Yes, Her Real Name Is Poppy
Wednesday, June 21
“Katie. It’s Poppy Porter.” She sounded stern on the phone.
“Oh, hello. I’m looking so forward to meeting you,” Katie said. “I hope you got the flowers.”
“They were beautiful, dear.”
“George said he would get us together and I was leaving it to him, but perhaps I should have called myself.”
“We women can’t leave anything to men. Haven’t you learned that, child?”
Katie laughed. “I do unfortunately know something about that!”
“Come to the Seabrook Club. Today. I like a late lunch. Two p.m. The first trials for the children’s swim meet are done this afternoon, always the first Wednesday the kids are out of school for good. Please tell me your Huck can swim?”
“Yes, of course he can, but he’s not the most competitive kid.”
“It’s good for him. Leave him with the lifeguard at the club. We need to talk and I need you to do something for me, for the club and community.”
At 2:04, Katie ran out to the restaurant veranda. She sensed from Poppy’s schoolmarmish photos in the cottage that she did not tolerate tardiness. Getting Huck settled with a new person by the club pool had taken longer than the thirty minutes she’d allotted. She left him crestfallen, legs dangling into the water, sitting right under the lifeguard’s chair. If he sat there and didn’t cause trouble, Katie bargained they’d finish the entire lighthouse jigsaw puzzle later.
On her way to find Poppy, Katie passed Seabrook members sipping their prized Southside cocktails made with gin, simple syrup, crushed mint, lemon, and a splash of soda. The elderly African-American bartender, Henry Walker, had amended the famous drink that originated during Prohibition in the South Side of Chicago, adding a sprig of flowering thyme.
Katie found Henry holding court behind the bar, shaking a fresh batch. “I’m looking for Poppy Porter?”
Henry smiled. “There’s only one Poppy. And she’s on the far right in the bright hat.”
Katie looked out at the sea of club women. “I’m sorry. Everyone has a bright hat.”
He laughed, his beautiful, white teeth shining from his dark complexion. “You’re right, young lady. Let me take you. And may I introduce myself? My name is Mr. Henry Walker. And you are?”
“Katie Doyle. I’m visiting for the summer. This is my first time here.”
“Well, there’s a first for everything,” he answered. Henry moved his large belly around the bar and offered Katie his elbow as if he were escorting her down the stairs to her cotillion. He was wearing a white polo shirt and crisp navy blazer with a Seabrook emblem on his pocket.
They passed a table of boisterous women, possibly over-served, all sporting peach-colored sweatshirts that said, THE DAVENPORT FAMILY SUMMER SOLSTICE DINNER 2017 on the front and “Longest Night of the Year . . .” on the back. Katie figured they were another case of those matching Hamptons houseguests.
“And this is the one and only Mrs. Poppy Porter.” Henry motioned with the palm of his hand. He then leaned in, “She knows she’s my favorite girl here.”
“If only 1 percent of the men in this world were the gentleman you are,” Poppy said as she smiled at Henry, tucking her longish blond-gray hair under her huge hat. “So, sit, Katie, please.” She pointed to the seat, settling her own full figure back into the chair. “It’s fine you are a little late.”
“I didn’t know if Huck would ever let me leave. Even though he’s eight, he’s still a kid who takes a little while to get with the program.”
Poppy put her index finger into the air. “Waiter, two Arnold Palmers, please.”
Katie thought it wise not to point out that she preferred plain seltzer or unsweetened iced tea instead of the sugary lemonade drink Poppy ordered for her. She smoothed out her shorts, and settled into her seat at the small white table. Poppy explained first, “I don’t drink until three. Ever. That’s when Henry makes me a Pink Lady.”
“It’s fine, honestly,” answered Katie. “If you’d like some wine, I’m not going to join you but . . .”
“Never.” Poppy pushed her lips tightly together. “Pink Lady at three.”
“Okay then. A Pink Lady?”
“Gin, grenadine, one egg white. Garnished with a cherry.” She smiled.
“Raw egg whites?” asked Katie. “In this day and age when everyone’s so worried about salmonella?”
Poppy chuckled. “Silly modern worries don’t interest me. You should try one. They’re delicious. Henry adds four cherries to mine.” Poppy wore bright pink lipstick that matched her hat, but no other makeup on her fair and freckled skin. She had a small turned-up nose and warm blue eyes, punctuated by deep lines when she smiled. At seventy-four years old, she had assumed her age gracefully, clearly not a fan of Botox or hiding the gray. “Are you enjoying your time in the Hamptons? Is my son doing all he can to make you feel welcome?”