In the middle of the dancing, the bandleader pauses between songs and says, “This next one is a special dedication from our bride to the matron of honor, Tatum McKenzie.” The band launches into “Take My Breath Away.” Tatum meets Hollis out on the floor and they do their dance while the other guests—who are fairly inebriated by this point—cheer. It’s the greatest honor Tatum could have imagined.
Near the end of the reception, Tatum goes to the ladies’ room. She’s had a lot to drink and her feet hurt from dancing in her dyed-to-match-the-dress silk pumps. Tatum stands in front of the mirror and unwinds her French-braid crown—it’s giving her a headache—and her fingers catch on her choker. The strand snaps, and the pearls go raining all over the bathroom floor just as Dru-Ann steps out of a stall.
Dru-Ann gazes at Tatum in the mirror as she washes her hands. “That’s what happens when you buy them at Kmart,” she says—and walks out.
Thinking about it now makes Dru-Ann want to throw herself overboard. Who says something like that? She was every bit as thoughtless and idiotic then as certain young people she has the pleasure to know are now. “I apologize for making a classist joke,” Dru-Ann says. “It was a crappy thing to do and I feel like a jerk.” She rests a hand on Tatum’s forearm and squeezes. “I’m sorry, Tatum.”
Tatum is quiet for a moment and Dru-Ann hopes Tatum realizes her apology is authentic.
“I forgive you,” Tatum finally says. “I have bigger things to worry about now than my Kmart pearls.”
Dru-Ann laughs. “Yeah, me too.”
Caroline creeps around the boat with her camera. She manages to film the moment between Dru-Ann and Tatum. Finally, they’ve made up.
Dru-Ann and Tatum are having a moment on the bow and Caroline is filming, so Brooke sits alone in the cockpit. Only yesterday, this would have bothered her, but today, Brooke is content to take in the scenery and think. The first mate, James, comes by and says, “How’s it going?”
He looks like a nice kid and the way he asks makes it seem like he really wants to know: How is it going?
She smiles at him. “I came out of my walk-in closet this weekend,” she says.
He tilts his head like he’s heard her but doesn’t understand.
“I’m gay,” she says.
James breaks into a surprised grin. This is probably not what he expected to hear, Brooke thinks. “Good for you,” he says. “Congratulations!”
Not everyone in her life might view her announcement as something to celebrate, but first mate James does. Brooke loves kids this age. The future, she decides, is bright.
45. Hiding in Plain Sight
Hollis drives the Bronco home as fast as she can without attracting the notice of Kevin Dixon or any other Nantucket police officer.
I met you with Matthew in Atlanta, Electra said.
The words Hollis has overlooked until just now are in Atlanta. How would Electra have known Gigi lived in Atlanta? It wasn’t written anywhere on the itinerary.
They were together, Electra said.
Maybe Gigi left the restaurant, fled it, because she’d been caught.
Matthew and Gigi?
When had Gigi started posting on the Corkboard? Six months before Matthew died? Nine months? Had Gigi endeared herself to Hollis on purpose? Had she commented so often in order to get Hollis’s attention?
Did this explain why she came to Nantucket?
Hollis replays the things Gigi said on the beach: The man I was with… we weren’t married and we didn’t have children together. But in a way, that makes it harder. I don’t have much to hold on to now that he’s dead except my memories. Had she been talking about Matthew? Hollis thinks about Gigi studying their family photos in the library. And then there are smaller, sillier things: Gigi asking who faked their orgasms; Gigi wanting to hear the story about how Hollis and Matthew met.
Hollis hits the gas. The wind lifts her hair like a cape, and her eyes water behind her sunglasses. She’s going to spin out and wind up dead herself, but she can’t get to Squam fast enough. Electra is a poison—but as the ponds and fields of Polpis Road rush by, Hollis becomes more and more convinced she was telling the truth.
Matthew and Gigi. It sickens her. Hollis confided in Gigi! Hollis described how she and Matthew had quarreled before he left for the airport and then how she’d had breakfast with Jack. Gigi had seemed like a safe spot for Hollis among all the dramas of the weekend.
The twist: Gigi is the drama.
Hollis wants to scream. She does scream, at the top of her lungs, into the bright Nantucket afternoon. She screams a profanity over and over again, stopping only when she sees two women riding their bikes on the Polpis Road path.
The two women are Blond Sharon and her sister, Heather. Sharon comes to a sudden stop, and Heather nearly runs her over.
“Whoa!” Heather says as she veers out of the way. Sharon laughs. They’re like a female Abbott and Costello.
“Was that Hollis Shaw who just drove by screaming the F-bomb?” Sharon says.
“She was probably singing,” Heather says. “And next time you stop like that, how about some warning?”
Hollis wants to believe there’s a reasonable explanation for all this. Maybe Gigi’s boyfriend had some rare heart problem that only Dr. Matthew Madden at Mass General could fix, and despite Matthew’s best efforts, the boyfriend died on the operating table, and Matthew remembered that Gigi lived in Atlanta and took her out to dinner to see how she was doing.
Maybe Matthew or Gigi took a DNA test and discovered they were cousins or even half siblings.
Hollis is, of course, fooling herself. She and Matthew had grown apart; he was away all the time, and when he was home, he was distracted. There had been countless moments when Matthew was looking right at Hollis, but she knew he wasn’t seeing her.
He was seeing Gigi.
Hollis pulls into the hydrangea-lined driveway, and its beauty mocks her. She had been so comfortable, so complacent, that she hadn’t seen what was right in front of her.
What’s right in front of her now is Gigi, who’s carrying her suitcase and her tote down the front steps of First Light. She’s checking her phone, no doubt waiting for an Uber. When she sees the Bronco, a frightened expression crosses her face.
No, not frightened, Hollis thinks. Guilty.
Hollis gets out of the car and slams the door so hard, people can probably hear it in Quidnet. She points to the house.
“Inside,” she says through clenched teeth.
“I’m leaving,” Gigi says. “I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
“Inside!” Hollis says, walking up the front steps. She opens the door to find Henrietta, who starts growling at Gigi.
Of course, Hollis thinks. Henny knew all along.
46. The Hot Seat
Down in the home theater, two chairs are turned toward each other, interview-style. Next to one is a tripod and a ring light. Hollis sits there and points Gigi to the other chair.
“You were having an affair with Matthew?” she says.
Gigi nods. The truth will set you free, she thinks. A cliché, but one with legs. She feels nearly weightless. There are multiple ways to make this seem not nearly as bad as it was, but Gigi will tell the truth, all of it. She will give five-star testimony.
“For how long?” Hollis asks.
“We met the October before last,” Gigi says. “So we were together for a little over a year before he died. The evening we met, I was supposed to fly to Argentina for vacation and Matthew was trying to get home to Boston. I met him in the Delta lounge. There was a hailstorm, all flights for the night were canceled.”
The October before last. Hollis would have to go back and look at her calendar. What was going on in her life the October before last? She can only guess she was layering slices of potato into a gratin dish, perfecting caramel apples, picking up her cashmere sweaters from the dry cleaner.
“How many times were you together?” Hollis asks. Her champagne and lunch are churning in her stomach; she’s light-headed, and her cheeks are burning. She’s angry enough to tackle Gigi, choke her. Has she ever in her life been this angry? Has anyone ever betrayed her this way? Of course not. “Where did you go other than Atlanta?”
“We saw each other every few weeks. Either I flew where he was speaking—San Francisco, Baltimore—or he met me in Madrid or Rome.”
“Madrid?” Hollis says. “Rome? You had an international love affair?”
“Those were my routes back then.”
So Matthew lied to Hollis. He created fictional conferences, knowing Hollis would never check, and he must have lied to the hospital as well, maybe claiming he was whisking Hollis off for a romantic weekend.
Mr. Wonderful.
Hollis imagines Matthew and Gigi strolling around Madrid and Rome hand in hand. They probably had their favorite spots—little hole-in-the-wall wine bars, cafés, shops where Matthew would buy Gigi a scarf or a beautiful belt. They would stop to listen to street performers. Gigi would have wowed Matthew with her fluency in the languages. But thinking about Matthew and Gigi in those foreign cities is far preferable to thinking of them in cities where Matthew and Hollis traveled together.
“Where did you stay in San Francisco?” It’s masochistic to ask, but she has to know.