“You want the sophistication of an LBD, but you’re a redhead, so you should try forest green,” Ainsley says. She holds up a silky slip dress that is actually an ERF style Eleanor designed right after her divorce. Meghan told Harper that she and Tabitha have nicknamed the dress the Midlife Crisis. It’s popular with newly single women and women who have just discovered a husband’s infidelity. (“Tabitha knows how to spot these women in an instant,” Meghan said. “I’m sure she does,” Harper said.)
Now Meghan is behind the cash register ringing up sales, and with each transaction she grows incrementally less morose. “This is working,” she says. “I can’t believe it.”
People keep coming. Some of them are friends of Caylee’s—they shriek when they see her, hug her, and announce how much they miss her at the Straight Wharf (“The new guy is such a dud. He needs more cowbell!”). They tell her how much they love her top, her pants, her shoes.
“We sell them all here,” Caylee says.
The crowd begets a bigger crowd; everyone wants to be where the action is. Fish gamely accepts pats on his head and rubs on his back. His tail, curled up and over his hindquarters like a plume, wags for every new customer. He loves the spotlight. Someone feeds him a handful of popcorn; someone else slips him an avocado toast. He’ll be sick later, of this Harper is certain, but his appeal is undeniable. Joan Osborne sings “Midnight Train to Georgia,” and some of the women sing along.
“Great party!” a man’s voice says. Harper spins around; it’s Ramsay. He’s dressed like a Kennedy cousin, as always: blue striped shirt turned back neatly at the cuffs; navy tie printed with beach balls; khakis; Gucci loafers without socks. He grins. “I’ve never seen the store this crowded. Ever. Not even close.” He looks over Harper’s shoulder at Meghan. “What do you say, Meg? Maximum number of shoppers at one time before today: five?”
“Four,” Meghan says. “And even those instances I can count on one hand.”
“Well, it’s all thanks to Caylee,” Harper says. “Thank you for suggesting her. This party was her idea, and as you can see she’s the belle of the ball.” Together Harper and Ramsay look upon the cluster of beautiful young ladies surrounding Caylee in obvious worship. Harper feels a twinge of jealousy—not for herself but for Tabitha. Even if Tabitha was the one who broke up with Ramsay, it couldn’t have been easy to see him start dating someone as young and magnetic as Caylee.
“Caylee is a good kid,” Ramsay says. Both his tone of voice and his gaze are avuncular. “I thought it would be a playboy fantasy, dating someone who’s twenty-two. Plus, I wanted to piss off your sister…”
“Yeah,” Harper says.
“But it was more like babysitting. She cries when she’s drunk.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Harper says.
“And I had to explain things,” Ramsay says. “She didn’t know who Van Morrison was. She didn’t know who Bob Dole was. And why would she? She was an infant when he ran for president.”
“Right,” Harper says, thinking of Drew—poor Drew, who had professed his love for her and changed his Facebook status to “in a relationship.” “Well, this boutique needs her youthful energy, her fresh ideas.”
“I’m glad it’s working out,” Ramsay says. “I just stopped by to lend my support and to remind you about the beach on Sunday. I’ll swing by at noon to pick you and Ainsley up.”
“Oh,” Harper says. She still feels uneasy about the beach date, but she can’t come up with an excuse that will get her out of it. “Okay.”
Ramsay blows Ainsley a kiss on his way out. “See you Sunday.”
Ramsay isn’t the only man at the party. As they move into the five o’clock hour, all kinds of men wander in. Some of them are servers at restaurants, already wearing white shirts and black aprons knotted at their waists, but there are also guys just off fishing boats and off the golf course. There’s a clean-cut kid in a shirt and tie who looks like he stepped out of Ramsay’s office. These men shyly accept punch from Caylee, then self-consciously browse for something they might buy for their girlfriends. Most are clueless. What size should I get? They hold up a skirt in a size 14, shoes in a 5?. Ainsley tries to help, as does Caylee—she knows some of these guys and their significant others—and Meghan facilitates the impulse buys at the register. They start out with a huge glass jar filled with Hanky Panky lace thongs; Meghan sells at least one pair to every single man who walks out of the store.
Prince sings “Kiss.” A collective hoot goes up, and women start to dance. Ainsley races over to the iPod and starts to DJ. Soon the store looks like South Beach at three in the morning.
Meghan’s eyes widen. “This keeps getting more and more surreal.”
Ainsley appears happy, and Harper feels a sense of accomplishment. Tabitha and Eleanor may take umbrage with the party, they may claim that Harper is cheapening the ERF brand with frivolity and fun, but neither of them can argue with the expression on Ainsley’s face.
Just as Harper is congratulating herself, however, the smile falls from Ainsley’s lips as fast as a jumper falls off a bridge. Harper follows her eyes to the front door. Two girls have just walked in, arms linked. One is dark-haired, one strawberry blond—both of them, like Ainsley, look way older than they probably are. The dark-haired one reaches out eagerly for a cup of punch, but Caylee lifts the punch beyond the girl’s reach. “Sorry, but I have to see ID.”
“At a free party?” the dark-haired girl says. “A free party at a tired old-lady boutique?”
Harper is about to march over and take care of the little hellcat, but Ainsley steps forward.
“Emma,” she says. “Candace.”
“Hey, Ainsley!” Emma says, in a voice of mock surprise. “We came to get a dress for Candace. Teddy is taking her out for dinner tonight.”
Ainsley nods, and Harper sees the brave set of her jaw. Hold steady, Harper thinks. You can do this.
“Where are you going?” Ainsley asks.
Candace shrugs. “Ventuno.”
“Nice,” Ainsley says.
“He sent her flowers today,” Emma says. “He wants her to wear one in her hair tonight. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
Ainsley’s eyes harden, and—whoa!—Harper gets a chill. In that instant, Ainsley looks exactly like Tabitha. Harper knows what’s coming: Fuck you, Emma.
Go ahead, Harper thinks. Say it.
But before Ainsley can speak, there is a shriek, loud enough to rise above “Hollaback Girl.” The sound puts an instantaneous end to the dancing. It came from Meghan. She is standing with her legs akimbo, and water gushes out of her onto the sumptuous silver-gray carpeting of the ERF boutique.
“My water broke!” she cries. “The baby is coming!”
TABITHA
She can’t believe the freedom she feels when she drives off the ferry in Oak Bluffs. For the first time in a long, long time, Tabitha doesn’t have to take care of anyone—not her mother, not her daughter. She can do whatever she wants. She can be her own person. It’s completely novel.
Harper, of course, has lived like this for years and years. She had Billy—but Billy was nothing like Eleanor. He didn’t make demands or requests or assumptions; he didn’t hold impossibly high expectations. Harper has had it so easy.