The Five-Star Weekend, page 13
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.
