Oh, this is awful. Hollis let her status on the website blind her; it created a power dynamic where Hollis’s grief was somehow more important than Gigi’s. You’ve changed. And we’ve changed.
But still, Hollis wonders: In all their conversations, why didn’t Gigi say something?
“What happened?” Hollis asks. “To your… to… what was his name?”
“Oh,” Gigi says. She can’t construct an alternative narrative under pressure like this, can she? His name was Mike, he was a pilot for United. His name was Mark, we met at the gym. His name was Maxwell, he was Mabel’s vet. “I want to tell you all about it. But honestly, Hollis, I’m… just trying to let it go while I’m here.” She opens her arms to the sky, a gesture so theatrical that Gigi is embarrassed for herself. “You have given me the greatest gift I could have asked for, which is a complete escape.”
Hollis stares at her, though she’s wearing sunglasses, so Gigi can’t tell if she buys this. Gigi thinks, I should have just said, “Mark. We met at the gym.” The most boring answer is always the most believable. Heart attack on the treadmill. Maybe a history of cocaine use that he was hiding.
It makes perfect sense now why Gigi agreed to come, Hollis thinks. She needed this weekend every bit as much as Hollis needed it. “I’m so happy you’re here. Last night when we were dancing… I hope you didn’t feel left out? Or like a fifth wheel?”
Gigi laughs, mostly from relief. “I enjoyed the show.”
They walk along a little while without speaking, Hollis thinking how she must have intuited that Gigi had been through something similar, Gigi thinking that when she gets back to Buckhead and relates this part of the story to Tim and Santi, they will never, ever believe that Gigi got that close to the fire but managed not to get burned.
Dru-Ann isn’t a “There’s something healing about the ocean” kind of girl, but—there’s something healing about the ocean. It’s the chill of the water, the saltiness, the waves that roll over her shoulders and occasionally over her head. The ocean, Dru-Ann thinks, is vast. It’s profound. What do a handful of Twitter trolls matter compared to the magnificence of our planet and the mystery of human existence?
She has to stop thinking this way; she sounds like a poster in the dentist’s office.
Dru-Ann sees Hollis and Gigi finishing their walk. Dru-Ann windmills an arm. “Come on in!” she shouts. Hollis waves but heads back toward the house. Gigi smiles, takes off her watch and her sunglasses, sets them inside her hat, and steps into the water. She dives in, and a moment later, she surfaces right next to Dru-Ann. She has the kind of eyelashes that clump together when wet and hold drops of water like little jewels.
“This water is sublime,” Gigi says.
“Are you a beach person?” Dru-Ann asks.
“City person,” Gigi says. Dru-Ann thinks, Right—Singapore, Atlanta. She was actually listening last night. “But it’s hard to beat this.”
Dru-Ann has to agree. Nick’s house on Lake Michigan is lovely, it has its own beach, but the lake is nothing like the Atlantic.
Gigi says, “So, I have to admit, I did the predictable thing and googled you last night.”
Dru-Ann groans. “How much did you read?”
Gigi shakes her head. “Just a bit. The tweets were all rubbish.”
“Everyone hates me,” Dru-Ann says. “My clients are dropping me. My boss wants me to issue an apology.”
“And will you?” Gigi asks.
“I don’t want to,” Dru-Ann says. “But I might not have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice,” Gigi says. “The reason you’re so popular in the first place is that you speak your mind and stand by your convictions.”
Gigi is right, Dru-Ann thinks. That is why she’s so popular. Not apologizing is actually on brand for Dru-Ann.
Gigi kicks her legs out in front of her. “Frankly, I’m impressed by how you’re handling it. If I hadn’t looked online, I would never have known there was a single thing wrong. You’re so present. So calm.”
“It’s the ocean,” Dru-Ann deadpans. “It makes everything better.”
Gigi laughs. “I saw a needlepoint pillow in town that said the exact same thing.”
When Dru-Ann gets back to her chaise, she considers checking her phone, but Gigi’s words ring in her head. You’re so present. So calm. Dru-Ann pulls a cucumber-flavored seltzer out of the ice in the cooler. When she looks up, she sees Hollis coming over the dune with one of those antique French market baskets looped over her arm, and the thing is piled with sandwiches.
“Straight from Something Natural,” Hollis says when she sets the basket down on the table. She’s also made an enormous bowl of Asian noodle salad. There’s a platter of cold sliced watermelon sprinkled with lime zest and sea salt as well as Paloma sugar cookies, flavored with grapefruit and tequila. Is it any wonder that Hollis has millions of fans? She’s a goddess—and Dru-Ann is starving.
Gigi approaches the table. She has dried off from her swim and knotted her pareo at her chest. “Hollis, this spread…” she says. “Any other woman would have called a caterer or had a nervous breakdown. I hope you’re getting photographs for the website.”
“Oh!” Hollis says. She looks back toward the house. Where did Caroline go? She had the drone out earlier. Hollis takes a few pictures of the lunch with her own phone, including a swoon-worthy shot in portrait mode of the noodle salad with the blurred ocean in the background. Then Hollis turns her phone toward Tatum, who is striding through the sand, tall and lithe in her black tank suit. Hollis’s eyes land on Tatum’s breasts, which are still the round, buoyant orbs they were in high school.
Tatum crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Are you taking pictures of me?”
“Tatum Grover, voted Best Body of the Class of ’87,” Hollis quips.
Tatum snatches the phone from Hollis and stares at the picture. Hollis tenses. What does Tatum think about now when she sees herself in a bathing suit? Does she think her body has betrayed her? Does she worry about losing one—or both—of her five-star breasts?
Tatum’s fingers fly over the screen. “I’m sending this to Kyle,” she says. “I look hot.”
Brooke wants to skip lunch.
At breakfast, she made herself a cup of tea instead of the café au lait that she wanted and she piled a plate high with fruit salad, which felt virtuous. But then she noticed the bowl of granola. It was very clearly homemade, chock-full of almonds, pecans, dried cherries, and slivers of fresh coconut. It seemed a shame that Hollis had gone to all the trouble and everyone was ignoring it. Brooke ate a bowl and decided she wouldn’t have a morning bun. But there were five buns on the plate and when Brooke picked one up, it smelled so strongly of cinnamon and butter that she took a nibble, which turned into more than a nibble; she ate the entire thing and licked her fingers. Then she considered eating a second.
Now Brooke feigns sleep under the umbrella. She was alert and watchful while Dru-Ann was swimming (she’d heard stories about the rip currents on Nantucket, people getting swept out so far that they couldn’t make it back), and when Gigi entered the water, Brooke considered joining them—but then she assured herself that just because Dru-Ann and Gigi were swimming together did not mean they were becoming best friends. Or were they? Brooke squinted, trying to read lips and facial expressions. She leaned forward, straining to catch a word or two, but it was impossible with the breeze and the sound of the waves. She was relieved when Gigi swam off and Dru-Ann headed for shore. Then Brooke noticed Hollis approaching the table with the sandwiches and she dropped her book (who was she kidding? She was never going to read it; even a beach book set on Nantucket couldn’t hold her attention. She had too many other things to obsess about, and reading was for people with peace of mind and Brooke had none), leaned back in her chaise, and closed her eyes.
But she’s a terrible actress. When Dru-Ann returns to her chaise to dry off, she says, “Brooke, lunch is ready,” and Brooke’s eyes fly open.
“I think I’m just going to nap,” Brooke says.
Dru-Ann stares at her a second and Brooke can practically hear her thinking: What kind of fool gets invited to Hollis Shaw’s house for the weekend and doesn’t eat? “Suit yourself.”
Suit yourself is right, Brooke thinks. Just because they’re on a girls’ trip doesn’t mean they have to do everything together. If Brooke wants to skip lunch, she’ll skip lunch!
But she finds herself rising from her chaise and following Dru-Ann to the table. There are sandwiches: toasted Portuguese bread overflowing with lobster salad and thick BLTs with avocado. Brooke takes half a lobster salad and half a BLT. There’s an Asian noodle salad that looks healthy. Brooke puts a modest amount on her plate, then a bit more because it smells like lime and mint. She adds some watermelon (healthy!), and then she’s faced with the platter of Paloma sugar cookies.
She can’t. She won’t.
She sits down next to Gigi, whose plate is heaped with food. Gigi takes a bite of the corner of her lobster salad sandwich and closes her eyes in ecstasy.