Before knocking, Caroline presses her ear to the door. She hears nothing. There’s a stripe of light at the bottom. Her mother is in there. But something must be wrong. Hollis is always the first person ready. There’s no good reason why Hollis would miss even one minute of the cocktail hour. There are only bad reasons.
Caroline raps with one knuckle. “Mama?” she says. There’s no answer.
Well, this is an interesting reversal. Caroline feels a sickening guilt. She has been awful to her mother. She has been narcissistic, sarcastic, mean. Caroline isn’t the only one in the family who lost someone. Her mother lost her husband. And long ago, her mother lost her mother. Caroline’s mind is fresh with the vision of nine-year-old Hollis reading a poem she wrote for a dead woman she never knew, eighteen-year-old Hollis keeping the death of her mother a secret from even her closest friend. Is it any wonder her mother has spent all these years creating a picture-perfect life?
Caroline opens the door.
Hollis is sitting on the bench in her mom undies and her mom bra, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline says. “Mama, I’m sorry.”
Slowly, Hollis turns her head. Caroline is holding out her arms. “I’m sorry. Mama, I’m sorry.” Caroline takes a breath to say more, but Hollis doesn’t need to hear more. She stands up and Caroline squeezes her around the middle, and Hollis thinks, This is enough. She has, finally, gotten her little girl back.
They stand in an embrace, rocking back and forth, until finally Caroline pulls away.
“Mom,” she says. “You have to get ready. They’re all waiting for you.”
A splash of cold water, some concealer. Hollis brushes her hair out, puts on lipstick, spritzes herself with Grand Soir.
Caroline makes Hollis’s entrance into the kitchen not awkward by gathering the ladies for a group photo. Where should they stand for optimal lighting and in what order? Hollis in the middle, Brooke says. Well, obviously. Should the onion dip be in the picture? No, Hollis took pictures of it earlier before it was ravaged; she’ll post those on the website when the weekend is over. Wineglasses? Sure, why not, let’s keep it real. Should they move over by the fireplace? Wait, why are they taking the picture inside when it’s such a glorious evening? They should be out on the deck! Gigi leads the way, she’s a long cool woman in a black dress that clings to her figure and pools by her feet. The sun is just setting; the light is golden syrup. Hollis plants her feet and extends her arms. She feels better, stronger.
Caroline thinks Tatum and Dru-Ann should be on one side, Brooke and Gigi on the other—that way it makes sense when other people are looking at it, the friends in chronological order. But Tatum and Dru-Ann gravitate to different sides of Hollis. Brooke goes with Dru-Ann, Gigi with Tatum.
“On the count of three,” Caroline says. She’s holding the camera over her head for the most flattering angle. Her mother is self-conscious about her chin. Gigi and Dru-Ann know to set one foot in front and pivot. Caroline takes a stream of pictures even before she says, “One… two… three!” and everyone smiles.
Cute, Caroline thinks. The song changes to “Good Vibrations” by Marky Mark and everyone swarms Caroline because they want to see the pictures!
Caroline pulls her mother aside. “I’m going to stay home and edit the footage I have. You ladies take pictures and videos at Nautilus and I’ll meet you at the Chicken Box later, I promise. Just text me when you’re leaving town.”
Caroline expects her mother to protest and maybe mention the twenty-five hundred dollars she’s being paid, but Hollis just smiles. “I will, sweetie.”
Caroline follows the ladies to the driveway and films them as they pile into the Bronco. Tatum sits up front, and Brooke is sandwiched between Gigi and Dru-Ann in the back. Hollis turns the key in the ignition. The song on the radio is “Believe” by Cher. Oh, boy. Caroline knows the ladies will be shout-singing Do you believe in life after love? into the salt-tinged evening air.
Once they’re all buckled in, they turn to wave goodbye to Caroline.
“Bye, ladies!” Caroline calls out. “Have so much fun!”
“We will!” they say.
And Caroline thinks, Right. How could they not?
36. Captain’s Table
Only the luckiest among us witness Hollis Shaw and her stars walking into Nautilus; it is, after all, an impossible reservation. Or nearly impossible. Blond Sharon and her sister, Heather (who is brunette), are sitting at a two-top against the wall, and Sharon is, naturally, facing out so that she can see everyone who comes and goes plus keep tabs on all the action at the bar. When Sharon spies Hollis and her friends, she literally gasps—and this gets Heather’s attention because, as the years pass, Sharon has become harder and harder to impress. Who could it be? Heather wonders. The Duchess of Cambridge, Sydney Sweeney, cute Jack Harlow?
“It’s Hollis Shaw.” Sharon is doing that thing where she talks without moving her lips. “And her four stars.”
Even Heather, whose idea of “home cooking” is DoorDash sushi, knows who Hollis Shaw is. She discreetly pivots in her chair and sees five women of a certain age take seats at the Captain’s Table—of course. It’s a large, live-edge wood table snugged into the front corner of the restaurant; it’s not only the best table at Nautilus, it’s the most sought-after table on the island of Nantucket.
“We should book that table sometime,” Heather says.
“Ha!” Sharon says. “You’d have to sneaky link with one of the owners.”
Their server arrives with their cocktails—an Ack Nauti for Sharon (she drinks tequila) and the Nauti Dog for Heather (she prefers vodka).
“Here’s to being Nauti,” Heather says as she raises her glass for a toast.
But Sharon’s attention is elsewhere.
Hollis and her friends are all wearing black, white, or both. Is this a coincidence? It can’t be, Sharon thinks. They must have planned it—and Sharon approves. In town that morning there appeared to be some discord among the women, but they seem to have found harmony. Sharon rises from her seat and strides over to the Captain’s Table.
“Okay, cheers,” Heather says to Sharon’s empty chair. She takes a long swallow of her drink before turning around to see what kind of trouble Sharon is getting into.
“Would you like me to take a group photo?” Sharon asks.
Hollis herself answers. “That would be amazing, thank you for offering.” She hands over what Sharon can only assume is the very phone that Hollis uses to film her cooking videos. Sharon is so dazzled that she nearly fumbles it.
Get ahold of yourself, Shar, Heather thinks. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the entire restaurant is watching as Sharon directs Hollis and her friends to get closer—really close!—then snaps a zillion pictures from various angles. This goes on a bit longer than it needs to, but finally, Sharon relinquishes the phone.
“You’re a stunning group,” Sharon says, and she’s not just fangirling, she means it. There’s glamorous Dru-Ann Jones, whom Sharon recognizes from television; a gorgeous woman with a pixie cut; a brunette who, if Sharon isn’t mistaken, works for Irina Services (Sharon uses Irina Services whenever she has houseguests coming, and hasn’t she noticed this woman’s perfect figure?); a curly-haired woman who is smiling so brightly, it looks like her face is going to break open in a burst of confetti; and, finally, the golden-butter-and-sugar glow of Hollis herself.
“Thank you,” Hollis says. The other women slide back to their seats and pick up their menus. Sharon is about to introduce herself and maybe provide her Instagram handle in case Hollis wants to give her a photo credit when she feels a hand on her elbow. It’s Heather, who gently guides Sharon back to their table; their blistered shishito peppers have arrived.
“Excuse my sister,” Heather murmurs to Sharon once they are both seated again. “She has a stalking problem.”
Sharon doesn’t mind the teasing. “They all seem so happy,” she says. “Leave it to Hollis Shaw to make that crazy idea work.”
The Captain’s Table is worth all the hype and more, Hollis thinks. It screams special occasion. Their server, Sean, leads them through the menu, globally inspired small plates meant to be shared and larger “feasts.” Then he takes their order. The others call out the dishes they want to try: yellowfin tuna lettuce wraps, tempura oyster tacos, Japanese street corn. Hollis throws in an order of the Thai lobster curry, the chicken frites, and, her personal favorite, the blue crab fried rice with two crispy eggs.