“Well, at least you have this piece of heaven to detox in. I find it’s one of the few houses left that retains its original charm and hasn’t been decorated to within an inch of its life.”

“My great-grandfather bought it as his little escape from the big house in Southampton, and my parents didn’t change a thing. Cecil isn’t crazy about it, though. He keeps trying to talk me into buying a house on Georgica Pond or, at the very least, redecorating this place.”

“He wants to unleash Kelly Wearstler on the place, I suppose.”

“Not quite. There’s this Belgian architect he’s currently obsessed with who does this wabi-sabi thing and only decorates in shades of mud. Like every wall should look like a rainy day in Antwerp. Cecil wants to fill the house up with antiques that look at least a thousand years old, and we’ll have to walk around wearing wooden clogs and burlap sacks as if we have seasonal affective disorder. He thinks that’s a cool look for a country house.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it’s an interesting visual exercise, but I would probably want to murder him after a week. Anyway, it’s all moot, because the house isn’t ours. It’s Freddie’s, don’t you know? This house has been passed down through the Churchill men for four generations.”

“How very … typical.” Auden sighed.

“Well, the good thing is Freddie loves it exactly the way it is, and he won’t change a thing either.”

“Until his wife gets a hold of it.”

“You know, I can’t imagine Freddie ever getting married, but I suppose it will happen one day. Hopefully she’ll appreciate the same things about it as he does: the creaky old floors, the sun-bleached wicker, Dad’s seashell collection.”

They arrived at the terrace overlooking the pool, where they found Marian and Freddie seated at an old French enamel-top fold-out table.

“There you are! I thought you had completely forgotten about lunch. I know how you two can go on and on about art,” Marian said.

“Apologies. I was blown away by Lucie’s latest series and completely lost track of time,” Auden said.

Freddie was already half finished with his lobster roll. “Sorry, I couldn’t wait. I was starrrrrrving. I just came from a full morning of tennis.”

“Is this all from Circle Pond Farm?” Auden said, admiring the spread in front of him. There were platters of fresh lobster rolls, macaroni salad, curry chicken, chopped kale salad, chocolate fudge brownies, and ice-cold bottles of freshly squeezed raspberry lemonade.

“Circle Pond Farm? Oh, you mean High Tits,” Freddie said.

“High Tits?” Auden asked, curious.

“Yes, it’s our nickname for the place,” Lucie said.

“My bad. I started calling it that years ago when Reggie first brought me out to East Hampton and I noticed that all the pretty girls working there wore tight T-shirts that really showed off their double Ds.” Marian laughed.

“It’s still the same girls, so it’s long overdue to be renamed ‘Low Tits,’” Freddie said.

Everyone at the table laughed.

“So, Freddie, I take it you are preparing to defend your title in this year’s Dorset tennis tournament?” Auden asked, as he dished some macaroni salad onto his plate.

“You bet. It’s going to be a vicious year. I heard the Iselin brothers went down to Florida to some tennis camp run by a guy who once coached Nadal. Thankfully, Kip brought along his friend, this tennis ace who gave us some great tips. He’s the new guy renting Harry’s house on Lily Pond Lane.”

Lucie was just about to take a bite of her lobster roll. “Harry Stuyvesant Fish? What new guy? Cissinghurst’s being rented to my friends the Ortiz sisters!”

“Guess that didn’t work out. This dude’s there now. He just moved in last week.”

“Freddie, you’re confused. I set everything up with Harry to rent to the Ortizes. It was all settled last month.”

“I swear this guy said he had moved into Harry’s house. He’s here with his mom, and he finds the place ridiculously large for the two of them.”

“Oh, shit, did Harry change his mind again?” Marian snorted. “That Harry is so peculiar about his house. But then again, it was his mother’s place. Poor guy, I think he still feels haunted by her to keep everything like it’s a museum.”

Lucie frowned. “What’s the guy’s name, Freddie?”

“George. Don’t ask me his last name, I’ve forgotten it.”

“Perhaps he’s one of Paloma’s or Mercedes’s grandsons, helping them to get settled in?” Auden wondered. “Was he Filipino?”

“I’m not sure if he’s Filipino, but he looked Asian to me,” Freddie answered.

“Well, there you go! It must be either Paloma’s or Mercedes’s grandsons.” Auden nodded at Lucie.

“I thought they weren’t arriving till the middle of June. How odd that they moved in last week and haven’t called us yet,” Lucie said, picking at her kale salad.

“Well, either way, George was really cool. I think he went to school in Australia—he’s got this Aussie surfer accent,” Freddie said.

Auden smiled. “We knew a George with an Aussie accent, didn’t we? A lovely chap we met in Capri. George Zao.”

“That’s it! That’s his name!” Freddie exclaimed.

Auden gave Lucie a look. “It can’t be. Can it?”

Lucie froze in her seat for a moment. It had to be a coincidence. How many George Zaos were there on the planet? Probably thousands. “Freddie’s hallucinating. There’s no way it can be the George we knew because the Ortiz sisters have the house.”

“Oh, wait, why don’t you ask Cecil? He’s friends with George,” Freddie offered.

“Cecil?” Lucie looked even more confused.

“Yeah, that’s what he told me. Sorry, I just remembered. When I’m hungry you know my brain goes to mush,” Freddie said as he reached for one of the brownies. “Mama, do we have any more of that Sant Ambroeus gelato?”

“I finished all the chocolate last night when I was binging on The OA, but I think there’s some pistachio left,” Marian answered. “Do you want some?”

“How does Cecil know George?” Lucie demanded, as she became more alarmed by the second.

“I have no idea. We were playing tennis, Lucie. It wasn’t social hour.”

Marian turned to Lucie. “What a royal screwup! Where’s Cecil now?”

“Still in Venice,” Lucie said.

“Well, call him if you want to get to the bottom of this mess,” Marian suggested.

“Please excuse me,” Lucie said, getting up from her chair and walking toward the house. Freddie yelled after her, “Grab the pistachio gelato from the fridge, will you?”

Lucie sat down on the wicker chair overlooking the terrace and dialed Cecil’s number. It rang for a few moments before he picked up. “Baby! I’ve just been to the most transcendent show at the Palazzo Fortuny. It’s a retrospective of this Korean artist I’ve never heard of until now, Yun Hyong-Keun. He sort of does what you do, paints on raw canvases, and his paintings are simply marvelous. They remind me of early Rothkos. I think you’d love them.”