“Kids are sending stuff around. Body parts.”
The champagne had gone straight to Deirdre’s head; she was picturing severed limbs in cardboard boxes. “You mean, actual body parts?”
“No,” said Sheila. “Duh. On their phones. Photos.” She gestured toward her chest and then vaguely beneath the table. “I’d check Sofia’s phone.”
“Really?” Ugh. “Well, I’m not worried about Sofia doing anything like that.”
“That’s what every parent says,” said Sheila. “Until they discover that their kid is doing it, was doing it the whole time.”
Deirdre was pondering the shoddy state of the world and the dangers of social media when she saw a familiar figure striding across the deck. “Rob!” she called. The champagne made her wave extra vigorously. He started toward them, saw Sheila, stopped, probably realized that looked suspicious, started toward them again.
“Hey,” he said. She watched Rob take in the champagne, the glasses, and say, “Celebrating something?”
“Not really,” said Deirdre. She tried not to let her eyes meet Rob’s.
“Just life,” said Sheila. “Why not?”
“I see,” said Rob, nodding. He looked agitated; he kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Was he okay? “Great. Celebrating life. No Sofia? No Jackie?”
“She’s in Boston,” said Deirdre. “With Kristi. And Sheila’s kids are—where are your kids, again, Sheila?”
“Camp,” said Sheila firmly. “All day. Thank God for Little Sailors!”
Rob nodded again and said, “Actually, I’m thinking of going for a sail.”
“Alone?” asked Deirdre.
“Nah,” said Rob. “I’ll scare up a crew.” His eyes scanned the patio.
Sheila’s phone buzzed and she glanced at it and said, “I’m so sorry, you two, I have to take this, I’ll be quick.” Because cell phone usage was frowned upon on the patio and in the dining room—you could do some covert handbag texting, but you couldn’t really talk—Sheila hightailed it toward the indoor bathrooms, leaving Deirdre and Rob together.
“You okay?” asked Deirdre. “You look—upset.”
Rob pressed his lips together and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. You want to sit down?” She motioned toward Sheila’s seat. “I can ask for another flute.”
“No,” said Rob. “Thanks. I’m going to head out.”
“Wait,” said Deirdre. “Hang on. When you get home, you should check Zoe’s phone. I’ve heard there’s been some texting. Of…” She scanned the patio and lowered her voice. “Body parts.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Rob said. He looked genuinely perplexed: worried and yet approachable, like a shar-pei puppy. “What kind of body parts?”
“Well,” said Deirdre. “I don’t think they’re talking about feet and elbows, if that helps.”
Rob understood then. He said, “What?”
“I know,” said Deirdre. “They’re thirteen. They make bad decisions. Their brains aren’t fused!”
“They aren’t?”
“No! They won’t be fused for years.”
“Yikes.”
“And, come on, it’s Zoe and Sofia we’re talking about here, they’re pretty innocent. Sometimes I still catch Sofia playing with her American Girl dolls. But even so. Worth checking.” She lowered her voice and added, “It probably all started with Jackie Rackley.”
She wanted Rob to snort-laugh and say, “Probably,” but he didn’t. He just shifted his weight again and said, “Does Eliza know about this?”
“I don’t think so. I just found out myself.”
“Okay,” said Rob. “I don’t like the sound of it. I’m going to go home and check it out, right now.”
“Check Zoe’s texts,” said Deirdre. “And her Instagram. And her Finsta. Just in case.”
Rob said, “Her what? What was that last thing you said?”
“Her Finsta.”
“I feel like you’re speaking another language.” He looked so bewildered.
“Just ask Zoe. She’ll explain it.”
“Okay. Okay, I will. Nice to see you. You guys enjoy your lunch.”
“Thanks. But listen, Rob?”
He turned back. “Yeah?”
“Do you think we could talk about—I mean, do you have a second to—”
Then Sheila was back and Rob gave a quick shake of his head, and he waved at both of them and was gone.
“He looks stressed,” said Sheila, shaking out her napkin, putting it back on her lap.
“He probably is,” said Deirdre. “He has a lot going on.”
“I heard,” Sheila said, leaning in.
“What do you mean? You heard what?” Deirdre’s heart thumped. Had someone seen them at The Wharf Rat?
“Eliza’s still in Maine, huh?”
Why was Sheila Rackley always trying to manufacture drama? It was exhausting.
“Not so much still as again,” said Deirdre.
“What does that mean?”
“She’s been back and forth. She’s coming back for Evie’s play.”
“Will she be here for the gala?”
“Of course.” Deirdre was not actually sure that Eliza would be, but she hoped, with a fervent childlike intensity, that she would be.
“Well, don’t you think that’s a long time to be gone?” Sheila poured herself more champagne and topped off Deirdre’s glass. “I heard,” she said, “that she might be staying up there. For good.”
In this case Deirdre thought it was okay to bend the rules of Eliza’s privacy policy, not only to squash Sheila Rackley’s ridiculous rumor like a bug but also to defend Eliza’s completely defensible absence this summer, her completely defensible life. “Her father is dying, Sheila. He has a brain tumor. Eliza is the only person he has. He needs her.”
Anybody else would be embarrassed about having misread the situation in such an egregious way, but Sheila kept right on going, like a train toward its station.
“That’s terrible, but. Why isn’t Rob there too, in that case?”
“Because he needs to be here. For work.”
“It just seems strange. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, didn’t she almost marry a lobsterman? Wasn’t she almost a lobsterman’s wife?” Her eyes twinkled with the potential of it all.
That settled it. The surge of loyalty and tenderness Deirdre felt for Eliza at that moment eclipsed everything else: her envy of Eliza and Rob, her frustrations with Brock, the vestiges of her own bad deed. She downed the rest of her champagne in one giant gulp.
“Listen to me, Sheila. Rob and Eliza are the real deal. Better than Brock and I will ever be. Better than you and Mike will ever ever be.”
Sheila raised her eyebrows and sat back. “Wow, Deirdre. That’s kind of harsh.”
“Well.” Deirdre lifted her hands as if to indicate that the level of harshness was out of her control.
“After I’ve spent my summer working on your gala.”
Deirdre gasped. Did she really. Had she actually. “I’ve spent my summer working on my gala! You’ve come to three meetings, tops. You missed two.”
Sheila put her flute down hard. “I couldn’t get a sitter for the other two.”
Deirdre leaned toward Sheila and said, “Your kids are thirteen and eleven. You don’t need a sitter to go to a ninety-minute meeting.”