me and stuff. It's weird."
"I'm glad to hear it. But I meant you and Rory."
Lorelai looked surprised and started picking at stray fibers on her hammock. She felt his eyes on her. "We're getting along fine."
"Really?"
"No." She looked at him sheepishly.
Luke got off his hammock and joined Lorelai on hers. She curled beside him, arm draped across his bare chest.
"You want to tell me about it?" Luke asked.
Lorelai hadn't told anyone about Rory and Dean, of course. She desperately wished she could be completely honest with Luke; say, 'my kid did the stupidest thing in the world and I'm worried about her.'
"Did you have a fight?" Luke asked.
"No. Well, we did, but the fight we got over. This . . . ." She sighed. "Rory did something dumb, and I called her on it, and so she's mad at me. Not so much that I called her on it, but that . . . I don't know." Lorelai shrugged, truly at a loss, which was maddening; she never not knew what was going on with her kid. "So now I'm starting to second-guess myself, which is totally bizarre, 'cause, hello, this is me, queen mom."
"As much as I hate to stroke your ego –"
"Dirty."
"— I've never seen you steer that kid wrong."
"No one bats a hundred."
"Thousand," he corrected.
"Whatever."
"There's a huge difference," he said.
"Whatever, mister 'pays for three ESPNs but no movie channels,'" she teased. "The point is that I'm worried about her."
"What did she do?" Luke asked.
"I can't tell you. She'd kill me."
"Well, what did you say to her?"
"I can't tell you."
Luke made an irritated noise. "I can't help you if I don't know what happened."
Lorelai shrugged. "You can't help, hon. No one can. This is one of those 'time heals all wounds' things."
"So, meanwhile, you two are going to stay mad at each other?"
"I guess so," Lorelai said miserably.
"Sucks."
"Yeah."
"It'll get better," Luke said.
"Yeah."
Lorelai rested her chin on Luke's shoulder and watched Rory's boat until it drove out of sight.
Later that evening, Emily declared the maid incompetent for not stocking the refrigerator properly, and decided she'd have to go to the grocery store herself if they were to have any decent food for the rest of the week. No, she didn't need Lorelai to come with her; she didn't want to have an argument over what bizarrely colored ketchup to buy.
Lorelai, Luke, and Rory, sunburnt and swim-tired, lounged on the couches in the living room.
"What do you want to do?" Lorelai said, staring listlessly at the ceiling.
"Who're you asking?" Luke said.
"Meh," Lorelai said. She draped her feet in Luke's lap.
"I don't know, what do you want to do?" Rory asked.
"Meh."
Rory plucked the television remote off the coffee table and started flipping though channels. Static, static, horse racing, static…
"What's wrong with the TV?" Rory asked.
"They probably don't get a lot of stations in the wilderness," Luke said.
"But I Love the 90s was starting tonight," Rory said. "I was actually going to be able to share in the nostalgia."
"How is 1999 nostalgic?" Luke said.
"They're going to repeat it more times than Cher says 'whatever,'" Lorelai consoled.
"I know. But I was really looking forward to seeing if Michael Ian Black would pick a different facial expression," Rory said.
"Well, I could climb up the telephone poll and mess around with that little gray box," Lorelai said.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Rory said.
"It'll be great. I'll wear one of those cool tool belts and call my ma on the tin can!"
"You'd get curious about what the red wire does, and you'd fry," Rory said.
"We could play a game," Luke suggested, seeing that the Lorelais were getting nowhere with the conversation.
"The 'Mom Frying on the Telephone Pole Drinking Game'?" Rory asked.
"There's a whole cabinet of board games over there," Luke said.
"They call them 'bored games' for a reason," Lorelai grumped, but got up when Luke and Rory did, since there weren't many other time-passage options. Among the stacks of board games, their boxes humidity-warped from dozens of past renters, a pastel title jumped out at Lorelai immediately.
"Ooh!" Lorelai cried. "The Babysitters' Club Game! 'Say hello to your friends!'" she sang.
"'Babysitters' club!'" she and Rory cheered together.
"Can we find a game that isn't based on a bunch of fictional little girls?" Luke said.
"There's a boy player in the game," Rory said.
"Yeah, Logan, Mary Ann's boyfriend," Lorelai said. "She was the quiet, bookish one who grabbed herself a nice boy next door –" Lorelai caught Rory glaring at her. "Uhh, anyway. How about Taboo? It's totally fun. Me and Rory play it like Will and Grace."
"We need teams," Rory said, standing. "I'll go see if Grandma's back yet."
"Her car's been in the driveway for about half an hour," Luke said.
"And she didn't come in?" Lorelai said. "Odd."
Rory walked through the house to the back door; Emily's car was, indeed, in the driveway. Rory went outside into the darkening yard, where she could hear but not see the lake lapping at the banks. She could faintly discern the outline of two people, and an unmistakable Barbara Stanwyck-like laugh.
"Grandma?" Rory called. She walked towards the sound, bare feet on the dew-damp ground. She found her grandmother at the edge of the yard, talking to a man about Emily's age. He was holding one of her grocery bags.
"Rory, hello," Emily said. "This is Mr. Ferguson."
Rory greeted him warily.
"He's been renting the house next door for years," Emily said.
"That's great," Rory said politely. Her eyes flicked between Ferguson – whose gaze was remind Rory of the phrase 'bedroom eyes' that she had read in books – and her grandmother, who was looking by turns embarrassed and – good lord -- girlish. "So you get to see each other every year, huh?"
"Just about," Emily said.
"Emily tells me you're attending Yale," Mr. Ferguson said.
"Yes, I am," Rory said hesitantly. What the heck was going on? Had Grandpa ever met this guy? Did he like him? What would Grandpa say if he knew Grandma was … fraternizing with him?
"Enjoying it?"
"Oh, yeah. It's really great. Great school," she babbled. "Lots of fun."
"Hope you're not having too much fun," Mr. Ferguson chuckled.
Rory forced a smile. "No, no. Just the right amount to cancel out all the study-induced apoplexy. Hey, Grandma, Mom and Luke and I were just about to play Taboo, but we need even-numbered teams, so we were wondering if you'd like to play with us?" Rory hoped the even-numbered bit would discourage Emily from inviting Chuckles.
"That sounds like fun," Emily said.
"I'd better get back to my dinner," Mr. Ferguson said.
"Cooking for your wife?" Rory asked.
"Ah, no," Mr. Ferguson said. "Let me help you carry those bags inside first," he said.
"Oh, no, I've got it," Rory said, practically wrenching the grocery bag out of his hands. She bolted back to the kitchen.
Emily bid Mr. Ferguson goodnight quickly, then caught up to Rory on the front porch.
"Just a second, young lady," she said. "That was very rude of you."
"I'm sorry, Grandma."
"I don't need an apology, Mr. Ferguson does. I don't understand what got into you."
"I'm sorry, Grandma, I didn't mean to be rude. Honestly, I just . . . didn't mean to sound the way it came out."
Emily gave her one last annoyed, confused glance, and went inside. Rory melted with shame. What's wrong with you? Your grandmother is not having an affair! She loves Grandpa, and they're going to get back together! You're dreaming up scandal because you can't stop thinking about your own scandals. Get a grip!