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.”