CHA PTE R 16
N MONDAY, I’M IN THE back room of the fish house makingO crabcakes when Stewart invites me to Eight Oaks. I stand there with crabby hands and stare at the message for a bit.
Stewart: My mom wants to meet you. Can you come for dinner tonight? Cocktails are at 5 On the west veranda. Dinner in the dining room with the coffered ceiling that Archie Whitfield had brought over from France in the late 1800s. I’ve read everything ever written about this house. Everyone in town has, but if you’re Georgia Brick’s daughter, it’s all tattooed behind your eyelids. I take a breath and wipe my hands. I will wear the dress with the pale blue ikat print and those strappy beige sandals. A ballroom with a bunch of strangers was one thing, but dinner at the Whitfields’, with the Whitfields, is next level.
Me: I could get there by 5:30 Stewart: That’s fine. I’ll come get you then Me: No, I’ll drive, thanks And then after a few seconds of staring into my phone, I text: I am extremely nervous about this Stewart: Please don’t be. They’re really not so bad I don’t reply. I don’t know where this hesitancy is coming from. I just rubbed all the richest elbows in Providence. But a family dinner. I just don’t know if I can pull it off.
Me: What kind of domestic help do you have in Boston?
Stewart: Why?
Me: I forgot to ask before. Arming myself with facts Stewart: Helena is my housekeeper. She comes weekdays, does laundry and makes my breakfast. Billy’s my regular driver. There’s a landscaping team—Mike and Reggie—that deal with my yard. Damion deals with house maintenance for the most part Five people. I do every single one of those things myself.
I almost text that to him, but it would only put more distance between us when I’m about to walk into a situation where I’ll have to pretend I’m already part of his world.
Stewart: I texted Gladys. She’s making coq au vin and some kind of goat cheese appetizer. Does that help at all?
I smile at my phone. It helps that he went to the trouble to ask, actually. And I do love fancy chicken.
Me: It does. I’m in. See you at 5:30
WHEN GLADYS OPENS the door, I immediately realize my mistake.
I’m standing at the delivery entrance. I was so focused on parking where my car wouldn’t be an eyesore and then making sure the bag of shrimp I brought wasn’t leaking that I forgot that I’m a guest. Above all, I forgot that I’m Stewart Whitfield’s beautifully dressed girlfriend.
“Dolly,” she says. “Welcome.”
“Old habits,” I say, and take a deep breath. “I brought these, just came in. Maybe for tomorrow?”
She takes the bag of shrimp and thanks me. “Mrs.
Whitfield will be delighted. Come in. Now everyone’s outside, are you ready?”
She holds my gaze for a second, and I know that she knows this is all a lie. It was two weeks ago that I showed up here on my bike in my fish house T-shirt saying I was just in town to help out. There is no way I was Stewart’s girlfriend that day. It doesn’t seem to bother her, and I wonder if not being bothered is part of her job.
“You look absolutely lovely,” she says, and I smile at her
shoes.
“Thank you. Okay, I’m ready.”
When I step foot inside Eight Oaks, it’s the first time. The delivery entrance opens to a small office, just a desk and a chair and a few shelves with three-ring binders, and then into the kitchen. It’s clearly been updated in the past two hundred years but is still a place strictly for cooking. There is no kitchen island or big TV to watch the game, just a twelve-burner stove and a stainless-steel workspace with a few stools. Copper pots and pans hang, polished, from the ceiling.
She leads me through the cutting room. I know what it is because mounds of fresh peonies lie on a wooden counter that slants down into a sink, draining excess water while they wait to be readied for vases. There was an article about it in Better Homes & Gardens that the whole town was quite proud of. We walk through the living room with the giant stone fireplace and imported coffered ceilings. I crane my neck to make out a tiny gold acorn painted in the center of each carved mahogany square. The doors to the veranda are open, and a handful of people are gathered around a low coffee table. The men are in button-down shirts and freshly pressed pants, and the women are in perfectly cut dresses.
The thought comes to me as a wave, starting in my crown and moving to my feet: I have been invited to the Whitfields’.
“Stewart,” Gladys says.
Stewart rises to his feet more quickly than I’ve ever seen him do and crosses the patio to me. “Very pretty,” he says, and quickly shakes his head. “That was my first thing, but I know it’s not specific. It’s to do with your eyes and the dress.
I should have led with that.”
I smile at him because I do love these compliments, and also because he’s taking it all so seriously. I can feel all eyes on us, so I say, “Perfect. Thank you.”
He takes my hand and entwines our fingers. “Extra credit,” he says.
Stewart’s parents stand to greet me and eye our entwined hands. “Mom, Dad, this is Dolly Brick,” Stewart says.
“I’m Henry Whitfield. This is my wife, Victoria.”
“Hello,” I say, and shake their hands. “It’s beautiful here.” I’m so glad I came tonight to point that out. They’ve probably never noticed.
“Dolly!” Busy comes bounding my way and takes me in her arms. “You. Are. Gorgeous!”
“Thank you,” I say, and awkwardly pull at the side of my dress like I’m going to curtsy.
Victoria gives me a smile that does not reach her eyes.
She has dark brown hair neatly tied into a bun at the nape of her neck. She is tanned and completely without makeup, small gold hoops in her ears. If she was your doctor, you would never guess she lived in a place like this. “Dolly?” she asks. “Is that short for Dorothy?”
“No,” I say. “My mother is a country music fan.”
She gives me a tight smile.
Oscar stands. “I’m Oscar. This is my wife, Lilly.”
Lilly reaches out to shake my hand, but then changes her mind and hugs me. I am lost in the jasmine scent of her long dark hair and the undeniable sincerity of this hug.
“I want to know everything,” she says. “How you met.
When it started. How you tolerate what a bore he is.” She gives Stewart a mischievous smile. “But seriously, tell me.”
All eyes are on me to recount the details of our sordid affair. I say, “Bikes. We met on bikes.”
“We did,” Stewart says. “And we got ticketed for illegal biking.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me toward him just the slightest bit, and now all eyes are on the hand on my shoulder. Stewart wasn’t kidding about not being a big toucher.
The last of their party arrives—the dreaded cousin Grant, his wife, Kendall, and his mother, Ellen. Ellen and Kendall stand back while Grant reaches out to shake my hand and keeps it in his for the count of Mississippi. He has full lips and a square jaw and extreme rich-guy hair. Rich-guy hair is Gus’s joke. It’s hard to describe it but you know it when you see it. It’s brushed straight back and sometimes has a distinctive wave in the front. There is always tons of it, which Gus chalks up to expensive hair-care products, but I suspect is the result of having absolutely nothing to worry about.
Stewart introduces me to Ellen and Kendall, who do not appear to want to shake hands or hug, so I give a weak wave.
“The mystery woman,” Kendall says, by way of greeting.
“We’ve been seeing photos of you everywhere,” Grant says. “Where did you come from?”
“Goose Lane,” I say, and immediately want to take it back.
He laughs, still holding my eyes. “Really?”
“Also, Boston,” Stewart says. “That’s where we met.”
“On bikes!” says Lilly.
“Dolly doesn’t have a drink,” Stewart says. “Did you want a drink?”
Everyone’s looking at me and I am finding it hard to answer this simple question. Either you want a drink or you don’t.
Busy says, “I’m going to have an old-fashioned.”
As soon as the words are spoken, Gladys appears with a tray of drinks. Busy takes an old-fashioned, likely a standing order, and Gladys holds the tray in front of me. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” she says. “I have an old-fashioned, a pinot gris, or a rosé. Sparkling water?”
“A rosé would be lovely,” I say, and take it. “Thank you.”
Gladys gives me the kindest look and then a nod. It’s aYou’ve got this nod.
“So, Dolly,” Kendall says. “Who are you and why have we never met you before?”
Oh, I see. Kendall’s kind of a bitch. I understand that Audrey is a friend of hers, but she has to know she’s no saint.
“I’m a kindergarten teacher from Boston, but I grew up here. I’ve been delivering fish here my whole life, actually.” I
didn’t need to say that.
“Fish?” Henry Whitfield asks.
“Yes, my father is Freddie Brick of Brick Fish House.”
Kendall does the most elegant spit take.
“We’re using them for the Starlight Gala this year,”
Victoria says to Henry. “His was the best bid all around.”
“I hadn’t heard, thank you. My dad will be thrilled,” I say, in what is officially the greatest understatement of all time.
As soon as I can excuse myself to the bathroom, I am going to text him in all caps and break my own exclamation point protocol. By the end of this summer my dad will be officially in the black.
“Come see the view,” Stewart says to me, and guides me by the elbow to the limestone railing at the edge of the patio.
He keeps his hand on my arm as we look down at the waves lapping the rocks below.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I told them about the fish house. I’m a kindergarten teacher, the anti-Audrey. Was fish delivery girl too far?” How did we not cover this?
“There’s nothing wrong with the fish house,” he says.
“Okay,” I say.
“And they don’t even need to like you. They just need to believe we’re good together.”
I turn to him and take in that gorgeous profile. I don’t know who would ever believe we were really together, but it’s awfully fun pretending. “They all just about dropped dead when you put your arm around me,” I say. “Want to sniff me again?”
He smiles in spite of himself and keeps looking out at the waves. After a beat he turns and leans in, brushing his cheek against mine. I try to be quiet about it, but I breathe him in, that clean smell of leather and a cologne so faint that it’s like the memory of scent. His lip catches my ear, an accident, and I take in another breath.
“All right,” he says into my ear. His warm breath and the sound of his voice that close trickles down my neck.
“All right,” I whisper. “That’s enough sniffing.” That was a terrible idea.
He pulls away and retucks his perfectly tucked shirt. I can feel his family watching us, so I turn toward the view. I look over the railing, down at the six-mile cliff walk that ends here at Eight Oaks. Beyond it is the rocky shore where the waves are lazily rolling in and out. “Not a lot of drama down there tonight.”
“Put a few drinks in my aunt Ellen and you’ll see some drama,” he says. He dips his head to me as he says it and,
without thinking, I touch that place on my ear where his lips were.
WE’RE EATING OUTSIDE, which is a relief. I’d been picturing the formal dining room, and a million tiny catastrophes played out behind my eyes. Red wine on the antique carpet, an unsolvable puzzle of slightly different forks. A lady’s maid straight out of Downton Abbey, lurking behind me in case my hair needs arranging. Instead, we are all seated around a table overlooking the orange sunset on the bay. Gladys serves dinner with the help of another woman who has not been named to me. In front of me is a rattan placemat under a white plate, edged in gold and decorated with tiny yellow birds in flight. It’s exquisite, this plate. My napkin is white linen rolled into a gold ring embossed with a jeweled acorn.
Stewart is across from me with his back to the sunset.
“Well, the chicken is delicious,” Henry says to Gladys when she’s refilling everyone’s Sancerre.
“Thank you, sir. Tomorrow I’m making scampi. Dolly brought a load of fresh shrimp.”
Henry raises his glass to me. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Do you cook, Dolly?” Victoria asks.
And just like that, I am stumped. I don’t know how to answer this question. Of course I cook, my kid and I need to eat. “Yes,” I say finally. “Just meals.”What does that even
mean?
Kendall laughs. “Oh, not snacks?”
“I just mean I make eggs and sandwiches and chicken.
It’s not so much cooking as making something to eat.
Nothing fancy.” I look up at Stewart, who is shooting Kendall a look. “I do like to bake when I have time.”
“On Sundays, she bakes,” Stewart says, deftly painting a picture in everyone’s mind of me pulling a fresh pie out of his Beacon Hill oven. “Dolly has a thirteen-year-old son,” he adds. It surprises me. It’s the biggest, most important fact of my life, but for some reason I thought we’d be deliberately
not talking about it.
“Yes, Gus,” I say.
“For St. Augustine?” Victoria asks.
“More like the mouse from Cinderella,” I say.
Victoria nods but says nothing.
“Who makes the crabcakes at your dad’s store?” Henry asks, tucking into a second piece of chicken. “Victoria sometimes picks those up for lunch when she’s trying to butter me up.”
He gives her a smile, and she says, “It’s true.”
“My dad makes those, but it was his mother’s recipe. My grandmother was a great cook. She made everything.
Always won the fall bake-off.”
“I think I remember her,” Henry says. “A redhead?”
“That was her,” I say, proud. “Her name was Maud.”
“Maud!” says Ellen. “The redhead. Did she sew?”
I guess we’re doing this. “Yes, she did your mother’s sewing. Always brought home a big bag of pretty things to be fixed.” I smile, closed mouth. I have placed myself firmly in the servant category.
“And she brought pies sometimes,” says Henry, as if he can smell one of those pies. “Blueberry and peach. Could that be right?”
“Definitely,” I say. “That was one of her specialties. She gave my dad her house on Goose Lane when he married my
mom, and she moved out closer to Harvey. She grew blueberries in her yard there.”
The conversation is easier after this, not because we’re suddenly best friends but because I have almost nothing to hide. When our plates are cleared, Gladys comes out with coffee and chocolate-dipped biscotti. She pours mine first, and I thank her.
“Dolly doesn’t like coffee,” Stewart says, to my absolute horror. “Is there something else you’d like? Tea?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I say, flustered. My face is hot sitting in this moment where I am potentially sending something back to the kitchen at Eight Oaks because it is not to my liking. I pick up my coffee and sip it black to prove how much I like it.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re a terrible faker. Tea? More wine?”
I give him that look that usually comes with a knuckle sandwich and say to Gladys, “May I please have tea?”
“That’s no problem at all,” she says. “What kind do you like?”
“Whatever you have would be lovely, thank you.” My skin is too tight on my body.
Stewart’s shaking his head, and I shoot him a few more daggers. “Just say it,” he says.
“If you have Earl Grey, that’s my favorite. But anything’s fine.”
“Earl Grey it is,” she says. “Lemon? Sugar?”
“Honey?” I ask. It hurts to get it out. The absolute arrogance of asking for honey.
Gladys laughs. “That’s no problem at all.”
Stewart leans in close and whispers, “You know it’s okay to say what you want. Doesn’t make you a bad person.” His whisper against my skin makes me shiver. I don’t think I
could be completely honest with either of us about what I want in this moment.
“I say what I want plenty.” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Okay, that’s not something I’ve had a lot of occasion to do.”
“I’m going to make you practice,” he says, a smile in his eyes. He turns back to his coffee and lets his words hang in the air.
