Endless Summer, page 12
Betty, meanwhile, is in charge of feeding everyone, a responsibility she does not take lightly. The retro, midcentury vibe of Palm Springs is perfectly suited to Betty’s culinary style. The very first thing she makes for Shooter is a layered meat loaf, which is essentially an inside-out hamburger: the two meat layers sandwich a filling of savory bread crumbs, celery, onion, and herbs. It’s the most delicious meat loaf Shooter has ever eaten. He also loves the potato salad gelatin mold Betty makes to go with it, which initially he declared too pretty to eat—it was a wreath of creamy potato goodness studded with pimiento-stuffed olives and pale green chunks of cucumber and garnished with long, slender scallions.
“Did you eat like this growing up?” Shooter asks Celeste as they stand together at the sink doing the dishes. Shooter washes and Celeste dries because when Celeste was growing up, Bruce and Karen took those respective roles. After dinner, Bruce and Karen walk through the neighborhood hand in hand because Karen has grown fond of the desert sky at night. Sometimes they stop in at the Bigelows’ house down the street for a cordial. Last week, the Bigelows invited Bruce and Karen over for fondue.
“Sort of,” Celeste says. “She’s definitely gotten more into it since we’ve moved here.”
Right, Shooter thinks. Karen created something called a Luau Wheelbarrow Ice Bar that was a fruit phantasmagoria in a wheelbarrow full of ice—blackberry sorbet in hollowed-out cantaloupes, watermelon and strawberry kebabs, and lots and lots of pineapple. It was so visually stunning that Shooter took pictures.
He has gained eight pounds.
Sometimes when he is entertaining the executives, he will mention that he lives with his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s parents and he will roll his eyes, which always evokes groans of sympathy. But the truth is, Shooter loves having Bruce and Karen around. They are… parents, real-life, hands-on parents, the kind Shooter never had growing up. He can spend an hour passing Bruce tools as Bruce reupholsters some swivel barstools he found at a yard sale, and he can let Betty push a third slice of her black-magic cake (made with canned tomato soup!) on him… because this is what he’s been missing his entire life.
He is happy.
He is whole.
He pulls himself away from his imaginary crystal ball when he feels Celeste’s hand on his arm. She yawns and then he yawns; they are not quite adjusted to the time change. Back in New York—and on Nantucket—it’s two o’clock in the morning.
“Should we go back to the hotel?” Celeste asks.
The next day, they relax by the pool. Celeste is reading a novel called The Heirs about a wealthy family on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (gulp), and she’s laughing every few pages—in recognition? he wonders. He also wonders if it’s a novel Benji recommended or maybe even bought for her. Benji is an avid reader; he was always impressive when he talked about books, even in high school at St. George’s. Shooter has brought along a copy of Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point that he borrowed from the concierge floor so that Celeste wouldn’t think he was a complete illiterate; he has no intention of reading it.
Instead, Shooter watches Celeste read. He notices the slight curve of her lips, the concentration that tenses her forehead, the movement of her eyes. Celeste told him the story of how Karen knows Bruce so well that she can tell when he’s faking sleep. Shooter wants to know Celeste that well, and better.
He drifts off.
He dreams it’s April. Coachella. Shooter has a group of fifty executives in from Hungary and Bulgaria. Fifty is a large number, but… Coachella. Shooter decides to do the previously unthinkable and marry his professional and personal lives: He invites all fifty gentlemen to the house for a barbecue.
It’s funny—over the years, Shooter has come to understand that the biggest asset of the company is himself. The clients like him; they think he’s fun and charming and suave. Near the end of a retreat, they often start peppering him with personal questions: Is he married? Does he have a girlfriend? Is she hot? Where does he live? What does he drive? Shooter has become skillful at deflecting such inquiries. This tactic has created a kind of mystique, but really, Shooter doesn’t answer the questions because he knows his clients will find the answers disappointing.
But now—now the executive group appears at the front door of Shooter and Celeste’s midcentury showpiece, and Shooter escorts them back to the pool, where Bobby Darin is crooning on the sound system, where Celeste is beaming and radiant in a Lilly Pulitzer patio dress, holding an ice-cold martini, where Bruce is manning the grill, wearing an apron over his orange-and-green psychedelic paisley pants, and Karen is offering the gentlemen cubed-cheese-and-salami kebabs, each one garnished with a cherry tomato that’s garnished with an olive. In Karen’s world, the garnishes have garnishes.
“Let’s get this party started!” Shooter says.
Just then he feels a disruption to his right. Someone has taken the chaise next to his and is blocking his sun. Shooter opens his eyes, blinks. Is he still dreaming?
No.
It’s Benji.
Shooter struggles to sit up. His mouth is dry, his ears are ringing. Benji, here. How did he find them? Well, it wouldn’t have been hard. Benji knows the handful of places that Shooter frequents; all he would have had to do was make a few phone calls.
Shooter looks to his left. Celeste is gone. Her book is splayed open on her chaise.
“Here,” Benji says. He hands one of the two beers he’s holding to Shooter.
“Thanks?” Shooter says. He swings his feet to the ground, sets the beer down for a second, and pulls on his shirt. He’s completely unprepared for this confrontation. But he knew it would come eventually, didn’t he? He stole his best friend’s girl. He broke up the perfect couple. “Benji, listen, I’m—”
“Don’t apologize,” Benji says.
Right, Shooter thinks. This isn’t something that can be apologized away. Shooter has betrayed a fifteen-year friendship. What will settle it, then? A fistfight? No. This is Benjamin Winbury. Will Benji go up to the concierge floor and tell Frank that Shooter Uxley is a backstabbing Benedict Arnold? No chance of that. Whatever is going to happen will be private and deeply painful.
But wait, Shooter thinks as he picks up his beer and takes a long, cold swallow. What if it didn’t happen that way?
“You actually did me a favor,” Benji says.
“I did?” Shooter says.
“Celeste and I are so different,” Benji says. “Different worlds and all that.”
“Right,” Shooter says. “But I thought that didn’t matter? I thought you loved her?”
“Oh, I do love her,” Benji says. “But loving someone doesn’t bring automatic happiness. In fact, it can bring quite the opposite. When Celeste and I were together, I always felt like there was a part of her I wasn’t reaching, a part she was holding back. And you know, practically better than anyone, that I’m a giver and a pleaser and a fixer… so life with a woman I couldn’t make blissfully happy would have been torture for me.” Benji takes a swig of his beer and Shooter studies his friend’s face, trying to determine if Benji is kidding or being sarcastic. “I had a long talk with Reverend Derby and I think I’ve come to terms with this.”
Come to terms with this? Shooter thinks. In only three days? Reverend Derby? The only thing Reverend Derby has been good for up to now has been giving the blessing before meals. Did he really lead Benji through the necessary soul-searching to reach this place of placid acceptance?
Shooter narrows his eyes. “So what are you going to do?”
Benji sighs. “Honestly? I’ll probably get back together with Jules.”
“Jules?” Shooter says. He fights to keep his tone neutral, but inside he’s shouting: No, man! Do not get back together with that miserable, shallow woman! The thought of Benji resorting to a life with Jules Briar makes Shooter feel fresh regret about what he’s done.
“I guess her friend Laney saw you and Celeste standing in line for pizza Friday night,” Benji says. “And Jules texted me to say that if I was having second thoughts, she was still in love with me. She said Miranda still asks for me every night at bedtime.”
Shooter nods. Laney was the one who took the picture, then, he thinks. And Jules was the one who texted it to him, he’s sure. She could tell, probably just from the look on his face, what the story was. Which is pretty intuitive for Jules; he has to give her credit. “What did your parents say?” Shooter asks. What he’s really asking is: What did Greer say? Shooter doesn’t give two shits about Tag’s opinion.
“Well, you know how my mother feels about Jules,” Benji says. “When she finds out we’re back together, she’ll make Jules the villainess in her next book.”
“What did she say about me?” Shooter asks. “And Celeste?”
“She said she totally understands,” Benji says. “She said she would have left me for you if she were Celeste.”
“She did not say that,” Shooter says.
Benji laughs. “No. But I could tell she was thinking it.”
Shooter finishes his beer. He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe Benji is being so incredibly cool about this. He really is a prince. Actual royalty in the friend department. But his magnanimity makes Shooter feel like even more of a louse. Maybe that’s the point?
“Let me buy the next round,” Shooter says. “We can switch to vodka, if you want.”
“No, thanks,” Benji says. “I should go before Celeste gets back.” He stands and then Shooter stands and looks around the pool at the other hotel guests, lounging in the sun, reading their books, or listening to music, completely oblivious to the incredible thing happening at the southwest corner of the pool. “I only came to clear the air with you. I figured you’d be feeling bad and I didn’t want that to ruin things between us. It might take a little longer for Celeste to accept that there are no hard feelings. I get it. Love is a mystery. And not the kind of mystery that has a neat ending, like a Greer Garrison novel.” He reaches out to embrace Shooter. “You deserve this. Just promise me you’ll take good care of her. If I find out otherwise, I’m hiring a hit man, you hear me? Be true to her.”
Shooter surprises himself by getting choked up. “I will.”
Benji is gone by the time Celeste gets back.
“I went to the room to call Merritt and let her know what happened,” she says. “She’s my best friend and I couldn’t just have her not knowing. I hope you aren’t angry.”
Shooter considers telling Celeste about Benji appearing out of nowhere, but he decides she would never believe it.
“Not at all,” he says.
That night, as Shooter and Celeste are getting ready to go to dinner at Mr. Lyons, there’s a knock at the door. Shooter, wearing only a towel, is standing at the sink, shaving. Celeste is wrapped in the white waffle-weave hotel robe, so she answers the door.
“Hi, Frank,” Shooter hears her say. “Look at you! Thank you so much!”
Shooter hears the door close, then a second later, Celeste’s face appears in the mirror. She’s holding an ice bucket that contains a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.
“Look!” she says. “Someone sent us this.”
Shooter steels himself. The bottle must be from Benji; it’s the same champagne he chose when he took Celeste up to the Wauwinet to propose. Shooter has been thinking all afternoon that he got off way too easily. Benji must be planning some kind of elaborate revenge, and the visit by the pool was a trick to lull Shooter into a false sense of security.
“Who’s it from?” he asks carefully.
“I’ll look at the card, hold on,” Celeste says.
Her face appears in the mirror a few seconds later. She’s beaming.
“It’s from Merritt!” she says. “The card says: ‘Here’s to your happily ever after.’”
Happily ever after, Shooter thinks. This is it. Right here on Frank Sinatra Drive. He decides to enjoy it.
While it lasts.
The Sixth Wedding
(Read with 28 Summers)
There’s a way in which 28 Summers leaves readers with a bunch of unanswered questions. Do Bess and Link get together? Do Jake and Ursula stay married? Does Ursula win the presidential election? What happens to Cooper, Leland, Frazier Dooley? I decided I would let these beloved characters go back to Mallory’s cottage on the no-name road one last time—and, just maybe, catch one last glimpse of Mallory herself.
What are we talking about in 2023? Home robots, life on planet B20, the resurgence of “appointment television,” an NFL team in Paris, a phone battery that holds a charge for one year, the Hamptons submarine, Elon Musk’s moon colony, an eight-billion-sensor economy and… the end of the pandemic. Social distancing, quarantining, PCR and antigen tests, masks and PPE are in our collective rearview mirror. We can gather once again. Twenty thousand people pack into Madison Square Garden to hear Billy Joel segue from “My Life” into a cover of “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” Super Bowl LVII is held in Glendale, Arizona, and those who don’t have tickets crowd around the bar at Kimmyz on the Greenway. Movie theaters are packed, people do the Electric Slide at weddings, and Viking River Cruises has a three-year wait list. Every treadmill at Orangetheory Fitness in Boca Raton is spoken for; all Peloton classes in both New York and LA are sold out. The late-night Jimmys perform their monologues in front of live studio audiences. The Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs is at 95 percent occupancy and there’s no hope for getting a ticket to a Boston Pops Christmas performance unless you want to pay five thousand dollars on StubHub. Bingo night at Chai Point Senior Living in Milwaukee is back on, every Wednesday at six! We all go to have our teeth cleaned, our eyes checked. The theme of the Met Ball is Fashion Returns (people get dressed up, wear heels). The impossible-to-get item is no longer toilet paper, it’s a seat on Alitalia’s Friday-night flight from JFK to Rome. The online-dating scene rebounds with a fervor—people are meeting IRL!—with newcomer Firepink leading the way for Gen X and boomers. The Dow soars over 40,000—and we thought the 1920s were roaring!
Although we are relieved that life is “getting back to normal”—we have returned to our offices and in-person meetings and we’re throwing away our ring lights; if we never Zoom again, it will be too soon—we have all learned some valuable lessons, and not just how to make sourdough bread. We have learned to save and budget for the unexpected. We have learned to cherish all the things we temporarily lost: baseball games, author tours, Disney World, family reunions, charity benefits, college visits (college, period), our sense of taste and smell, acoustic night at Frayed Edge Coffee, sitting next to a stranger on a bus or at a bar, seeing one another smile, and, most especially, the opportunity to hug our loved ones wherever we want, whenever we want.
We honor the ones we have lost.
What are we talking about in 2023? We are talking about our shared grief. We are talking about our collective gratitude.
COOPER
In the summer of 2023, Cooper Blessing is fifty-six years old, and when he gets down on one knee on the sidewalk in front of the Red Star Bar and Grill in Fells Point, he’s momentarily concerned that he’ll need help getting back up. But he’ll worry about that in a minute.
“Stacey,” he says, prying the ring box open. The ring is a 1.75-carat ruby flanked by 1-carat oval diamonds set in platinum. Cooper bought the ring at Market Street Diamonds, which was where he bought rings for wives numbers one and four, but those had been diamonds only. The ruby is something new; it’s Stacey’s birthstone. “Will you marry me?”
Stacey Patterson’s eyes widen. The people who are gathered outside the Red Star—couples dining at the café tables, people in line for the bar, an older gentleman out walking his Pomeranian—turn to stare.
Stacey takes the ring box and snaps it shut. “Let’s go to the car,” she says, and she offers Cooper a hand.
They’re parked in the lot across Wolfe Street; the walk there is like an extended free fall. Cooper and Stacey have had a wonderful evening. The Red Star has been their place for the past eight months: the hostesses, bartenders, and waitstaff know them by name. They had drinks and dinner and they danced to the live band, Purple Porpoise, until they were sweaty and breathless, making Cooper feel like he was twenty-two again, a senior at Johns Hopkins out on a date with his Goucher girlfriend.
He’s wise enough to keep his mouth shut until they reach Stacey’s car, a sleek silver Audi A4. Stacey appreciates fine automobiles, one of the many things Cooper loves about her.
When they climb in, Stacey cranks the air-conditioning, which is a relief. The Baltimore night is hot, sticky, foul. “I’m not going to marry you, Cooper.”
“You’re not?” he says. He closes his eyes and tries to let the cool air soothe him. How did he misread this? At the risk of sounding sappy, he thought this would be his storybook ending.
Cooper first saw Stacey Patterson thirty-seven years earlier at a party in the basement of the Phi Gamma Delta house. It was early September, the first week of school. Cooper had the robust confidence of a sophomore and he was finally in a position to chat up the freshman women from Goucher (they had all ignored him the year before). He picked Stacey like he was cutting the prettiest bloom off a rosebush. Stacey had long dark hair and she was wearing a yellow sundress. The other women in her cluster were in jean shorts, one in shorts overalls, reminding Cooper of his younger sister, Mallory, who intentionally “dressed to distress.” Cooper’s parents, Senior and Kitty, were formal people who believed in good grooming and strong first impressions. As enthusiastically as Mallory rejected these values, Cooper embraced them. He admired not only Stacey’s dress but her pearl earrings, her sandals, her French manicure. She was put together. Cooper walked right up to Stacey and offered his hand and a smile, thinking how delighted Kitty would be when Cooper brought this young woman home.
