The Five-Star Weekend, page 17
What the hell? she thinks. Do they call this place the Twist because of surprises like this?
Her heart is beating so fast she doesn’t need the Peloton, but she powers out a forty-five-minute HIIT and Hills ride with Tunde anyway. When Dru-Ann climbs off the bike, dripping with sweat and smelling very strongly of last night’s tequila, she feels a tiny bit better. She heads out to the kitchenette and grabs a water out of the vintage icebox. Rubber snake aside, the interior of the Twist is a midcentury dreamscape. There’s an angular, tangerine-hued sofa in the living room flanked by two chairs upholstered in wavy olive-and-white stripes. There’s a standing lamp that looks like a birdcage on a wooden tripod; the rug is a cool yellow-and-white geometric pattern, and on the walls are groovy abstract prints. In a little niche in the far wall is a Bakelite turntable over which hangs a framed 45 record. Dru-Ann has no idea why they call it the Twist. Is it a cocktail reference—a twist of lemon or lime? Or maybe it’s called the Twist because you’re expecting more beachy decor but instead you feel like you’re walking onto the set of That Girl. It makes Dru-Ann want to wear patio dresses and throw fondue parties.
These thoughts serve as a nice little distraction—but suddenly, Dru-Ann can’t wait another second. She snatches up her phone.
On Twitter, she checks for #TeamDruAnn. Only one person has retweeted her post—Dru-Ann’s assistant, Jayquan. That kid is getting a raise.
There’s a text from JB: Tried calling. Is your phone off? Plz listen to voice mail. There’s also a text from Nick. Finally! Dru-Ann thinks. It has been her rule to keep the upper hand in every romantic relationship, and because of this Dru-Ann Jones can honestly say that at the age of fifty-three, she has never had her heart broken. She’d assumed Nick Wofford cared for her more than she cared for him, but the way she’s been feeling since he said he needed to “hit the brakes” tells her she might be wrong about that.
Nick has two older sons by his (dreadful) first wife, Artice, to whom Nick still pays a seven-figure alimony. The boys, Sean and Declan, work for Nick at his hedge fund, and Nick is a hard-ass with both of them. Posey is the only child from Nick’s second marriage, to a woman named Catherine; she died of ovarian cancer when Posey was eight. Catherine was the love of Nick’s life—she was kind, sweet, and generous. (Saint Catherine is how Dru-Ann always thinks of her.) It makes sense that Nick coddles Posey, but can’t he see that he should have demanded that she honor her obligation to finish the tournament? It was one round of golf. She could have hopped a plane to Edinburgh as soon as the trophy was in her hot little hands.
What a mess! Dru-Ann can’t believe how this has played out.
She listens to JB’s voice mail first.
“Dru-Ann, the situation is escalating. What possessed you to post that tweet yesterday? Hashtag Team Dru-Ann? Are you serious? It has blown up and not in the way you intended. Two more clients are dropping you, Sharese Morris and Kendall Hennaker, though Kendall says she’ll stay if you issue an apology. I’ve e-mailed you the statement that Legal drafted. You must sign it today. There’s no other way to get back to good. I think we can lure Linzy back too; I spoke to her mother, who said she was on your side in all of this.” There’s a long pause. “But Linzy’s mother is very much in the minority, Dru-Ann. Your shame is the company’s shame. If you don’t issue the apology today, I’ll be forced to take next steps. Thank you.” There’s another pause. “I hope you listen to this.”
Dru-Ann deletes the voice mail. She won’t be issuing an apology. She has never liked Linzy’s mother but she’s happy to have at least one ally in the world.
She opens the text from Nick, fully expecting an apology and/or a declaration of love. It says: FYI, Phineas just eagled 14 and broke into the top ten.
Dru-Ann snatches up the remote and flips through the sports channels, though she knows U.S. coverage of the British Open won’t start until this afternoon, and even then it’ll be minimal until the final round tomorrow. She fires up her laptop and checks the standings, and sure enough, Phineas Pine is in ninth place at four under; he’s on the sixteenth hole of the round now. The top of the field is close; McIlroy is the leader at seven under. Phineas is three shots back with twenty-one holes to go.
There are no phones allowed at St. Andrews so real-time developments are hard to come by. Is Posey somehow texting Nick? Or did Nick fly to Scotland? Dru-Ann wonders if Nick feels that Phineas’s remarkable showing somehow justifies Posey’s decision to quit the Dow. He had a dream he was going to win. Maybe Nick thinks it’s romantic, Posey sacrificing her own nearly certain victory to be at her boyfriend’s side.
It’s not romantic, Dru-Ann thinks. It’s pitiful!
While Avalon is making herself an herbal tea in the kitchen and texting Hollis yet again—Hi, I’m here! Should I stay or should I?—Dru-Ann snaps her laptop shut, clicks off the TV, and powers off her phone. She needs a shower.
Brooke is lying in bed in the Board Room with her fingers between her legs, masturbating. All the talk of the night before has gotten her worked up. She thinks about being in the center of the circle last night, dancing, only in her fantasy, she’s naked.
She hears someone in the hallway whispering, “Hello? Hello? Namaste?” It sounds like the person is right outside Brooke’s bedroom door, but Brooke double-checked that the door was locked and so this heightens Brooke’s excitement. The yoga instructor is only a few yards away from where Brooke is lying, but she has no idea what kind of eye-rolling, toe-curling, back-arching ecstasy Brooke is experiencing.
Who needs yoga to find enlightenment? Brooke thinks. She’s finding it here all by herself.
The door to Gigi’s room is ajar, and Avalon takes this as an invitation. She wants to find someone before she leaves. She taps on the door and says, “Hello? Hello?” And then, to identify herself as the goddamn yoga instructor, she adds, “Namaste?”
There’s no answer, and Avalon boldly pushes the door open. This room is as swoon-worthy as the rest of the house. There’s deep green jungle-print wallpaper, a rattan sleigh bed sheathed in white and hibiscus pink linens, a simple sisal rug, and a trunk at the end of the bed inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The far end of the room is a living garden—there are hanging succulents, two potted palms, a white shelf displaying a row of bonsai trees. Again, Avalon whips out her phone and takes a few quick pictures, despite her mounting frustration. Avalon steps out—really, what is she doing prowling around like this?—then notices a door at the end of the hallway, and through the window she spies a slice of turquoise. The pool!
Avalon hurries down the hall, thinking maybe the joke is on her, maybe everyone is out on the pool deck, waiting for her.
But the pool deck is empty. What the hell? Avalon thinks.
Gigi has taken a walk on the beach. She sees seagulls, sandpipers, oystercatchers, and, in the distance, a red-and-white-striped lighthouse on a bluff. She does not see another living soul, which suits her just fine.
She sits in the sand, drops her face into her hands, and cries.
Back at First Light, Avalon packs up her Camry and leaves. That was a yoga fail, she thinks—but at least she has a morning bun, swathed in a napkin, for later.
20. Shotgun I
As they’re all climbing into Hollis’s Bronco to go to town, Dru-Ann says, “Guess what I found in my bed? A rubber snake.”
“What?” Hollis says. “That’s impossible. I made up all the beds fresh yesterday.”
“It’s like that scene from The Godfather!” Brooke says. “Remember the horse head?”
Tatum, who is sitting shotgun next to Hollis, says, “It sounds like someone was trying to send you a message.”
Well, Dru-Ann thinks, that mystery is solved.
21. Stone Alley
Brooke expects they will all stroll through town together, but as soon as they climb out of Hollis’s Bronco, Tatum says she has an errand to run and that she’ll meet everyone in an hour.
“Okay?” Brooke says. The cleft between her first and second toes was rubbed raw by the sadistic sandals from the day before, so Brooke is wearing a pair of purple Skechers that make her feel like the kind of woman who walks at the mall. “Where shall we meet up?” She surveys the scene on Main Street: There’s a line of glowing young people in yoga clothes at Lemon Press; the Bartlett’s Farm truck is parked on the corner, its sectioned flatbed bursting with ears of corn, zucchini, carrots, and radishes with the frilly green tops still attached; a balding gentleman in horn-rimmed glasses reads the newspaper on a bench with a golden retriever lying at his feet. “I’d like to go to Murray’s Toggery. I want to buy a Nantucket Reds skirt.” She looks to Hollis for validation or instruction of some kind, but Hollis is gazing down Centre Street.
“I’ll be right back,” Hollis says. “I’ll text if I can’t find you.” She moves around a couple pushing a double stroller and darts off after Tatum.
Brooke tries to summon the mellow afterglow that she felt that morning in bed, but it’s gone. She’d thought that they would be like five stars in a constellation, doing things together. (Was this silly?) While Brooke tried on her skirt, the others would browse, and when Brooke popped out of the dressing room, they would give her a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. That’s what girlfriends did.
“There’s a store I want to check out, but it’s on the other side of town,” Dru-Ann says. “It’s the only place that carries Dries Van Noten.”
“Dries Van…” Brooke has no idea what Dru-Ann is talking about; it sounds like she’s speaking German.
“I’ll meet you later.” Dru-Ann waves a hand in the vague direction of Pacific National Bank and takes off down the street.
Brooke turns to Gigi with a forced smile. “Looks like it’s just us,” she says. She feels like they’re the last two kids picked for a team in gym class.
Gigi is wearing her straw fedora, a pair of dark round sunglasses, and the cutest white T-shirt dress with her Vejas. “I wanted a chance to get to know you better anyway,” she says. “We barely got to talk last night.”
This cheers Brooke up. She will have Gigi and her fabulous accent all to herself. Brooke wants to ask the obvious question: How did you connect with Hollis? Did she just pick you off her website at random? But really, what a rude question. It’s no wonder people avoid Brooke like she’s got some contagious disease; she can always be counted on to say the wrong thing.
When they cross the street, Brooke veers toward Murray’s, where her new skirt awaits, but Gigi peels off into Mitchell’s Book Corner—and Brooke feels she has no choice but to follow.
“Look at this winsome little place!” Gigi says. “I just love independent bookstores.”
Brooke knows it’s noble to patronize independent bookstores, but when she buys a book—which isn’t often; she read Fifty Shades of Grey ten years ago, and more recently she ordered A Gentleman in Moscow because everyone else was reading it but she never even cracked it open—she orders from Amazon because it’s cheaper and easier.
Gigi heads straight for the fiction section and chooses a book by someone named Maggie O’Farrell. “Have you read this yet?” she asks Brooke.
“Um, no?” Brooke says. “I’ve never heard of—”
“What? Well, you must try her, she’s so clever. In fact, I’m buying this for you, no arguments.” Next, Gigi takes down a novel called A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler. “Anne Tyler is a goddess. I’ve been reading her since I was at uni and she has only gotten better.”
Brooke has heard of Anne Tyler, hasn’t she? Wasn’t she the one who wrote the vampire books when Brooke was in college?
“Oh!” Gigi says, plucking a novel called Our Little World off the shelf. “I just finished this gem—she’s a debut author, so I’ve been recommending her book to everyone, because you know how important it is to champion new writers. I’m buying this for you as well.”
“No, you don’t have to—” Brooke can’t let Gigi spend money on books Brooke will never read.
“The thing I love best about reading fiction is that it gives you a way to connect the experiences of your own life to the larger world,” Gigi says. “Don’t you find that to be true?”
Brooke isn’t sure what to say. The most literary thing about Brooke is that she lives on Thackeray Road in the Poet’s Corner section of Wellesley. She has a hard time getting into books, and she has certainly never read anything with a character like herself. Her life is so dull, so artless, that it falls well outside the realm of literature.
But… maybe Brooke will give reading another try. Maybe with this push-start from Gigi, Brooke will evolve into someone who champions new writers and recommends them to others. There are, of course, numerous book clubs in Wellesley. Once upon a time, Brooke belonged to one, lured in by the reassurance that “no one ever talks about the book, all we do is drink wine!” Except that they had talked about the book, which Brooke hadn’t even started. The leader of the first discussion, Trinh Nguyen, a professor at Wellesley College (Brooke was in way over her head), had asked Brooke what she thought of the “hero’s journey,” and Brooke had turned so pink she was purple and said, “I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” Trinh said (in a voice reminiscent of Brooke’s tenth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Dolan), “The whole book is the journey, Brooke.”
Is it any wonder Brooke doesn’t like to read? Her phone never asks her to think; Netflix doesn’t demand in-depth analyses. Reading takes effort, and Brooke has a hard enough time dealing with Charlie, the house, the kids, and her various insecurities.
Brooke stares at the colorful spines of the New Releases and plucks a novel with a sky-blue cover off the shelf. The flap copy says that the book is set on Nantucket; it’s a “beach book.” Brooke can handle a beach book, can’t she? She’ll begin it that very afternoon; it’ll be so appropriate, reading a Nantucket beach book on a Nantucket beach!
She wanders over to Gigi, holding the book out like an offering. “I’m getting this one.”
Gigi takes the book from her and blinks. “Yes, I’ve heard this author is very popular.” Brooke can tell that popular is an insult in disguise. Probably the book Brooke has chosen is the literary equivalent of The Masked Singer. (Brooke loves The Masked Singer.) “But I’m still buying you these two. It’ll bring me such joy.”
“Okay?” Brooke says. How can Brooke refuse Gigi—with her impeccable taste and her delicious accent—anything? Even if the books end up collecting dust on Brooke’s nightstand, she’ll be able to look at them and remember Gigi’s kindness. When Gigi hands her the brown bag, it has a satisfying heft. It feels like self-improvement, and Brooke stands up a little straighter.
Back on the street, Brooke leads the way to Murray’s Toggery, explaining the phenomenon of Nantucket Reds pants. “They’re made from a canvas material that starts out brick red and then fades with each washing to a distinct shade of pink. Men’s pants are the most popular item, but I want to get a skirt.”
Gigi links her arm through Brooke’s. “Let’s make that dream come true.”
The first thing Brooke notices about Murray’s—other than its delightful smell of leather and starch—is how colorful it is. Inside the door is a stack of men’s pants in yellow, cornflower blue, kelly green. There are spinning racks of festive ties—Brooke fingers a pink tie printed with blue crabs—and there are carousels of crisp shirts in ginghams and stripes. There are shorts embroidered with mallard ducks, American flags, shamrocks; there are needlepoint belts; there’s a stack of cable-knit sweaters in colors like melon and turquoise. Every article of clothing seems to promise a life spent sailing, golfing, and attending tailgate picnics, fox hunts, and graduation ceremonies at places like Princeton and Duke.
Gigi pulls a violet plaid shirt from the rack and says, “I wish I had someone to buy this for.” Her voice sounds wistful, and Brooke wonders if this is an invitation to ask Gigi if she is thinking of dating again now that the relationship she was in has ended. Is she on Hinge or Bumble? She’s a pilot, so isn’t she surrounded by men every day?
Brooke says, “I have someone to buy for, but he’s not getting a thing.” This, she realizes, might be construed as an invitation to ask what’s happening with Charlie, but Brooke doesn’t want to talk about Charlie. She wants to pretend Charlie doesn’t exist. She marches with purpose into the women’s department.
Brooke admires the cashmere cardigans, the classic white blouses with Peter Pan collars, the grosgrain headbands, and the espadrilles. She fondly recalls her grandmother, who dressed this way when she hosted bridge or went to her garden-club meetings. Then Brooke finds what she’s been looking for: a whole wall of Nantucket Reds skirts in different lengths. Brooke spies a youthful miniskirt, and there’s one with a thirty-one-inch waist near the back.
Gigi reaches out to touch the material. “Isn’t this unique?” she says.
Unique for a skirt might be the same as popular for a novel, but Brooke doesn’t care. She takes the skirt to the dressing room. Only once she has shed her linen shift does she realize she has no top to wear with the skirt. She can’t very well model it for Gigi in just her bra—but at that moment, there’s a tap on the door and Gigi says, “I picked out the smartest jumper for you to try on with it.”
Brooke cracks the door and Gigi’s disembodied hand holds out a navy-and-white-striped cotton boatneck sweater, which is, in fact, “smart.” Brooke pulls it over her head and fastens the skirt. When she pops out of the dressing room, Gigi beams and claps her hands. “Aren’t you a beauty! Oh, Brooke, yes, you were right. It suits you!”
Brooke is so happy, she nearly starts to cry. She’s glad the others aren’t around. Things always work out like they’re supposed to, she thinks; Brooke and Gigi were meant to have this time to bond.
