14. On-Time Arrivals
Dru-Ann’s driver, Al, is a talker. What does she do for a living, where is she from, is this her first time on the island? Dru-Ann gives perfunctory one- word answers before saying, “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy conversationalist but I have some business matters to tend to on my phone.”
No problem, Al gets it; he’s driven for all kinds of busy and important people, not to name names but one former vice presidential candidate from Virginia (“We didn’t share the same political views, but I still thought he was a great guy!”), one very well-known “piano man,” and… Dru-Ann can’t believe he’s still talking, but she doesn’t even really hear him because her social media accounts are a five-alarm fire. Twitter is calling her a “ghoul” and “a shocking disappointment,” but sticks and stones, et cetera. The point Dru-Ann would like to get across is that everyone on the internet has it backward! Dru-Ann is the person standing up for mental health!
As Hollis’s house comes into view—Dru-Ann hasn’t been here in years, but she remembers the narrow frosted beach-glass windows flanking the front door—she dashes off a tweet. For the record, Posey Wofford is not suffering from a mental health crisis. She quit the #DowGreatLakesBayInvitational for reasons that had nothing to do with mental health! Dru-Ann debates mentioning Phineas’s appearance in the British Open, but the details are too complicated to tackle on Twitter, so she types in #TeamDruAnn (hoping this will take hold and start to trend), and
she posts.
“Is this the place?” Al asks.
Dru-Ann releases a clear breath. Screw the apology, she thinks. She’s
going to stand up for herself.
“Yes,” she says. “This is it.”
Al carries her bags to the front porch and asks if she needs anything else.
No? Well, in that case, would she mind rating his service on the black-car app? Dru-Ann agrees, anything to be rid of the dude, plus her phone is
ringing. She knocks once, then steps inside, calling out, “Hello, hello?” She anticipates walking into a gaggle of women already hip-deep in a chardonnay river. But the kitchen, which is beautifully appointed (those pink lilies are stunning), is empty except for Hollis’s bear/wolf of a dog who trots over to sniff her. The only sounds are an acoustic version of Adele singing “When We Were Young” (so appropriate) and the insistent buzzing of Dru-Ann’s phone.
“Hello?” Dru-Ann calls out again. “Holly?” She wonders if she read the itinerary wrong. This thing starts today, right? She pulls her phone out. It’s JB calling; she has no desire to talk to him, so she dismisses his call and then does the unthinkable. Dru-Ann Jones, who prides herself on being accessible twenty-four/seven, whose phone is essentially an extension of her right hand, hits DO NOT DISTURB. (She can’t quite bring herself to turn it off.) “Coming!” Hollis strides down the hall and into the kitchen, where she finds Dru-Ann sniffing the lilies.
Hollis feels tears rise. This, she thinks, is what the Five-Star Weekend is about. Hollis Shaw and Dru-Ann Jones were just kids when they were paired together in Old East at UNC. Now, thirty-five years later, they’re middle- aged women standing in the kitchen, one of them mourning her husband, one of them “canceled.” But for Hollis, Dru-Ann will never be canceled.
When you need me, I will show up.
And here she is.
Anyone who watches Throw Like a Girl would have to admit that Dru- Ann Jones is even more glamorous in person than she is on television. Her skin is flawless; she’s wearing plum lipstick; her hair is gathered in its usual ponytail (Allure once ran a piece on ponytails and featured a picture of Dru- Ann). Dru-Ann’s signature wardrobe piece is a tailored blazer. Each season, she buys the entire line from Veronica Beard, and today she’s wearing a navy scuba jacket paired with a white T-shirt and jeans. Hollis checks out Dru- Ann’s shoes (Dru-Ann is famous for her shoes) and finds cherry-red suede stilettos. Fabulous and impractical.
“Dru,” Hollis says. She feels a happiness so powerful, it might lift her off the ground. “Thank you for coming.” Hollis stops herself from gushing; she doesn’t want to sound like Brooke. “I know you’re busy.”
“Luck was on your side,” Dru-Ann says. “Because it turned out I had
some free time this weekend.” She sighs. “Do you have any alcohol?”
While Hollis is pouring Casa Dragones tequila over ice for Dru-Ann, a taxi pulls up in front of the house and Brooke steps out. There’s a bit of a tango— Brooke reaching into her purse for money, the driver heaving her suitcase out of the back (“What did you pack in here,” he asks, “gold bullion?”), Brooke retrieving her straw hat when it falls to the ground, the taxi driver checking out Brooke’s backside as she bends over for the hat—but eventually Brooke reaches the front door. She knocks and Dru-Ann opens the door, sees Brooke, and shuts the door right in her face. This is meant to be funny, and it is funny, Hollis has to suppress a smile, but on the other side of the door, Brooke is wondering if she’s going to be the butt of every joke this weekend.
“Dru-Ann,” Hollis says. “Stop.”
Dru-Ann swings open the door—this weekend is already more fun than she thought it would be—and says, “You’re here for the orgy, right?”
Brooke nods. She can play along. “Right,” she says. “I brought the chocolate syrup and the blindfolds.”
This makes Dru-Ann laugh, and Hollis relaxes. “Brooke!” Hollis says.
“Welcome!” Hollis isn’t quite as happy to see Brooke as she was to see Dru- Ann, but she won’t make this weekend a competition. She spends time with Brooke at home in Wellesley; they went to Juniper for dinner a couple of nights before Hollis left for Nantucket. When Matthew died, Brooke swooped in like Superwoman. She drove Hollis to the funeral home, helped her pick a coffin; she drove her to St. Andrew’s to speak to the pastor.
Brooke had been her person.
Hollis hands Dru-Ann her drink and points across the driveway to the guesthouse. “You’re in the Twist. It’s all made up for you.”
Dru-Ann raises an eyebrow. “You’re putting me in the outhouse?”
Brooke gasps. “I’ll… I’m… you can have my room, Dru-Ann. I’m happy to stay in the outhouse.”
“You should be sent to the outhouse,” Dru-Ann says, “for wearing that hat.” A smile breaks across her face. “Just kidding. Holly knows I prefer my own space.”
“The Twist is not an outhouse,” Hollis says. “The cottage has a Peloton, an espresso machine, and a bottle of tequila on the kitchen table just for you.”
“All righty, then,” Dru-Ann says. “I’ll see you Monday.” She grabs her luggage, steps outside, and closes the door behind her.
“Can I get you a drink?” Hollis asks Brooke. She takes a good look at Brooke’s outfit. The hat is overkill; she looks like she belongs in a Mary Cassatt painting. “A glass of rosé?”
“Just water, please,” she says. “I’ve already had two glasses of rosé and I’m feeling it.”
“Did you drink on the boat?” Hollis asks.
Brooke opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
“There’s no reason to be ashamed if you did,” Hollis says. “This weekend is about kicking back.”
“The past couple of days have been awful for me,” Brooke says. “But I’ll tell you about it another time. It’s not an appropriate topic for the Five-Star Weekend.”
Hollis takes a beat. It’s true—she isn’t prepared to take on any Brooke- drama right now.
Hollis hasn’t heard from Gigi Ling about when or how she’ll be arriving.
She texted Gigi the itinerary and the address and received a thumbs-up emoji.
If she wasn’t coming, she would have let Hollis know. Right?
“Let me show you to your room,” Hollis says.
But before Hollis takes Brooke to her room, she gives her a tour of First Light. The interior design is so good, it’s like a drug. The deep blue half- moon sofa and the kelly-green club chairs in the living room are the perfect pops of color against all the white. Through the glass doors opposite the sofa, Brooke can see a pond with a footbridge and, beyond that, a stretch of golden sand and the ocean.
They head down the hallway. “This wing has two guest suites,” Hollis says, and Brooke thinks: Wing? Suites? “I have you in the Board Room.”
It’s like stepping right into Instagram. The wallpaper reminds Brooke of a man’s tailored shirt with classic navy, light blue, and subdued gray pinstripes. (Pin-striped wallpaper, who thinks of that? And is this why Hollis calls it the Board Room?) There’s a walnut pencil-post bed dressed up in crisp white sheets and a navy plaid quilt with an arrangement of pillows in blue stripes and florals. At the end of the bed is a rattan bench upholstered in blue ikat;
the rattan is echoed in the curvy chandelier and the woven shades on the windows opposite the bed. Over the bed is a line of small-scale surf landscapes, and on the antique writing desk that serves as a nightstand are a blue glass vase bursting with cosmos (Brooke’s favorite flower) and the new issues of Martha Stewart Living and O magazine. (These will find their way into Brooke’s duffel; she’s known at her dentist’s and gynecologist’s offices for stealing magazines.) Brooke removes her straw hat and immediately cools down. This room is the most gorgeous one she has ever set foot in; it makes her bedroom back in Wellesley—which she was feeling so proud of only yesterday—seem like a child’s art project.
It’s going to take all weekend for Brooke to process this room—the textures and layering of patterns—and figure out how and why it works. She keeps noticing things: the water carafe next to a navy-blue ceramic jug lamp on the side table, an area rug in wide navy- and light-blue stripes, the navy gingham cushion on the desk chair.
“You have your own bathroom,” Hollis says. “But between you and me, the outdoor shower is the best in the house.”
Brooke pokes her head into the bathroom. It’s an explosion of fun color, starting with orange and turquoise wallpaper printed with surfboards—that’s why they call it the Board Room—and an oval mirror bordered with white coral; on either side of the mirror is a little tiki lamp.
Brooke turns to Hollis. “I feel very honored to be staying here and… humbled to be chosen for this weekend.” She blinks rapidly. “I want you to know how much I value our friendship and everything you’ve done for me —”
Hollis can see Brooke getting emo, but at that moment, Hollis’s phone starts buzzing in her pocket. This must be Gigi, she thinks. She’s here. She came.
To Brooke, Hollis says, “Get settled, then come join us in the kitchen.”
Brooke opens her mouth to speak but Hollis doesn’t have time for any more Lifetime-movie moments so she leaves the room and shuts the door with a definitive click. She checks her phone.
It’s not Gigi. It’s Tatum. I’m here, the text says. Come out to the driveway. I have a surprise.
Caroline hears voices in the kitchen—Dru-Ann and Brooke. This is the five- star “arrival” that Caroline should be filming, not only because her mother is paying her to do that but also because Hollis’s subscribers will want to see it.
The whole thing is one giant eye-roll emoji.
But… some complications are developing. Her mother’s relationship with Tatum is intriguing because of the whole local/summer person dynamic. Dru- Ann is apparently being canceled. Brooke will be socially awkward, as always. And at some point, the mystery woman will show up: Gigi Ling. Her name holds promise; it rolls musically off the tongue. Bring it, Gigi Ling!
Caroline thinks. Please don’t be a dud.
Caroline carries Isaac’s camera—he asked her to hold it like a literal baby —outside, where a Honda Pilot has pulled into the driveway. Caroline sees a man and woman in the front and a shadowy third figure in the back seat.
Caroline hears Isaac’s voice: Observe.
Something is happening right in front of her.
Caroline focuses her camera on the woman emerging from the Pilot’s passenger side. Caroline thinks, Well, that’s where Dylan gets his looks.
Tatum is tall and slender and has long, dark, movie-star hair. She’s dressed in cutoff jeans and a navy-blue Whalers Lacrosse T-shirt. Tatum and Hollis hug —Caroline can’t help noticing that Tatum looks ten years younger than her mother—and then a burly guy with a seventies porn ’stache gets out of the driver’s side and Hollis says, “Hey, Kyle.” Caroline zooms in on her mother and Kyle McKenzie as they hug and rock back and forth. “It is so great to see you,” Hollis says. “Thank you for driving our girl all the way out here. I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”
Kyle says, “Someone wants to say hello.”
At that moment, the back door of the Pilot opens and a bald guy with a silver goatee gets out. He’s pretty cute for a dad type and, wow, is he laser- focused on Hollis. Caroline turns the camera on her mother just in time to catch the shock on her face. This is an ambush of some kind, Caroline can see that, but who is this dude?
He steps forward, saying, “Hey, Halle Berry.” (Caroline will only realize when she views the footage later that he says “Holly berry,” not “Halle Berry.”) And Hollis whispers, “Jack?” like she’s a character in a period drama whose lover, reportedly killed in battle, has returned. They walk toward each other—but stop when they’re about a foot apart.
Caroline holds her breath. What is her mother doing right now?
Jack extends his arms. “Come here.”
And Hollis goes to him.
Caroline lowers the camera. She doesn’t want to be the daughter who becomes indignant and jealous when her mother has a “moment” with somebody she used to know—but too bad, she is that daughter. Her face flushes, and she kind of wants to scream.
But she knows what Isaac would say: She should have stayed and gotten the shot. Conflict equals content. That dude, whoever he is, is a chink in the armor.
Jack Finigan, Hollis thinks once she’s in his arms. She sees ghosts of him whenever she passes Nantucket High School or drives out to Great Point; she sees him every time she’s at the Boat Basin because he and Kyle spent their summers working as first mates on fishing charters while Hollis and Tatum waited tables at the Rope Walk. They would all meet up after work, the boys with a couple of striped bass collars and the girls with the night’s leftover lobsters and a six-pack of Pabst, and they would head out to Fortieth Pole in Kyle’s beater CJ-7 and cook everything over a fire as they listened to Billy Joel on the Jeep’s tape deck. My sweet romantic teenage nights!
Hollis and Jack had been each other’s first everything; they had grown up together. Jack Finigan taught Hollis how to love.
She’d seen him once from afar on Main Street a bunch of years ago. It was around then that she began stalking the poor man on Facebook.
“I’m sorry about your husband,” he murmurs into her hair.
She takes a breath and pulls away. She’s aware they have an audience, one of whom is her daughter with a video camera. Jack’s arrival is very off brand for the Five-Star Weekend, which is supposed to be about her
relationships with women.
Jack is a star of another kind.
“There’s too much…” she says. “Can we talk later?”
“Of course,” he says. “It was probably unfair of me to show up like this, but wild horses, you know.”
“We’ll ride them someday,” she says. It’s a song that’s so much their song she hasn’t been able to listen to it in thirty-five years; whenever it
comes on the car radio, she changes the station.
Hollis turns to see Tatum and Kyle kissing goodbye, and she feels seventeen again.
Jack gets in the car. “Come on, Mom and Dad!” he calls out the window.
At that moment, Dru-Ann steps out of the guest cottage and thinks, What fresh hell is this?
Jack waves. “Hey there, Dru-Ann, it’s Jack Finigan.”
There’s a name from the past, Dru-Ann thinks. She squints at the bald dude and, wow, she gets sucked right back in time.
Jack Finigan shows up halfway through their first semester at UNC in his father’s pickup (which, it turns out, he’s driven seven hundred and fifty miles without permission). He knocks on the door of Hollis and Dru-Ann’s dorm room in Old East holding a bouquet of red roses that he must have grabbed out of a plastic bucket at the Kroger on Shannon Drive because the stems are still dripping. Hollis is at her American lit seminar and will be gone for two hours. The kid’s face crumples at this news. Honestly, he looks like he’s going to cry, and Dru-Ann can’t stand to see anyone cry. She’s happy for a distraction from her macroeconomics reading, so she takes Jack on a tour of the campus; she shows him Old West, Wilson Library, the Dean Dome (of course), the bell tower, and the Old Well.
“This used to be an actual well that students back in olden days would dip a ladle in and drink from,” Dru-Ann tells him. Now it’s a water fountain, and during freshman orientation there was a line a mile long. Supposedly, drinking from the fountain as a freshman meant you would have a 4.0 GPA, and most people, including Hollis, just could not help themselves.
Jack gives the Old Well one second of his attention. He couldn’t care less, and can Dru-Ann blame him? He’s there only to see Hollis. Hollis has a collage of photos on the wall over her bed, and Jack appears in nearly all of them, but Hollis told Dru-Ann that they broke up right before she left.
Broke up, Dru-Ann thinks—and yet this poor kid drove thirteen hours, stopping only to relieve himself and buy those sad-ass flowers.
When Hollis gets back from class and sees Jack, she gasps and hugs him and seems overcome… but not entirely happy. The two of them go for dinner at Hector’s, and as they’re walking back to the dorm, Hollis breaks Jack’s
heart (again). But Hollis is the one who stays up all night crying, and she keeps the roses on her desk until they wither, then presses the damn things in her copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.
After winter break, the collage comes down and is replaced by Monet’s water lilies. But for the next three and a half years, every time Hollis gets drunk, who pops up in the conversation? Jack Finigan. He’s not exactly the one who got away, but he’s something. Dru-Ann will tolerate five minutes, sometimes ten, of Jack-talk, but that’s her limit. The best thing about Hollis falling in love with the cute surgery resident in Boston, Matthew Madden, is that Dru-Ann no longer has to hear about Jack.
Except now, here he is.
Dru-Ann strides over to Hollis, Tatum, and her husband (they’re the kind of couple who share an e-mail account, Dru-Ann can tell) and says, “The boys have to go. Now.”
“You’re not in charge this time, Dru-Ann,” Tatum says.
It’s nice to see you again too, Dru-Ann thinks. “Hello, Tatum,” she says, though she knows enough not to try to hug the woman. Dru-Ann hasn’t seen Tatum since Hollis’s wedding. Back then, Tatum low-key-hated Dru-Ann, and from the sound of things, maybe she still does. She and the rest of the world now have that in common.
Tatum responds with a side-eye, but the good news is that the hubby gets in the car and backs out of the driveway, and at the same time, Brooke pokes her head out the front door and says, “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Dru-Ann says. “Let’s get this party started.”
