“Of course.” Electra slides the phone across the table, pours herself another glass of wine, and leans back in her chair so that her face catches the sun. Even with her new hair and perky breasts, Electra Undergrove isn’t the most attractive woman in Wellesley, Brooke thinks. Nor is she the wealthiest, and she doesn’t have a big career. But somehow, Electra had been deemed the queen bee. She was fun; she threw the parties; she dictated the social calendar; she made the guest lists; she was the leader. Why? Brooke has been wondering this for years.
“I have to go,” Brooke says. She pulls two twenties out of her purse for the wine. Is that enough? She adds a third twenty—though she probably shouldn’t be throwing money around, now that Charlie has lost his job—and Electra, instead of refusing it (which is what she should have done since she was the one who invited Brooke to drinks), folds the bills and holds them between her pointer and middle fingers like a cigarette.
“Simon and I were just talking about how much we miss you and Charlie,” Electra says. “You’ll have to come to the house as soon as football starts up.”
Brooke wishes she were strong enough to say Thanks but no thanks or even Screw you, Electra. But instead, Brooke beams. “That would be great. We’d really love it.”
And just like a woman who has been influenced, bullied, manipulated, and owned, Brooke brings up the calendar on her phone to confirm the date: Sunday, September 10. Brooke types in the notes: Rock and roll football at Electra’s!
“So who else is invited to this little weekend?” Electra asks.
“Hollis’s best friend from growing up here on the island and her best friend from UNC,” Brooke says. “I don’t know the fourth person. It’s someone she met through her website, I think.”
“Do you know Hollis blocked me from subscribing to her blog?” Electra says. “I’m not sure why she’s holding such a grudge. After all, you’ve forgiven me. We’re here having drinks! You and Charlie will come back to the house this fall!”
The sun suddenly feels like an interrogation light. I haven’t forgiven you! Brooke thinks. She’s having drinks with Electra because… well, what is the answer to that? Because she needs some kind of sick validation that Electra believes she’s worth spending time with. But it’s a mistake.
“I have to go,” Brooke says. “Hollis is expecting me. I’m already late.”
Electra waves a dismissive hand, then grabs the bottle of wine and saunters over to the bar where the cute guys are sitting. “Have fun this weekend,” she says. “And congrats on being chosen as a star.”
“Thanks,” Brooke says. She wants to add that it’s no big deal, it’s not like she made the Hot List in Boston Common—but she suspects Electra is being sarcastic.
Of course she’s being sarcastic, Brooke thinks as crushed shells get caught in the wheels of her roller bag. She has new hair and new boobs, but her insides are still rotten.
Brooke wanders in a half-drunk daze toward the taxi stand. She knows she has messed things up. She just isn’t sure how badly.
14. On-Time Arrivals
Dru-Ann’s driver, Al, is a talker. What does she do for a living, where is she from, is this her first time on the island? Dru-Ann gives perfunctory one-word answers before saying, “I’m sorry I’m such a lousy conversationalist but I have some business matters to tend to on my phone.”
No problem, Al gets it; he’s driven for all kinds of busy and important people, not to name names but one former vice presidential candidate from Virginia (“We didn’t share the same political views, but I still thought he was a great guy!”), one very well-known “piano man,” and… Dru-Ann can’t believe he’s still talking, but she doesn’t even really hear him because her social media accounts are a five-alarm fire. Twitter is calling her a “ghoul” and “a shocking disappointment,” but sticks and stones, et cetera. The point Dru-Ann would like to get across is that everyone on the internet has it backward! Dru-Ann is the person standing up for mental health!
As Hollis’s house comes into view—Dru-Ann hasn’t been here in years, but she remembers the narrow frosted beach-glass windows flanking the front door—she dashes off a tweet. For the record, Posey Wofford is not suffering from a mental health crisis. She quit the #DowGreatLakesBayInvitational for reasons that had nothing to do with mental health! Dru-Ann debates mentioning Phineas’s appearance in the British Open, but the details are too complicated to tackle on Twitter, so she types in #TeamDruAnn (hoping this will take hold and start to trend), and she posts.
“Is this the place?” Al asks.
Dru-Ann releases a clear breath. Screw the apology, she thinks. She’s going to stand up for herself.
“Yes,” she says. “This is it.”
Al carries her bags to the front porch and asks if she needs anything else. No? Well, in that case, would she mind rating his service on the black-car app? Dru-Ann agrees, anything to be rid of the dude, plus her phone is ringing. She knocks once, then steps inside, calling out, “Hello, hello?” She anticipates walking into a gaggle of women already hip-deep in a chardonnay river. But the kitchen, which is beautifully appointed (those pink lilies are stunning), is empty except for Hollis’s bear/wolf of a dog who trots over to sniff her. The only sounds are an acoustic version of Adele singing “When We Were Young” (so appropriate) and the insistent buzzing of Dru-Ann’s phone.
“Hello?” Dru-Ann calls out again. “Holly?” She wonders if she read the itinerary wrong. This thing starts today, right? She pulls her phone out. It’s JB calling; she has no desire to talk to him, so she dismisses his call and then does the unthinkable. Dru-Ann Jones, who prides herself on being accessible twenty-four/seven, whose phone is essentially an extension of her right hand, hits DO NOT DISTURB. (She can’t quite bring herself to turn it off.)
“Coming!” Hollis strides down the hall and into the kitchen, where she finds Dru-Ann sniffing the lilies.
Hollis feels tears rise. This, she thinks, is what the Five-Star Weekend is about. Hollis Shaw and Dru-Ann Jones were just kids when they were paired together in Old East at UNC. Now, thirty-five years later, they’re middle-aged women standing in the kitchen, one of them mourning her husband, one of them “canceled.” But for Hollis, Dru-Ann will never be canceled.
When you need me, I will show up.
And here she is.
Anyone who watches Throw Like a Girl would have to admit that Dru-Ann Jones is even more glamorous in person than she is on television. Her skin is flawless; she’s wearing plum lipstick; her hair is gathered in its usual ponytail (Allure once ran a piece on ponytails and featured a picture of Dru-Ann). Dru-Ann’s signature wardrobe piece is a tailored blazer. Each season, she buys the entire line from Veronica Beard, and today she’s wearing a navy scuba jacket paired with a white T-shirt and jeans. Hollis checks out Dru-Ann’s shoes (Dru-Ann is famous for her shoes) and finds cherry-red suede stilettos. Fabulous and impractical.
“Dru,” Hollis says. She feels a happiness so powerful, it might lift her off the ground. “Thank you for coming.” Hollis stops herself from gushing; she doesn’t want to sound like Brooke. “I know you’re busy.”
“Luck was on your side,” Dru-Ann says. “Because it turned out I had some free time this weekend.” She sighs. “Do you have any alcohol?”
While Hollis is pouring Casa Dragones tequila over ice for Dru-Ann, a taxi pulls up in front of the house and Brooke steps out. There’s a bit of a tango—Brooke reaching into her purse for money, the driver heaving her suitcase out of the back (“What did you pack in here,” he asks, “gold bullion?”), Brooke retrieving her straw hat when it falls to the ground, the taxi driver checking out Brooke’s backside as she bends over for the hat—but eventually Brooke reaches the front door. She knocks and Dru-Ann opens the door, sees Brooke, and shuts the door right in her face. This is meant to be funny, and it is funny, Hollis has to suppress a smile, but on the other side of the door, Brooke is wondering if she’s going to be the butt of every joke this weekend.
“Dru-Ann,” Hollis says. “Stop.”
Dru-Ann swings open the door—this weekend is already more fun than she thought it would be—and says, “You’re here for the orgy, right?”
Brooke nods. She can play along. “Right,” she says. “I brought the chocolate syrup and the blindfolds.”
This makes Dru-Ann laugh, and Hollis relaxes. “Brooke!” Hollis says. “Welcome!” Hollis isn’t quite as happy to see Brooke as she was to see Dru-Ann, but she won’t make this weekend a competition. She spends time with Brooke at home in Wellesley; they went to Juniper for dinner a couple of nights before Hollis left for Nantucket. When Matthew died, Brooke swooped in like Superwoman. She drove Hollis to the funeral home, helped her pick a coffin; she drove her to St. Andrew’s to speak to the pastor. Brooke had been her person.
Hollis hands Dru-Ann her drink and points across the driveway to the guesthouse. “You’re in the Twist. It’s all made up for you.”
Dru-Ann raises an eyebrow. “You’re putting me in the outhouse?”
Brooke gasps. “I’ll… I’m… you can have my room, Dru-Ann. I’m happy to stay in the outhouse.”