16. Happy Hour II
Hollis opens the wine that Tatum brought as a hostess gift and pours two glasses, one for herself and one for Tatum. Dru-Ann picks up the bottle and scrapes the price tag off with her fingernail.
“Twelve ninety-five,” she murmurs. “Classy.”
“Dru-Ann, shh!” Hollis hisses. Back when Hollis and Matthew got engaged and then married, there was all kinds of friction between Tatum and Dru-Ann. That’s ancient history, but—as Hollis knows only too well—no one holds a grudge like Tatum McKenzie. “Tatum brought me this wine
because it’s one of my favorites.”
“If you say so,” Dru-Ann says.
“Sorry it’s not a Montrachet,” Tatum says. “I finished that bottle this
afternoon.”
Touché, Dru-Ann thinks.
Brooke reaches for the bottle of Whispering Angel rosé resting in the ice bucket. Her hostess gift is an ocean-breeze-scented candle, but now that Brooke has seen the relaxed elegance of Hollis’s home, she worries the candle is down-market, maybe even cheesy (what does an “ocean breeze” smell like, anyway?), and because Brooke bought it on sale at the Christmas Tree Shop, it cost even less than twelve ninety-five.
Hollis wants to raise her glass for a toast—she wants to thank everyone for putting their lives on hold and coming to spend the weekend with her— but they should really wait for Gigi.
It’s six o’clock and there’s been no word from her.
Will this end up being a four-star weekend? she wonders.
She needs to change the energy in the room. The music is, maybe, a touch too angry? Hollis presses Shuffle on Tatum’s playlist. REO Speedwagon’s “Keep On Lovin’ You” floats down from the speakers. It’s suddenly the 1980s.
When Hollis sets out the cheese and charcuterie board, Brooke whips out
her phone and starts taking pictures. She wants to post this on Facebook as soon as she can; she wants Electra to see what she’s missing: melty baked Brie in a golden pastry crust, thinly cut salami fashioned into flowers, tiny bowls of Marcona almonds, purple olives, and cheese straws. There are dishes of mustard and chutney, a winding river of seeded crackers, clusters of frosted grapes, plump strawberries, dried apricots—and in the center of the board, a pile of Hollis’s famously addictive bacon and rosemary pecans.
“I hope this is dinner,” Dru-Ann says. The tequila is doing its job; she feels her joints loosen. She’ll ignore the tension between herself and Tatum the same way she’s ignoring her real-life problems. She has left her phone in her bag, and her bag is on the blue silk chaise at least ten feet away.
“Send me those pictures,” Dru-Ann says to Brooke. She types her number into Brooke’s phone, then chooses the only decent photo of the food and texts it to herself. “Now you have my number, but it’s to be used only in case of emergency.”
Brooke beams like a Girl Scout who has just won the award for selling the most Thin Mints, and Dru-Ann feels herself softening. The woman can talk the face off a clock, but she’s actually kind of sweet, and would it be so bad for Dru-Ann to have an ally this weekend? “For example, if you’re at the Wellesley Country Club and you see some twelve-year-old on the tennis court serve her way to victory, you can text me. Because that could be my next client.”
“Yes!” Brooke says, raising her arms over her head in a V for victory. “I’ll text you!”
Caroline returns to the kitchen cradling Isaac’s camera. She raises it and pans around the room, focusing on one image (the champagne bottles with their bright orange labels), then another (Dru-Ann’s Balenciaga hobo bag slouching like an actual hobo on the blue silk chaise). Brooke is attached to Dru-Ann like Velcro—until Dru-Ann turns to Tatum.
“Sorry I made that crack about the price tag,” Dru-Ann says.
Tatum locks her arms across her chest and gives Dru-Ann a cool look.
Caroline edges the camera closer. What have we here?
“I don’t care anymore what you think of me,” Tatum says. “If you don’t like my wine, don’t drink it.”
Don’t worry, I won’t, Dru-Ann thinks. But as she studies Tatum—the woman has barely aged, and she has great hair, though it’s maybe a little Charlie’s Angels—she remembers something that happened at Hollis’s wedding. Dru-Ann made a joke and Tatum took it the wrong way. Big-time.
Dru-Ann would apologize now, but it’s probably better not to bring it up.
She rattles the ice in her glass. “I drink tequila.”
Then Dru-Ann notices the camera trained on her. She gives it the middle finger.
Despite herself, Caroline smiles. What would her mother’s fans think of that?
Tatum’s playlist segues from “I Don’t Like Mondays” by the Boomtown Rats to “Vienna” by Billy Joel.
Caroline films the four stars crowded around the cheese board as they construct perfect bites. There’s a lot of eating, a little bit of singing along: But then if you’re so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid? (This is Hollis, terribly off-key.) The only person talking is Brooke: Oh, my goodness, Hollis, you must have been pulling this together for days, these pecans are addictive, the Five-Star Weekend is such a clever idea although I couldn’t do it, I haven’t talked to anyone from high school since my mother sold our house and moved to Boca.
Caroline considers shutting off the camera; even Hollis’s most devoted fans would be bored to tears. But instead, she zooms in on the other women’s faces. All of them seem to be in their own worlds—even her mother.
Hollis is thinking about how Jack’s arms felt when they were wrapped around her. She’s probably making too much of it. This isn’t going to be like a romance novel where the lonely widow is reunited with someone from her past and things are even better than when they were young because not only are they both more mature, they have no agenda but to enjoy each other’s company and revel in the glow of their second chance at love. Things like that don’t happen in real life.
Tatum is pissed at herself for not checking the wine she brought for a price tag. Tatum knows that Hollis doesn’t care about hostess presents or how much they cost; she could have shown up empty-handed and it would have been fine. Dru-Ann is just intent on making it known that she has money and
Tatum doesn’t. Which has been the problem from the beginning (the bachelorette party at the Ritz in Boston; the searing comment about the pearls).
Tatum should have just gone through the albums at home and brought snapshots. She realizes now that it wouldn’t have mattered if she was late.
The fourth chick hasn’t even shown up yet.
Dru-Ann wonders if she should take Tatum aside to explain the stress she’s under. I’m in the middle of a public relations crisis! Twitter wants my head on a platter! Would Tatum get it? Why, oh, why did she not keep her mouth shut about the price tag? Maybe Dru-Ann will tell Tatum that the man she’s involved with has just put things on hold. I finally found a man I care about and then this mess happens! Dru-Ann might even confess to Tatum that she’s fallen in love with Nick. That Tatum will understand; she seems obnoxiously happy with her own husband.
She watches Tatum pick up an olive, sniff it, then set it on her cocktail napkin. Dru-Ann pops an olive into her mouth. “They’re good,” Dru-Ann says in the tone of a mother trying to persuade a child.
“I guess my palate isn’t as sophisticated as yours,” Tatum says.
Dru-Ann closes her eyes.
Brooke realizes she’s the only one talking. The others are nodding along, murmuring, Mmm-hmm, but Brooke doesn’t feel like they’re really listening.
It’s hard to concentrate on anything other than the magnificent grazing board in front of them. Brooke wants to exercise restraint but the bacon-rosemary pecans are so delicious they should be illegal, and the cheese straws are made from scratch with some combination of aged cheddar, grated Parmesan, and herbs picked from Hollis’s garden. Brooke washes one down with more rosé,
then looks around the table.
“When is Gigi getting here?” she asks.
When is Gigi getting here? Hollis wonders. Hollis has texted her three times: asking for her ETA, giving her the address of the house, then finally asking if everything is okay. Gigi hasn’t responded to any of the texts, and at seven
o’clock, when Hollis finally calls, she’s sent straight to voice mail. She’s tempted to say, You’re still coming, right? But instead she leaves a bright, cheerful message: “Just checking in, no hurry, take your time, we’ll see you when we see you!”
Then, for the seven thousandth time, she thinks: What kind of idiot invites someone she has never met to her house for the weekend? If this is truly Hollis’s “life story in friendship form,” then what does it say about her that her best friend from midlife is someone she met online? Is it a sign of the times or a sign that Hollis’s standards are at an all-time low?
She should have invited cute Zoe Kern from her barre class back home.
But Hollis wanted Gigi. She still wants Gigi. Where is Gigi?
“Tatum?” Hollis says. “Will you come outside and help me with the grill?”
Tatum knows Hollis doesn’t need help with the grill. Hollis was raised by Tom Shaw; she can start a fire with a pile of dry leaves and a dirty look.
Hollis probably wants to give Tatum a talking-to about being nice to Dru- Ann. She can say whatever she wants, but Tatum has a score to settle.
Then she remembers something.
“Okay,” Tatum says. “Just let me run to the ladies’ room real quick.” She heads down the hall to her Fifty Shades of White guest suite, which is like something straight out of Selling Sunset. Right after Hollis left Tatum in the room to “get settled,” Tatum whipped out her phone, took a video, and sent it to Kyle. There’s a white “soufflé” bed (this was what Hollis called it) with a fluffy ivory duvet and a trillion pillows in shades from French vanilla to pure driven snow. A clear egg-shaped swing chair hangs from the ceiling. Hollis showed her the “fireworks chandelier”: hundreds of tiny LED lights attached to fibers that explode out in all directions so it looks like a fireworks display over the bed. (Tatum has to admit this is very extra.) Tatum understands that the white is “understated luxury,” but all she can think is how quickly this room would be decimated if Orion were let loose in here with his Cheez-Its, his Oreos, and his markers.
Tatum rummages through her bag until she finds Orion’s rubber snake.
She knows that Dru-Ann is staying in the guest cottage by herself. (This tracks; Dru-Ann is such a diva.) Tatum slips out the side door and crunches across the white-shell driveway to the Twist. The real “twist,” Tatum thinks,
is that this cottage is where Hollis and her father used to live. Tatum spent countless hours sitting on the shag rug in Hollis’s Pepto-Bismol-pink bedroom, mooning over Rick Springfield’s picture on the cover of Working Class Dog. Tatum sees the house has been renovated—it has that whole groovy-retro midcentury vibe going on, lots of curves and pops of color, red leatherette chairs in the kitchen, an art deco bar cart so when Frank Sinatra comes over, he can make himself a martini. Tatum heads to the bedroom and slips the snake between the sheets of Dru-Ann’s bed.
Instantly, she feels better.
She makes it back to the main house, grabs her glass of wine, and gets to the deck just in time to watch Hollis light the grill with the press of a button, no assistance needed. Hollis looks up and says, “You don’t have a cigarette, do you?”
Hallelujah, Tatum thinks. She has been wondering when she could sneak in a smoke. She pulls her Newports out of her shorts pocket and offers one to Hollis. “I didn’t think you smoked anymore,” Tatum says.
“I don’t.” Hollis inhales deeply. Her lungs burn and she experiences an instant head rush. Hello, nicotine, my old friend. “Except in case of emergency.”
Tatum takes a drag of her cigarette and tips what’s left of her wine into her mouth. “I was as surprised as you to see Jack. He and Kyle must have
cooked it up.”
“How did he find out about Matthew?”
“Kyle texted him when it happened,” Tatum says.
“Is he still with Mindy?” Hollis asks. She doesn’t say that she’s been stalking Jack’s Facebook page and that the last picture of Mindy appeared on August 25, 2020.
“She got tired of waiting for a ring and left him,” Tatum says. “She married some retired tech guy and they bought an inn in Lenox. So, if you’re asking—yes, Jack is currently single.”
He’s single, Hollis thinks. But he’s so damn good-looking that he could probably sleep with any woman in Western Massachusetts. “He looks exactly the same,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
“He’s bald and has a silver goatee,” Tatum says. “If you remember correctly, in high school he had a full head of hair and was so skinny he couldn’t keep his pants up.”
“You’re right,” Hollis says. “I guess what I mean is that he seems exactly the same.”
“Like he’s still madly in love with you?” Tatum says. “Yes, I noticed that as well.”
Brooke offers to clean up the appetizers—the few remaining dried apricots, pecan dust, and smears of cheese—and Dru-Ann leaves her to it. “I’m going to have a chat with my goddaughter,” she says.
Dru-Ann wanders down the hallway to the right, guided by faint strains of “Practice” by DaBaby, until she comes to a door with a stripe of light at the bottom. She knocks; the music stops.
“What’s up?” Caroline says through the closed door. “Is Gigi here?”
Dru-Ann cracks open the door. “Sorry, it’s just me.”
Caroline is at her desk uploading the footage she’s shot so far to her laptop. The scene between her mother and the surprise visitor from the car is seriously unsettling. Caroline has watched it half a dozen times with the predictable emotions. She has never seen her mother look at anyone that way, not even her father.
“Hey,” Caroline says. “My mom said I didn’t have to come back out until
Gigi got here.”
“Who is Gigi?” Dru-Ann asks.
Caroline shrugs. “Someone from my mom’s website. Nobody’s met her in real life. Not even Mom.”
“Wow,” Dru-Ann says. “That sounds sketchy.”
“I mean, no offense, but this whole weekend is sketchy.” Caroline finally grants Dru-Ann some eye contact. “My father just died, and my mother is flexing with this whole five-star festival. She’s having me film it for her website so people can… what? See that she’s moving on? See her and her friends dancing at the Chicken Box?”
“Hey,” Dru-Ann says. “Take it easy on your mom. It’s giving her
something positive to focus on.”
“It’s too soon.”
“I don’t think that’s for either of us to say. She was lonely, she wanted people around. She wanted you around.”
“It’s a gimmick for her website,” Caroline says. “She wants clicks.”
“Caroline, I’m your godmother, and I know that means I’m supposed to take your side, but in this case, I would ask that you grant your mother some grace. She’s been through a lot.”
“I’ve been through a lot.” Caroline stares at her computer screen. “My mother’s just going to get married again and move on.”
Dru-Ann is searching for some words of wisdom—but who is she kidding? She has proved useless at communicating with twenty-somethings —when an alert lights up Caroline’s phone next to her on the desk. Dru-Ann sees her own name.
“I guess you heard what happened with Posey Wofford?”
“I did.”
“Well, then, I’m glad I’m here to explain it to you in person. Posey doesn’t have mental-health issues. She was using that as an excuse.”
Caroline doesn’t want to do that Gen Z thing of explaining to Gen X why some of their comments are no longer acceptable, but what choice does she have? “You shouldn’t have commented on Posey’s mental health. Only Posey can do that.”
Dru-Ann sighs. “There are two sides to this.”
“I’m sure there are, but the internet sees only one side: You make money off Posey’s money, so of course you wanted her to stay in the tournament.”
“It wasn’t about money, Caroline,” Dru-Ann says. “I have plenty of money without Posey Wofford.”
“Have you considered ‘breaking your silence’?” Caroline uses air quotes, and she can’t help but smile. “And issuing an apology?” An apology alone might not cut it, Caroline thinks. Dru-Ann should probably make a generous donation to the Jed Foundation as well.
“I need to write a statement explaining what happened,” Dru-Ann says.
“Posey was using mental health as an excuse—”
Caroline says, “You’re her representation. It’s your job to create a safe space for her.”
There’s no term Dru-Ann loathes more than safe space. First of all, it’s a complete fantasy; no space in life is safe unless you live in bubble wrap.
People will disagree with you; people will attack you; people will lie right to your face! In Dru-Ann’s line of work, every single day is a competition— someone wins, a lot of people lose. There is no safety.
“I wanted her to honor her commitment,” Dru-Ann says. “Show some
good old-fashioned grit. Do you know why she dropped out of the tournament?”
“She didn’t feel up to it,” Caroline says.
“She felt fine!” Dru-Ann says. “Her boyfriend, Phineas Pine—”
“I’m not sure Twitter cares about the details,” Caroline says. “You should
probably just issue an apology.”
“That’s not happening.”
There’s a tense moment as Dru-Ann and Caroline stare at each other.
Dru-Ann thinks, Your generation is both fragile and entitled, and no one is allowed to call you on it because you have been given the power to ruin a person’s career by pushing a few buttons.
She also thinks, I used to change your diapers, and now you’re my fixer?
Caroline thinks, If you don’t issue an apology, you will be sunk. The longer you wait, the worse it will be.
Caroline changes the subject. “What’s up between you and Tatum?”
“You’ll have to ask Tatum that,” Dru-Ann says. She blows Caroline a kiss and closes the door. Caroline hears the clickety-click of her heels heading back down the hallway.
It’s only seven o’clock on the first night, but one thing has become apparent: This weekend will be about more than just the landscape.
Brooke has been left to clean the kitchen like Cinderella. Hollis and Tatum are outside on the deck; Brooke can see them through the glass doors smoking cigarettes. Since when, Brooke wonders, does Hollis smoke?
Brooke wipes off the oak serving board with increasingly aggressive strokes.
Of course she’s the one who’s left out. She has no idea where Dru-Ann went, and she can’t interrupt Hollis and Tatum when they’re clearly having a moment.
Brooke reminds herself that Hollis is entitled to have a moment with whoever she wants to. She’s endured a tragedy. But who was there for her when Matthew died? Who made all the calls, who organized the meal drop- offs, who checked in night after night for over a month? Not Tatum. Not Dru- Ann. (Neither of them had even come to the service!) The person who had been there was Brooke.
Brooke is pouring herself another glass of rosé, thinking she might as well
finish off the bottle, when the front door opens and a woman pokes her head in.
“Hi,” she says. “This is Hollis Shaw’s house, right? I’m Gigi Ling.”
Gigi Ling! Brooke thinks. Here’s the fifth star, the one no one has met, not even Hollis herself. Make a good impression, Brooke thinks. But act natural!
“Yes, hello, welcome.” Brooke hurries to the front door. “I’m Brooke Kirtley, Hollis’s friend from Wellesley, we raised our kids together, I have boy-girl twins who are the same age as Hollis’s daughter, Caroline—”
Brooke takes a breath because she feels herself gushing. She extends a hand.
Gigi Ling shakes it and gives Brooke a warm smile.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Brooke.” Gigi Ling has a British accent, which is a surprise, right? Brooke loves British accents! Gigi wheels in her luggage— there’s a soft pink leather roller bag (so chic!) and, secured to the top, a fawn- colored suede tote that looks like it was purchased from a charming shop on a side street in Florence. “I’m sorry I’m so late.” She waves a hand. “I won’t bore you with the dreary details. I made it, that’s all that matters.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Brooke asks. “The others should be back in a minute. We haven’t had dinner yet.”
“A glass of cold water would be just gorgeous, thank you,” Gigi says.
Just gorgeous, Brooke thinks. She gets down one of Hollis’s cobalt- rimmed glasses and pours from the pitcher of chilled cucumber water in the fridge. Brooke hands the glass to Gigi, thinking that Gigi Ling is just gorgeous herself. And so stylish! Gigi removes her straw fedora, which is cuter and simpler than the fussy straw hat Brooke chose, and Brooke admires her pixie cut. (Brooke longs to shave off her curly mop of hair, but she fears she’d look like Oliver Twist.) Gigi’s outfit is perfect simplicity: a ribbed olive tank and slim distressed white jeans with frayed hems. How do other people find good jeans? Brooke wonders. Hers are always too high-waisted and show too much ankle. For jewelry, Gigi has layered delicate gold necklaces, and on her wrist she wears one gold bangle and a leather-banded watch. There’s a ring with some kind of cool greenish stone on her index finger. On her feet she wears white Veja sneakers. Gigi has deep brown eyes and luminous skin, and she emanates the kind of rarefied grace associated with women like Princess Diana and Jackie Kennedy.
Suddenly, the glass doors open and Hollis steps inside. Brooke can’t help
but feel a bit crushed; she and Gigi have barely met, and now she’ll have to share Gigi with everyone else. Tatum trails behind Hollis, both of them smelling distinctly of cigarettes, and Dru-Ann materializes from down the
hall.
“Gigi!” Hollis says. “Is that you?”
The others watch as Hollis strides over to Gigi, offering a hand, but Gigi opens her arms, and Hollis laughs, and the two women embrace.
Henrietta starts barking. She sniffs Gigi’s leg, raises her nose to the
ceiling, and howls.
“Henny!” Hollis cries. “Stop!”
Henny’s barking becomes a low, sustained growl.
Gigi laughs. “She probably smells my cat, Mabel.” She reaches out to pet Henrietta and the dog snaps at her.
“Henny!” Hollis yanks her back by her collar. “I’m so sorry, she never acts like this.” To Henny, she says, “I’m banishing you to the dungeon.” She walks Henrietta down the hall. Gigi smiles brightly (and oh so falsely) at the other women, thinking, The dog knows.
When Hollis returns, she says, “Don’t worry, the dungeon is my bedroom, she’ll be fine. Please forgive her—that’s highly unusual.”
“It’s okay,” Gigi insists. “I’ve been growled at by worse.”
Hollis holds out her arm like a game-show hostess. “Let me introduce you to everyone. This is Tatum, my best friend from high school; Dru-Ann, my best friend from college; and Brooke, my friend from when the kids were growing up.”
Brooke notices that Hollis doesn’t call her a best friend. But she won’t let it bother her; she won’t get offended; it’s fine—she doesn’t have to be Hollis’s best friend, she’s here, that’s the important thing. But Brooke assumes that everyone in the kitchen noticed that Hollis didn’t say best friend, and they’re probably thinking that Brooke is inferior.
The rosé has taken Brooke’s good sense hostage. She blurts out, “And Gigi is your best friend from the internet.”
There’s a beat of silence and Brooke chastises herself. She needs to edit her words before she speaks.
Gigi laughs. “That makes me sound rather suspect.”
Hollis says, “Let me show you to your room. Dinner is just about ready.”
She holds out a hand and Gigi grasps it, and the two of them head down the
hall. From behind, it looks as though they’ve known each other all their lives.
Brooke whispers to Tatum and Dru-Ann, “She seems nice!”
“Sure,” Dru-Ann says. “But who is she?” She turns to Tatum. “Did Hollis
tell you anything about her?”
Tatum blinks at her.
Dru-Ann says, “Are you really going to be like that?”
Brooke looks at the two women. “I guess I didn’t realize you two knew each other before,” Brooke says. “When did you meet?”
“Hollis’s wedding,” Tatum and Dru-Ann say together.
“Oh,” Brooke says. She didn’t know Hollis back then. She met Hollis when they were both pregnant. “What was the wedding like?” Brooke asks.
Neither Tatum nor Dru-Ann responds; the question just hangs there like a fart. It’s a relief when Hollis and Gigi reappear and Hollis shepherds everyone out to the deck for dinner.
