“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.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Brooke.” Gigi Ling has a British accent, which is a surprise, right? Brooke loves British accents! Gigi wheels in her luggage—there’s a soft pink leather roller bag (so chic!) and, secured to the top, a fawn-colored suede tote that looks like it was purchased from a charming shop on a side street in Florence. “I’m sorry I’m so late.” She waves a hand. “I won’t bore you with the dreary details. I made it, that’s all that matters.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Brooke asks. “The others should be back in a minute. We haven’t had dinner yet.”
“A glass of cold water would be just gorgeous, thank you,” Gigi says.
Just gorgeous, Brooke thinks. She gets down one of Hollis’s cobalt-rimmed glasses and pours from the pitcher of chilled cucumber water in the fridge. Brooke hands the glass to Gigi, thinking that Gigi Ling is just gorgeous herself. And so stylish! Gigi removes her straw fedora, which is cuter and simpler than the fussy straw hat Brooke chose, and Brooke admires her pixie cut. (Brooke longs to shave off her curly mop of hair, but she fears she’d look like Oliver Twist.)
Gigi’s outfit is perfect simplicity: a ribbed olive tank and slim distressed white jeans with frayed hems. How do other people find good jeans? Brooke wonders. Hers are always too high-waisted and show too much ankle. For jewelry, Gigi has layered delicate gold necklaces, and on her wrist she wears one gold bangle and a leather-banded watch. There’s a ring with some kind of cool greenish stone on her index finger. On her feet she wears white Veja sneakers. Gigi has deep brown eyes and luminous skin, and she emanates the kind of rarefied grace associated with women like Princess Diana and Jackie Kennedy.
Suddenly, the glass doors open and Hollis steps inside. Brooke can’t help but feel a bit crushed; she and Gigi have barely met, and now she’ll have to share Gigi with everyone else. Tatum trails behind Hollis, both of them smelling distinctly of cigarettes, and Dru-Ann materializes from down the hall.
“Gigi!” Hollis says. “Is that you?”
The others watch as Hollis strides over to Gigi, offering a hand, but Gigi opens her arms, and Hollis laughs, and the two women embrace.
Henrietta starts barking. She sniffs Gigi’s leg, raises her nose to the ceiling, and howls.
“Henny!” Hollis cries. “Stop!”
Henny’s barking becomes a low, sustained growl.
Gigi laughs. “She probably smells my cat, Mabel.” She reaches out to pet Henrietta and the dog snaps at her.
“Henny!” Hollis yanks her back by her collar. “I’m so sorry, she never acts like this.” To Henny, she says, “I’m banishing you to the dungeon.” She walks Henrietta down the hall. Gigi smiles brightly (and oh so falsely) at the other women, thinking, The dog knows.
When Hollis returns, she says, “Don’t worry, the dungeon is my bedroom, she’ll be fine. Please forgive her—that’s highly unusual.”
“It’s okay,” Gigi insists. “I’ve been growled at by worse.”
Hollis holds out her arm like a game-show hostess. “Let me introduce you to everyone. This is Tatum, my best friend from high school; Dru-Ann, my best friend from college; and Brooke, my friend from when the kids were growing up.”
Brooke notices that Hollis doesn’t call her a best friend. But she won’t let it bother her; she won’t get offended; it’s fine—she doesn’t have to be Hollis’s best friend, she’s here, that’s the important thing. But Brooke assumes that everyone in the kitchen noticed that Hollis didn’t say best friend, and they’re probably thinking that Brooke is inferior.