43. Table 20
The best table at Galley Beach is the round six-top in the corner closest to the sand, known as Table 20. To those of us eating lunch at the Galley at noon on Sunday, it comes as no surprise that this table is where Hollis Shaw and her stars are seated. The ladies are all wearing pink or orange or both, which brings a splash of summer color to the already stunning aesthetic of the restaurant.
The Galley is open-air with white tablecloths and rattan captain’s chairs.
There’s a zinc bar and, on the beach, a lounging area with chaises and fireplace tables. To the left is the pleasing vista of the Cliffside Beach Club, with its iconic blue, green, and canary-yellow umbrellas in neat rows and five blue Adirondack chairs sheltered by a pavilion. The art in the Galley is eclectic, and so is the clientele. This is where the celebrities come (though we pretend not to notice them).
Ethan and Terri Falcone are enjoying a bottle of Domaines Ott rosé at a high-top out on the deck—both Ethan and Terri have indoor jobs, so they prefer to be in the sunshine any chance they can get—and Terri has a fine view of Hollis and her friends as they take their seats. She thinks the matching colors are a bit much, but that could be jealousy talking. She notices right away that Hollis has invited Tatum McKenzie. Terri knows both girls from high school—oh, does she! She subbed in as Tatum’s best friend when Hollis left for UNC.
Ethan splits the last of the rosé between their glasses. (It pains Ethan to pay $140 for a bottle of wine when he orders it for his liquor store, Hatch’s, for $28 a bottle, but he knows at the Galley, you’re really paying for the view.) “Should we stay here and eat lunch?” he asks Terri. (He assumes she’ll say no, that it’s too expensive. Terri is the frugal one.) “Or should we swing by Something Natural for sandwiches and go to the beach?”
“Stay here,” Terri says, eyeing Hollis and Tatum’s table. “Definitely.”
Ethan is pleasantly surprised; he’s been dying to try the halibut tostada.
He flags their server.
“This place is divine,” Gigi says. “I feel like I’m in St. Tropez.”
Tatum has always thought the Galley was as pretentious as South Beach, but now that she’s here, she feels differently. She is, once again, sitting next to Dru-Ann, who is on her phone. Tatum can’t help but peek at her screen, wondering what could be more intriguing than the views at the Galley. She sees some dude in a visor standing in the fog making a golf putt. Whatever.
“Shall we get champagne?” Hollis says. She calls over their server, Louis, and orders a magnum of Veuve Clicquot. She wants to celebrate—they’re at the best table at the Galley, on the beach, on a glorious summer Sunday.
They’re all wearing their pink and orange. Although Dru-Ann looks smoking hot in a fuchsia bodycon dress, the fashion winner is probably Brooke, who’s wearing an off-the-shoulder pink-and-orange paisley cover-up with a pom- pom fringe.
After Louis presents the magnum and pops the cork (Hollis senses the whole restaurant sneaking peeks at their table), Hollis lifts her flute. “Cheers, friends,” she says. “Happy Sunday.”
“Here’s to the five-star-drinking weekend,” Dru-Ann says with a wink- wink, though she’s as eager as anyone for a little hair-of-the-dog. The U.S. coverage of the British Open is in full swing and the big story is Phineas Pine neck and neck with Rory McIlroy after fourteen. They have four holes to go.
Tatum takes a sip of her cold, crisp Veuve Clicquot as she gazes at the ferry crossing Nantucket Sound, and she finds herself wishing that the weekend would last a little longer. Turns out, she’s grown accustomed to the lap of luxury, and it might be difficult to return to her regular life. Kyle and Jack drove to Great Point to surf-cast and for the first time, Tatum doesn’t wish she was with them.
Off to the Galley for lunch, she texted Kyle earlier. Then sailing on the Endeavor!
Brooke turns to Tatum and says, “Dru-Ann and I met your son last night at the Chicken Box.” She sips her champagne. “I’m holding him responsible
for my hangover.”
“Dylan was at the Box?” Tatum says.
“He was there with Caroline,” Brooke says.
Tatum catches Hollis’s eye; they exchange a look.
“Stop it, you two,” Caroline says. “I’m sorry to tell you, Dylan’s ex- girlfriend showed up, threw her drink in my face, and claimed Dylan for her own.”
“Ugh,” Tatum says. “Aubrey is such a pill.”
“You said it, not me.” Caroline pulls the camera out and starts filming the ladies around the table as Louis comes to take their orders. She zooms in on Gigi, who is wearing a hot-pink halter top and long, tangerine-hued tassel earrings. The colors pop against the sand and water behind her.
“She threw her drink at you and you didn’t come get me?” Dru-Ann says.
“You were dancing with Brooke,” Caroline says.
Brooke feels herself flush. Her cheeks are probably the same color as her cover-up.
Brooke should be hungry—she skipped breakfast because of the interview with Caroline—but she finds all she wants for lunch is today’s omelet (Brie, sautéed zucchini, and thyme) and a green salad. Warm rolls make their way around the table and Brooke isn’t tempted to take one. Next to Brooke, Gigi orders the Galley burger, which comes with a pile of thin, crispy fries, but Brooke turns down Gigi’s offer to sample them. The omelet is enough; it pairs perfectly with her champagne, though unlike everyone else, Brooke is only on her first glass.
Gigi, however, is on glass number three, and the bubbles have gone straight to her head since she also skipped breakfast. It makes no sense that she’s feeling so nervous now that the weekend is nearly over, does it? She supposes she’s still spooked about the night before, that awful woman, and also by her own random impulses to tell Hollis the truth. Gah! Gigi can’t imagine doing that now. She likes Hollis, likes her friends, and wants to enjoy the rest of the weekend in peace, then go back home and figure out how to forgive herself.
Dru-Ann inhales her lobster roll and then excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room, where, she’s amused to find out, they pipe in a soundtrack of crashing waves and seagull cries. She sits on the toilet lid and checks her phone. McIlroy has just birdied fifteen, which probably means Good night, Phineas. Hovland is two strokes behind. The coverage switches to Phineas on
the green at fifteen. He has an eighty-foot putt to make for birdie, and although Dru-Ann has now been in the bathroom too long to reasonably explain, she can’t stop watching. Phineas lines up his shot, crouching down to eyeball the hole in a way that reminds Dru-Ann of Phil Mickelson, and then he stands up and hits the ball.
It’s rolling, it’s rolling, it breaks left, and Dru-Ann finds herself leaning right, whispering, Come on, come on! And sure enough, at the very last minute, the ball curves and drops into the cup.
Dru-Ann jumps up. He birdied fifteen! She can’t freaking believe it! Is there any way she can get out of going on the sail? She needs to watch the end of this. Nick must be losing his mind! (Posey, too, but Dru-Ann doesn’t care about Posey.) When Dru-Ann takes her seat at the table, their plates have been cleared and dessert menus set down. Caroline is out on the beach, barefoot with her camera, taking atmospheric panoramas, then turning to film their table from a different vantage point. Everyone waves, Dru-Ann belatedly.
“Should we get dessert?” Hollis asks. “The brownie à la mode is not to be missed.”
“I’m fine,” Brooke says. “I may have coffee.”
“I’d split a brownie,” Gigi says.
“Get it, sis,” Tatum says.
Ugh, Dru-Ann thinks. She wants to move this thing along. She was in the bathroom for so long that she can just tell Hollis her stomach is funky and she probably shouldn’t get on a sailboat. She takes a breath. That’s her out. She’ll be in front of her TV in thirty minutes, forty tops—plenty of time to see how the tournament ends.
The fudge brownie topped with ice cream and whipped cream goes around the table once, then twice, then Tatum announces that she’s finishing it. As she’s bringing the final bite to her mouth, she sees a familiar-looking couple sitting at a high-top on the patio outside the bar. Oh, boy, she thinks. It’s Terri and Ethan Falcone. (How can they afford to eat here? she wonders. The liquor store must be doing well.) Terri is staring down their table, saying something to Ethan. Tatum almost waves, but the last thing she wants is for
Terri and Ethan to come over.
Tatum sits up a little straighter. Yes, Terri, I am wearing an orange Lilly Pulitzer dress eating lunch at Table 20 with Hollis Shaw. Deal with it.
Terri is definitely talking about them, Tatum can tell. But what is she saying?
“You know what I always think about when I see Hollis Shaw and Tatum Grover together?” Terri says to Ethan.
“What’s that?” Ethan says, pushing his plate away and splitting the remains of their second bottle of Domaines Ott between their glasses. This is the life, he thinks. Sitting in the sun, drinking good wine, enjoying a leisurely lunch. Terri is pretty tipsy; Ethan is hoping there might be some afternoon delight in his future.
“I think about how we lost the state softball championship our senior year,” Terri says. “Tatum dropped a ball in left field and the other team scored the winning run.”
Ethan nods. He has heard this story countless times. He’s tempted to sing Bruce Springsteen’s “Glory Days,” but Terri would not be amused.
“Tatum was always pranking people,” Terri says. “And there was a split second when I thought she was only pretending to drop the ball to fake us all out, doing a sleight of hand, you know, that she would pull the ball from her glove in the end. Because it looked like she had it. But then the next second, it was in the grass.”
“You think she dropped it on purpose?” Ethan says. This would be a new twist to the story.
“What reason would she have to do that?” Terri says. “Tatum is the most competitive person I have ever known. But even so, that drop has always bothered me.” Terri’s eyes are fastened on the other table. “Anyway, that’s what I think about.”
Ethan squeezes Terri’s hand. This is one thing he has always loved about his wife: In her heart, she is eternally seventeen.
Hollis asks for the check, but it takes forever—or maybe it only seems that way to Dru-Ann. She peeks at her phone under the table. Hovland is on the green at sixteen. The check arrives; Hollis hands over her credit card. Thank
you, Hollis, everyone says, Dru-Ann belatedly.
There’s another lull, and Brooke, who has been unusually quiet throughout lunch, clears her throat and says, “I have something I’d like to share with you all, and it may come as a bit of a shock.”
Dru-Ann’s head snaps up. Is Brooke going to come out of the closet now?
But before Brooke can speak, there’s an interruption. A woman in a flowing pink-and-orange caftan comes billowing toward them from the beach. She’s wearing oversize sunglasses that Dru-Ann can only classify as “straight out of divorce court in the 1970s,” so it takes Dru-Ann a minute to realize that this woman is the same cray-cray from the night before.
The woman sails right past Caroline with her camera and steps up to speak to the ladies through the open side of the restaurant.
“Hey there, girls!” she says.
Hollis whips around and comes face-to-face with Electra. She’s wearing pink and orange. This is a joke, right?
Caroline zooms in as Electra Undergrove says hello, even though she and Hollis—and Brooke!—are no longer friends. They are, in fact, something like enemies. Electra is wearing a muumuu in the colors of the day. What the hell is going on?
Brooke scoffs. “You have got to be joking. You’re making an ass of yourself, Electra. Nobody wants you here.”
Hollis is impressed by Brooke’s moxie but the last thing she wants is a scene here at the Galley after they’ve enjoyed such a lovely lunch.
“We were just leaving, Electra,” Hollis says as she reaches for her purse.
She catches Brooke’s eye to indicate they should stand up. That’s the solution: Walk away. Brooke pushes back from the table, but the other three women sit tight, staring at Electra.
“I just stopped by because late last night, I realized why you look so familiar.” Electra moves her ginormous sunglasses to the top of her head; she’s staring at Gigi. “I met you with Matthew in Atlanta. You two were coming out of the Optimist when my husband, son, and I were going in.”
What? Hollis thinks. Did she just say “with Matthew”?
“Please stop, Electra,” Hollis says. “Gigi never knew Matthew. Gigi and I became friends after Matthew died.”
Electra’s gaze is locked on Gigi. “It was you. You were with Matthew. I remember your face and I certainly remember your accent.”
Hollis says, “What is wrong with you, Electra? Why are you harassing us like this?” She scans the restaurant to see if there’s a manager who can intercede. But the restaurant is bustling, the staff is busy; Louis is across the room taking an order. No one is paying attention to them, and Hollis supposes she should be relieved.
“I just thought you should know,” Electra says to Hollis.
“Know what? That you’re a sociopath?”
“Know that this woman, your friend, your star, was with Matthew in Atlanta,” Electra says. “They were together.”
Hollis shakes her head. It’s absurd, impossible, and Electra is the consummate unreliable narrator. Hollis turns to look at Gigi, but Gigi’s chair is empty. Hollis sees her weaving her way through the tables toward the door.
She’s leaving.
Gigi! Hollis thinks, but she doesn’t call out because she is determined to maintain her composure.
“Thanks for the chat, ladies,” Electra says. “Enjoy your time on the ’Tuck!”
The ’Tuck? Tatum thinks, rolling her eyes. Only the most irritating
tourists call it that.
What has Electra done? Brooke thinks.
Is Gigi going home? Dru-Ann wonders. Can Dru-Ann go with her?
Caroline cuts the camera and lets it drop to her side. She sees Gigi climb into a taxi out in the parking lot. “Mom?” she says.
Hollis is up on her feet. “You four go straight to the Endeavor, please,” she says. “Gigi and I will meet you there.”
