And she’ll bring something for that snob Dru-Ann as well.
She grabs her duffel bag from the bedroom, writes I love you on the bathroom mirror in lipstick, pops into Orion’s room and rummages through his toy chest until she finds what she’s looking for, then pokes her head out the back door.
“Kyle is running me up to Squam,” she says to Jack. “Why don’t you come along?”
He nearly jumps out of his chair. “Already planning on it,” he says.
13. Happy Hour I
Four o’clock on Friday finds Brooke Kirtley strolling down the ramp of the ferry wearing a straw hat, a Lilly Pulitzer skirt printed with turquoise giraffes, and a matching pair of turquoise sandals that pinch between the toes. Before she walked out the door, Charlie said, “You look like something Nantucket spit up.” Brooke knew Charlie was just jealous—and let’s not forget guilty—so she said, “Why, thank you,” and left.
Brooke feels a tap on her shoulder and turns to find Electra Undergrove on the ramp behind her.
“Wait,” Brooke says. “You were on the ferry too?”
“I was,” Electra says. She’s looking very chic in a clingy blue patio dress with cutouts at the waist. She has a new asymmetrical haircut and a new hair color, the reddish purple of a cherry cola. And, if Brooke isn’t mistaken, something else is different. At first Brooke wonders if Electra has lost weight—this would come as no surprise; a bunch of Wellesley moms joined this weird new “mindfulness spa” on Route 16 where they were encouraged to fast—but then Brooke realizes that Electra has had a boob job. Right? She was always flat as a board, but now Electra’s breasts are buoyant spheres alluringly tanned on the tops.
The great dress, the new hair and breasts, and Electra’s blinding self-confidence all do the easy work of making Brooke feel less-than. Her skirt is frumpy, her hat is silly, her shoes are painful.
Electra peers at Brooke over the top of her giant Kris Jenner sunglasses and says, “How about we go for that drink?”
Now? Brooke thinks. She told Hollis she was getting in on the four o’clock ferry and that she’d just hop in a taxi because this weekend she’s determined not to be a bother or require special attention. She won’t talk too much or apologize for things that aren’t her fault, and she won’t get on anyone’s nerves. She wants, desperately, to be thought of as cool. But maybe she can start by not rushing out to Hollis’s house right away and instead going for a drink with Electra Undergrove.
Besides, there’s no way Brooke can turn Electra down, not after years of obsessing over the reasons she had been banned from Electra’s house and kicked out of their friend group. Electra runs Wellesley. To turn her down now would be to commit social suicide.
Commit social suicide again, Brooke thinks.
And so Brooke smiles at Electra—though not too eagerly—and shrugs. “One drink couldn’t hurt.”
At Slip 14, a kid wearing a Gunna T-shirt ogles Electra’s new breasts like they’re a couple of bread rolls fresh from the oven. Over the sound system, Kenny Chesney sings about saving it for a rainy day and Brooke thinks, Amen! A row of cute guys at the bar are drinking draft beers and slurping oysters. Brooke follows Electra to a table for two on the patio, dragging her suitcase behind her.
Electra orders a bottle of rosé and Brooke says, “I can stay for only one glass.”
Electra laughs. “Is there such a thing as only one glass of rosé?”
Yes, Brooke thinks. She will drink only one glass; she won’t let Electra influence her. She won’t let Electra bully her.
“Where’s Simon?” Brooke asks.
“He’s bringing the Rover on the slow boat,” Electra says, lifting her glass of wine. “It gets in at five. He’ll scoop me up then. Cheers, friend.”
“Cheers,” Brooke says, though she can’t bring herself to echo friend. Because the stark truth is, Electra Undergrove is not Brooke’s friend. She was Brooke’s friend fifteen, ten, even five years ago, when the kids were growing up and they were all hanging out together. But those days had come to an abrupt end. Electra might not realize that using the word friend is a trigger for Brooke. But Brooke won’t get in her feelings about it. Save it for a rainy day! she thinks. It’s a dazzling summer Friday; they have glasses of chilled rosé and a host of admiring eyeballs on them (or on Electra, anyway). Brooke is going to act natural.
And she does, although she has to navigate the conversation like a sapper in a minefield. She can’t say a word about what happened with Charlie, so she sticks to the safe topic of her kids (Will, Fidelity; Whitney, the duck boats) and asks after Electra’s son, Carter, and her daughter, Layla. Electra confides that Carter is doing a stint in rehab and Layla is following Imagine Dragons around the country with her boyfriend, then says, “They’ll find their way eventually. They were never the achievers that your kids were.”
Wow, Brooke thinks. An actual compliment from Electra! She swells with pride. The wine has gone to her head, and she hasn’t eaten yet today; she’s saving all her calories for the dinner Hollis is serving that night. She asks Electra where she’s staying.
“We’re renting on the Cliff,” Electra says. She tilts her head and Brooke senses a sudden intense curiosity from behind the dark glasses. “Have you been to the ’Tuck before?”
The ’Tuck? Brooke thinks. Do people call it that? “Once, as a kid,” Brooke says. “All I remember is my brother getting stung by a jellyfish.”
“But this is your first time as an adult? So you’ve never been to Hollis’s house.”
Brooke shakes her head. Save it for a rainy day, she thinks.
“How is that possible?” Electra says. “You two are so close. I was invited a couple of times back in the day. She and Matthew had us over for lobsters…”
(Later, when Brooke looks back on this moment, she’ll wish she’d changed the subject. But the rosé has loosened her tongue and impaired her judgment.) She leans in. “Hollis is hosting something called the Five-Star Weekend. She’s invited one best friend from each stage of her life.”
Electra stares for a second, then reaches for her wine. “And you’re her… what? Her Wellesley best friend?”
Brooke isn’t quite sure how to respond, which means it’s probably time to make a graceful exit. But instead, Brooke slides her phone across the table. “Here’s the itinerary for our weekend. Hollis has thought of everything.”
Electra snatches the phone and scrolls up, then down. “You’re all wearing the same colors to dinner and to lunch? Isn’t that cute.”
“It’s for the pictures,” Brooke says defensively. “They’ll look better.”
Electra moves her sunglasses to the top of her head and peers at the screen more closely. Brooke feels like Electra is committing the itinerary to memory so she can make fun of it later with people like Liesl, Rhonda, and Bets.
“It’s good for Hollis to have something to focus on,” Brooke says. “Losing Matthew was such a shock. Those two were hashtag-couple-goals.”
Electra is still scrolling. “Do you think so?”
“I mean… yes?” Brooke says. Hollis and Matthew had it all—the beautiful home, an accomplished daughter, the respect of all of Wellesley. Matthew was tops in his field, and Hollis became a nationally renowned domestic goddess. They were mature, thoughtful, generous. They were a cut above Brooke and Charlie—but also above Electra and Simon and everyone else they knew. “They were perfect together,” Brooke says. “An inspiration.”
Electra finally glances up and holds Brooke’s gaze in what feels like a meaningful way. “Simon and I bumped into Matthew last fall when he was guest-lecturing at Emory Medical School. We were visiting Carter and we walked into the Optimist as Matthew was walking out.” Electra pauses, her fingers still gripping Brooke’s phone. “Did Hollis mention that to you?”
“She didn’t. She…” Brooke nearly adds never talks about you but trails off instead.
“I think we caught him by surprise,” Electra says. “In fact, I know we did. I won’t say anything else because I don’t like to gossip and especially not about Matthew. Not now.”
Brooke drinks what’s left of her rosé (an almost-full second glass) and thinks, I have to get away from this woman. “May I have my phone back, please?”