Something is different about Brooke this morning, but Caroline can’t put her finger on what. The first part of the weekend, she was such a meme—showing up in her overblown straw hat, oversharing about her sex life with Charlie, getting badly sunburned even though she’d wrapped herself up like King Tut—but now she exudes self-possession. It’s as though she took a Brené Brown seminar in her sleep.
“I should go,” Brooke says. “I want to read my new book by the pool before we leave for lunch.”
Caroline checks her phone. It’s ten forty-five already; how did that happen? She won’t have time to talk with Gigi now, which means she’ll have to do it after the sail. She feels bad that Gigi has to go last. Gigi has known her mother for only a short time, and virtually at that. There’s no way Gigi will have a story that rivals the ones Caroline heard from Tatum, Dru-Ann, and Brooke. It’s just not possible.
43. Table 20
The best table at Galley Beach is the round six-top in the corner closest to the sand, known as Table 20. To those of us eating lunch at the Galley at noon on Sunday, it comes as no surprise that this table is where Hollis Shaw and her stars are seated. The ladies are all wearing pink or orange or both, which brings a splash of summer color to the already stunning aesthetic of the restaurant.
The Galley is open-air with white tablecloths and rattan captain’s chairs. There’s a zinc bar and, on the beach, a lounging area with chaises and fireplace tables. To the left is the pleasing vista of the Cliffside Beach Club, with its iconic blue, green, and canary-yellow umbrellas in neat rows and five blue Adirondack chairs sheltered by a pavilion. The art in the Galley is eclectic, and so is the clientele. This is where the celebrities come (though we pretend not to notice them).
Ethan and Terri Falcone are enjoying a bottle of Domaines Ott rosé at a high-top out on the deck—both Ethan and Terri have indoor jobs, so they prefer to be in the sunshine any chance they can get—and Terri has a fine view of Hollis and her friends as they take their seats. She thinks the matching colors are a bit much, but that could be jealousy talking. She notices right away that Hollis has invited Tatum McKenzie. Terri knows both girls from high school—oh, does she! She subbed in as Tatum’s best friend when Hollis left for UNC.
Ethan splits the last of the rosé between their glasses. (It pains Ethan to pay $140 for a bottle of wine when he orders it for his liquor store, Hatch’s, for $28 a bottle, but he knows at the Galley, you’re really paying for the view.) “Should we stay here and eat lunch?” he asks Terri. (He assumes she’ll say no, that it’s too expensive. Terri is the frugal one.) “Or should we swing by Something Natural for sandwiches and go to the beach?”
“Stay here,” Terri says, eyeing Hollis and Tatum’s table. “Definitely.”
Ethan is pleasantly surprised; he’s been dying to try the halibut tostada. He flags their server.
“This place is divine,” Gigi says. “I feel like I’m in St. Tropez.”
Tatum has always thought the Galley was as pretentious as South Beach, but now that she’s here, she feels differently. She is, once again, sitting next to Dru-Ann, who is on her phone. Tatum can’t help but peek at her screen, wondering what could be more intriguing than the views at the Galley. She sees some dude in a visor standing in the fog making a golf putt. Whatever.
“Shall we get champagne?” Hollis says. She calls over their server, Louis, and orders a magnum of Veuve Clicquot. She wants to celebrate—they’re at the best table at the Galley, on the beach, on a glorious summer Sunday. They’re all wearing their pink and orange. Although Dru-Ann looks smoking hot in a fuchsia bodycon dress, the fashion winner is probably Brooke, who’s wearing an off-the-shoulder pink-and-orange paisley cover-up with a pom-pom fringe.
After Louis presents the magnum and pops the cork (Hollis senses the whole restaurant sneaking peeks at their table), Hollis lifts her flute. “Cheers, friends,” she says. “Happy Sunday.”
“Here’s to the five-star-drinking weekend,” Dru-Ann says with a wink-wink, though she’s as eager as anyone for a little hair-of-the-dog. The U.S. coverage of the British Open is in full swing and the big story is Phineas Pine neck and neck with Rory McIlroy after fourteen. They have four holes to go.
Tatum takes a sip of her cold, crisp Veuve Clicquot as she gazes at the ferry crossing Nantucket Sound, and she finds herself wishing that the weekend would last a little longer. Turns out, she’s grown accustomed to the lap of luxury, and it might be difficult to return to her regular life. Kyle and Jack drove to Great Point to surf-cast and for the first time, Tatum doesn’t wish she was with them.
Off to the Galley for lunch, she texted Kyle earlier. Then sailing on the Endeavor!
Brooke turns to Tatum and says, “Dru-Ann and I met your son last night at the Chicken Box.” She sips her champagne. “I’m holding him responsible for my hangover.”
“Dylan was at the Box?” Tatum says.
“He was there with Caroline,” Brooke says.
Tatum catches Hollis’s eye; they exchange a look.
“Stop it, you two,” Caroline says. “I’m sorry to tell you, Dylan’s ex-girlfriend showed up, threw her drink in my face, and claimed Dylan for her own.”
“Ugh,” Tatum says. “Aubrey is such a pill.”
“You said it, not me.” Caroline pulls the camera out and starts filming the ladies around the table as Louis comes to take their orders. She zooms in on Gigi, who is wearing a hot-pink halter top and long, tangerine-hued tassel earrings. The colors pop against the sand and water behind her.
“She threw her drink at you and you didn’t come get me?” Dru-Ann says.
“You were dancing with Brooke,” Caroline says.
Brooke feels herself flush. Her cheeks are probably the same color as her cover-up.
Brooke should be hungry—she skipped breakfast because of the interview with Caroline—but she finds all she wants for lunch is today’s omelet (Brie, sautéed zucchini, and thyme) and a green salad. Warm rolls make their way around the table and Brooke isn’t tempted to take one. Next to Brooke, Gigi orders the Galley burger, which comes with a pile of thin, crispy fries, but Brooke turns down Gigi’s offer to sample them. The omelet is enough; it pairs perfectly with her champagne, though unlike everyone else, Brooke is only on her first glass.
Gigi, however, is on glass number three, and the bubbles have gone straight to her head since she also skipped breakfast. It makes no sense that she’s feeling so nervous now that the weekend is nearly over, does it? She supposes she’s still spooked about the night before, that awful woman, and also by her own random impulses to tell Hollis the truth. Gah! Gigi can’t imagine doing that now. She likes Hollis, likes her friends, and wants to enjoy the rest of the weekend in peace, then go back home and figure out how to forgive herself.
Dru-Ann inhales her lobster roll and then excuses herself and goes to the ladies’ room, where, she’s amused to find out, they pipe in a soundtrack of crashing waves and seagull cries. She sits on the toilet lid and checks her phone. McIlroy has just birdied fifteen, which probably means Good night, Phineas. Hovland is two strokes behind. The coverage switches to Phineas on the green at fifteen. He has an eighty-foot putt to make for birdie, and although Dru-Ann has now been in the bathroom too long to reasonably explain, she can’t stop watching. Phineas lines up his shot, crouching down to eyeball the hole in a way that reminds Dru-Ann of Phil Mickelson, and then he stands up and hits the ball.
It’s rolling, it’s rolling, it breaks left, and Dru-Ann finds herself leaning right, whispering, Come on, come on! And sure enough, at the very last minute, the ball curves and drops into the cup.
Dru-Ann jumps up. He birdied fifteen! She can’t freaking believe it! Is there any way she can get out of going on the sail? She needs to watch the end of this. Nick must be losing his mind! (Posey, too, but Dru-Ann doesn’t care about Posey.)
When Dru-Ann takes her seat at the table, their plates have been cleared and dessert menus set down. Caroline is out on the beach, barefoot with her camera, taking atmospheric panoramas, then turning to film their table from a different vantage point. Everyone waves, Dru-Ann belatedly.
“Should we get dessert?” Hollis asks. “The brownie à la mode is not to be missed.”
“I’m fine,” Brooke says. “I may have coffee.”
“I’d split a brownie,” Gigi says.
“Get it, sis,” Tatum says.
Ugh, Dru-Ann thinks. She wants to move this thing along. She was in the bathroom for so long that she can just tell Hollis her stomach is funky and she probably shouldn’t get on a sailboat. She takes a breath. That’s her out. She’ll be in front of her TV in thirty minutes, forty tops—plenty of time to see how the tournament ends.