“What kind of news?”
“I don’t know.”
He opened the door. “Is it good news or bad?”
“Batty says it’s not bad, but she and Jane aren’t a hundred percent sure, and they won’t tell me.”
“Hold on.” Ben went down the hall to the bathroom and came back with a sopping wet washcloth. “We’ll make it look like you’re crying because you’re worried about the news, and they’ll feel guilty and tell all.”
“They won’t believe—” But Lydia was cut off by the wet washcloth dripping water down her face.
“Stop laughing. Think of this as a role you’re playing.” He stepped back to survey his work. “That’s good, but you have to look upset.”
Lydia forced her mouth to turn down. “Like that?”
“Better. By the way, I’m working on a new script for you about an alien.”
“I don’t want to be an alien.”
“It’s going to be a good part, better than the sentient apple—though, unfortunately, the alien will also die at the end,” he said. “There! That’s the expression I want. Hold that emotion.”
NEITHER JANE NOR BATTY believed in Lydia’s tears. Undaunted, Ben re-drenched Lydia when Rosalind arrived, certain he could fool his most softhearted sister. He was wrong—she figured out that the tears were a trick and refused to give even a tiny hint about the news. But she did make him a sandwich to tide him over until dinner.
Lydia saw nothing in Rosalind’s demeanor to indicate that the news would be bad. She looked calm and happy, if not quite clean—she helped run an urban farm in a city near Cameron, and sometimes running it meant digging in the dirt, especially now, in the spring, when the planting had begun.
“We’re putting in fruit trees.” Rosalind flexed her biceps. “Look at these muscles.”
“Strong Penderwick women.” Jane flexed hers, too. “See? From carrying trays.”
Lydia saw no point in flexing her biceps—it wouldn’t be impressive. Anyway, she was more interested in Rosalind’s news and thought she might learn something if she could be more subtle than weeping fake tears.
“Rosy, please pick a category for your news. A for the farm, B for the wedding, C…umm, for a deadly disease—”
“A multiple choice, Lyds! Good try, but I’m not going to answer anything until after dinner. People are more reasonable when their stomachs are full.”
Ben was the only one in the family who got unreasonable when he’d gone too long without food, and their mom said it was only because he was going through a growth spurt. Lydia hoped so, because that meant he’d get better one of these days. “Do you mean Ben?”
“She might mean Dad,” whispered Jane.
“Shush, Jane,” said Rosalind. “After dinner.”
Rosalind held firm, and it wasn’t until the parents had come home, dinner had been eaten, and Ben and Lydia’s mom—Iantha, as the older girls called her—was pouring out coffee that they gave in.
“All right, Rosy, we’ve waited long enough,” said Iantha.
“Yes, please,” said their father.
“We just need to call Skye and put her on speakerphone,” said Rosalind. “I told her to be ready at six-thirty, and it’s just about that now.”
Skye, too? This was indeed big news, thought Lydia. She also thought she should try to stay quiet, hoping that Skye would forget to ask her about math. Lydia enjoyed the math she was taught in school, but not the extra math Skye wanted her to do.
“I’m getting nervous,” said Mr. Penderwick.
Lydia smiled to show him solidarity. He smiled back, and also gave her the rest of his ice cream—salted caramel, her favorite.
Jane was talking on her phone. “Skye, we’re all here….I’m not sure, but yes, I think that’s what it’s about. I’m putting you on speakerphone, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” said the phone.
Ben leaned toward the phone. “Skye, tell Dušek I’ve been researching those sea creatures he told me about, and the giant isopod is amazing. If we could make a costume like that for this alien I’m writing about—”
Lydia forgot she’d meant to be quiet. “I am not dressing up like a giant isopod, whatever that is.”
Dušek was from the Czech Republic. He’d come to the United States to study marine biology and found Skye studying the stars, and they’d been together ever since. The Penderwicks liked Dušek very much, but Lydia did wish he wouldn’t encourage the outer regions of Ben’s film fantasies. A giant isopod was sure to be hideous.
“Hey, Lyds,” said the phone. “How’s your math going?”
“All right.” Lydia knew she should have stayed quiet.
“Have you been working in binary like I suggested?”
Feldspar, who’d been trying to figure out where Skye’s voice was coming from, located the phone and, in a frenzy of greeting, knocked it off the table with his hanger. The interruption was a relief for Lydia, who knew only that binary was a number system with zeroes and ones and nothing else, which she didn’t think were enough digits to work with. By the time they got the phone back on the table and Feldspar stuffed under Batty’s chair, Skye had moved on to base twelve, which seemed to have too many digits.
“It’s really cool. You use A and B for the extra—”
“Not now, Skye,” said Rosalind.
“Thank you,” Lydia whispered across the table to her oldest sister.
“I heard that,” said Skye.
“All right, everyone—ready?” asked Rosalind. “I called this meeting to discuss the wedding. Tommy and I have a decision to make, and we can’t make it on our own. Tommy’s talking to his parents, and I’m talking to you. We’re thinking of not getting married in the backyard this summer.”
“Rosy, this is great news,” said Mr. Penderwick. “Yes, you’ll marry Tommy eventually, but you’re still young— Iantha, why are you shushing me?”
“She didn’t say they’re canceling the wedding, Martin.”
“No? Because if she wants to, it would be fine—”
“Poor Dad,” said Skye, cutting him off. “But you’re going to have to get used to weddings at some point. You may as well get it over with now.”
The family went into shock at this mention of weddings in the plural. Skye and Dušek had been together for several years, but she’d never mentioned marrying him. The one time she’d discussed marriage with Lydia, she’d said that marriage wasn’t for everyone, and especially not for impatient people. (Skye was impatient.) She’d also said something about marriage being socially outdated—no, that wasn’t what she’d said. Lydia would have to ask her again.
Her father seemed to be taking it the hardest. This would normally be an occasion for him to burst into Latin—stress often brought it on. But he seemed unable to say anything in any language. The recent glut of change had been getting to him: Rosalind’s upcoming marriage, Batty’s first year of college, Lydia’s inexorable march toward middle school, Ben’s growth spurt. He’d been counting on Jane and Skye not to do anything dramatic for another few years.
Although Lydia’s mother wasn’t less startled, she could still speak. “What do you mean by weddings, Skye, as in, more than one? Are you saying that you and Dušek—?”
“No—not now, anyway.”
“You mean you might someday?” asked Jane. “But you always say that marriage is an outmoded social construct.”
Aha! That was it, thought Lydia—outmoded social construct. She didn’t know exactly what it meant, only that it didn’t seem to be in favor of marriage.
“But I’ve never said marriage can’t be useful,” said the phone, “and Dušek seems to like the idea.”
Rosalind eagerly addressed the phone. “Let’s make it a double wedding, Skye. Dušek’s family is already coming over from Europe for mine
—why make them travel twice? We’ll do all the organizing at this end, and you and Dušek can just show up and get married. You know you’d hate the organizing part.”
“Yes, I would. But that doesn’t mean I should get married.”
“Why not?”
“Please don’t push her, Rosy,” said their father, finding his voice. “You’re all growing up too quickly as it is.”
Rosalind wanted to reassure him. “Ben and Lydia are still children—”
Ben interrupted. “I’m not.”
“But you’re not getting married soon, are you?”
Lydia risked speaking again, hoping Skye had forgotten about base twelve math. “And Batty won’t get married for years and years and years, and Jane keeps saying she might never get married.”
“Or not until I’m a successful writer, and then only if I find someone who’s a vegetarian,” said Jane. “If he likes to cook, that would be great, since I don’t.”
“He should like to clean, too,” added Skye. “You don’t do much of that, either.”
“Back on topic, please,” said Rosalind, stopping Jane and Skye from diving into their favorite argument. “Of course I’m still getting married. This is just a discussion about where it will happen.”
It had long been settled that the wedding would take place at the Penderwicks’ home, with the reception spilling across Gardam Street to Tommy’s parents’ home. Years ago, when Lydia was only six, Tommy’s older brother, Nick, had been married the same way but opposite, with the wedding at the Geigers’, and the reception spilling over to the Penderwicks’. Lydia remembered it as one of the best days of her life. She’d been the flower girl, with a swirly dress and a crown of daisies.
“You’ve changed your mind about having the ceremony here?” asked Iantha.
“But where, then, Rosy?” added Mr. Penderwick.
“Arundel.”
* * *
—
Arundel was a grand estate in the Berkshires where the Penderwicks had vacationed long ago—fifteen years—back when the family was only Mr. Penderwick, the four older sisters, and Hound, their much-loved first dog. Iantha and Ben hadn’t yet become Penderwicks, and Lydia hadn’t even been thought of.
It was there they’d first met Jeffrey Tifton, the lonely boy living in the estate mansion. The four sisters swept him into their lives and kept him there, permanently. These days they didn’t see him often enough—for the last five years, he’d lived in Germany, working as a pianist in jazz clubs. But that made him no less an honorary member of the family, and whenever he came back to the States, he visited them.
While Jeffrey had been the best part of that long-ago vacation—the grand prize that kept getting better—the worst part had been his mother, arrogant Mrs. Tifton. She’d loathed the Penderwicks on first sight and had shown no sign of ever changing her mind. And they cheerfully loathed her back, certain she deserved it. Mostly because she never seemed to appreciate Jeffrey as much as she should, which for a parent was unacceptable. She was the reason the Penderwicks had never gone back to Arundel, and had assumed they never would.
For Lydia, hearing that Rosy might get married at Arundel was like hearing she might get married in Oz or Narnia, other places that existed just in stories. The Arundel stories! She thought she must have heard all of them by now, from her three oldest sisters—Batty had been too young to remember much—from Jeffrey, from her dad, even. The turreted mansion, with its treasure-filled attic, the large luscious gardens, with statues, fountains, a Greek pavilion, and endless possibilities for adventure. Plus, the little yellow cottage where the Penderwicks had stayed, tucked into one corner of the estate. Was all this still there, she wondered, and was she really going to visit it?
While Lydia dreamt, the rest of the family hashed out details. According to Rosalind, Mrs. Tifton had fled Arundel for New York City, leaving behind the memories of a string of bad marriages now associated with her old home. Determined never to go back, she’d signed the estate over to Jeffrey and washed her hands of it. So now this paradise belonged to Jeffrey, and he wanted Rosalind, his honorary sister from his favorite family, to get married there.
“And I want to get married there,” she said, “and so does Tommy, but not unless all of you agree.”
“Jeffrey is absolutely certain his mother won’t show up?” asked Jane. “Because I, for one, am still scared of her.”
“I, for two,” said Batty, “and I can’t even remember her.”
“I’m not scared of her,” said Skye.
“Fibber,” Jane told the phone.
“I would like to meet this Mrs. Tifton,” said Ben.
“No, you wouldn’t,” said Rosalind. “Honest. Even Lydia wouldn’t find anything to like about her.”
This referred to what Lydia called a family myth—that she liked everyone she’d ever met. There had definitely been one person she’d actively disliked. She didn’t remember him, but her sisters had told her the story, and Lydia held on to it like a drowning person clinging to a life raft.
“Even Lydia!” she protested. “Rosalind, you make me sound like a marshmallow. Please remember that I disliked that Oliver guy enough to stab him with a quesadilla.”
“A highly deserved stab,” said Rosalind. Oliver had been her boyfriend during the quesadilla incident, though not for much longer.
“Lyds, that was when you were two years old,” said Ben. “You’ve liked everyone since then.”
“I can’t help it.”
“You don’t have to help it,” said Iantha. “Liking people isn’t being a marshmallow. It’s a good quality.”
“And even a marshmallow would dislike Mrs. Tifton,” said Jane.
“Yes, that’s the point I was trying to make,” said Rosalind. “If Lydia met Mrs. Tifton, she would despise her as much as we all do. But Lydia won’t have to meet her, since Mrs. T. has sworn never to return to Arundel. Would she be the only objection to having the wedding there? Dad and Iantha, would you be disappointed if Tommy and I didn’t get married here?”
“You should have your wedding wherever you like, and, no, I won’t be disappointed,” said Iantha. “After all, if you don’t get married here, we won’t have to clean the house top to bottom. Lydia and Ben, that was going to be your summer job.”
“Arundel!” said Ben. “Definitely get married at Arundel.”
“Please.” Even if Lydia hadn’t always yearned to visit Arundel, she had better plans for her summer than cleaning the house.
“Dad?” asked Rosalind.
“I agree with Iantha,” he said. “In pace et celebratione Arundel redeamus.”
“ ‘Let us return to Arundel in peace and celebration,’ ” Rosalind said, smiling. “Thank you, Dad; I love you. What about the rest of you? All in favor?”
Everyone was in favor, even the dogs—Batty voted for them—and it was settled. Rosalind’s wedding would be at Arundel that summer, and so would Lydia.
IN THE MONTHS LEADING up to Arundel, Lydia experienced three life-changing events. The first happened when Ben and Rafael convinced her to be the alien in their new movie, an alien wearing a two-foot-long stuffed plush giant isopod that fell off her head every time she tried to move. The combination of the falling giant isopod and a weak script shut down production halfway through, mortifying Ben enough that he promised Lydia he’d never again ask her to wear a stuffed animal on her head, or even to die. Lydia considered this a personal victory but was wise enough not to rub it in.
Then came Lydia’s dancing lessons. She’d taken plenty of dance lessons over the years—ballet, hip-hop, tap, modern, jazz. Each time, she’d set out with enthusiasm, and if she’d ever found a teacher who would let her dance the way she wanted, she would have stayed in class forever. But none did. And while her parents tried to explain that teachers are supposed to tell you what st
eps to do, that doing so is the very essence of teaching, Lydia always decided to quit. She could learn what she needed from watching movies and videos with dancing in them—and even had a brother who could steer her to the best ones.
But for her birthday that year, the Penderwicks’ favorite relative, Aunt Claire, offered to give her one last shot at lessons, for any style of dance Lydia chose. She chose ballroom—she’d been watching ancient Fred Astaire movies, and Mr. Astaire danced too quickly to be easily imitated. Unfortunately, Lydia hadn’t taken into account that ballroom dancing is done in pairs. Now not only did she have a teacher telling her what to do, she was tied to a partner who either pushed her around the room or resisted being pushed. Once again, she quit and decided never, ever, ever to try dance lessons again. A great burden was lifted, and her dancing was suddenly better than ever. This was her second life-changing event.
The third also had to do with the ballroom lessons. And a girl named Deborah, whom Lydia had never met before, and to whom she took an instant and illogical dislike. With that had come the urge to do something dramatic about her dislike—shout it to the world or kick Deborah in the shins. Lydia managed not to give in to those urges, but her dancing partner told her that she looked fierce and a little scary, which she considered a compliment and repeated to everyone at home, emphasizing that she could no longer be accused of liking everyone except Quesadilla Oliver.
All of this newfound knowledge and strength made Lydia even more excited to go to Arundel. And more excited still when it turned out that she and Batty—and Feldspar and Sonata—would be the first to go. Originally, Jane and Ben were to go with them, but Jane had been asked to work an extra day at the restaurant, and Ben wasn’t packed yet. Lydia and Batty would be on their own at Arundel for an entire twenty-four hours, with no parents or older sisters. The possibilities for adventure were endless.
And now it was early morning on departure day, and Lydia and Batty were preparing to leave. Jane was there to say good-bye, and to lend them her car, which Lydia hoped would get them to the Berkshires without falling apart, but if it didn’t, that would be a different kind of adventure. Lydia’s parents were also there to say good-bye, as was the family cat, Asimov, riding unwillingly in Iantha’s arms.