The Identicals(102)

Chet pulls into Eleanor’s driveway, on Cliff Road.

“Wait a minute,” Eleanor says. “Is this the right house?

“Sure is,” Chet says. True, he hasn’t driven Eleanor anywhere all summer, but this is her house, of that he is certain. He hits the brakes and waits for Eleanor to orient herself. She’s getting older, plus she’s a creative genius (at least according to his brother/sister Dave/Desirée), so maybe her brain is too crammed with new designs to recall what her house looks like. Einstein had a problem like that—he didn’t know his own phone number!

“I haven’t been here since Slick Willie was president,” Flossie says. “But it’s just as I remember it, Ellie. Prettier, even.”

The housekeeper says something in Spanish that sounds urgent. She’s pointing to the house.

“Wait a minute,” Eleanor says. She’s confused. It is her house, but something is off. She curses herself for taking the extra oxycodone that morning. She felt she needed it to get through the ordeal of traveling, but it has left her addled. She snaps her fingers. “I know what threw me,” she says. “I do not recognize that car.” Here she points to the navy-blue Bronco in the driveway of the carriage house. Whose car is that? It looks like something a spoiled teenage boy would drive, or a man going through a certain kind of midlife crisis. Maybe it belongs to a boyfriend of Ainsley’s. Or possibly a boyfriend of Tabitha’s. Someone new? Eleanor does not at all understand why Tabitha broke things off with Ramsay Striker. Eleanor didn’t convey to Tabitha how heartbroken she was about the split. She dealt with it the same way she handled all unpleasant topics: by ignoring it.

Eleanor studies the car another second. She has seen that car before, she realizes. She has ridden in it—but when? Then she remembers: she rode in it on the way to Billy’s memorial reception. It’s Harper’s car! But why is Harper’s car here on Nantucket? Eleanor rummages around in her mind; she can’t think of any reason.

“Of course this is my house,” Eleanor says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” To Chet she says, “Carry on.”



Felipa and Flossie make up the bedroom on the first floor while Eleanor rests in an armchair on the glassed-in porch that overlooks Nantucket Sound. From the house phone, she tries Tabitha’s number, but she gets no answer, and Eleanor doesn’t believe in leaving messages. Eleanor is too exhausted to call the store. Honestly, that store is the bane of her existence. Tabitha has done a terrible job managing it in recent years, and the thing has become a financial albatross. Eleanor has given serious thought to closing it, but if she does that, what will Tabitha do for work? And this summer, Ainsley is working at the store as well, although Eleanor hasn’t heard word one about how she likes it. Probably she sits around and plays on her blasted phone.

Phones have become the scourge of modern society, if you ask Eleanor. Possibly the best thing about Boston was how out of touch she was.



Still, she has missed her water views, her Simon Pearce candlesticks displayed on the table in front of her, the smell of this house, and the chiming of these clocks. There are certain culinary delights particular to Nantucket that Eleanor has missed as well—the lobster bisque from the Sea Grille, the cheeseburger from Le Languedoc, the truffle-Asiago frites from Fifty-Six Union. Would it be cruel of Eleanor to send Flossie out on a gastronomic scavenger hunt so that they might have all three items for dinner tonight? Eleanor can arrange for Chet to drive Flossie; he had seemed to take a shine to her. Yes, Eleanor will do exactly that. Flossie is headed back to Palm Beach the day after tomorrow. Eleanor needs to enjoy Flossie’s companionship while she still has it. And she needs to find Tabitha.

When Flossie comes out onto the porch carrying two giant Mount Gay and tonics—it must be five o’clock, Eleanor thinks; Flossie is always right on the nose with happy hour, and the drinks are always ice cold and very strong—Eleanor gives her the instructions for dinner.

Flossie rolls her eyes. “Can’t we just get everything at the same restaurant?”

“No,” Eleanor says. “We can’t. Chet will chauffeur you around. You’ll like that.”

“He’ll like that,” Flossie says, and she trills her musical laughter.

“Also,” Eleanor says, “would you mind terribly going over to the carriage house to fetch Tabitha?”

“Happy to,” Flossie says. She raises her glass in a cheers. “I’m not going to lie. I can’t wait to get home. But I’m really going to miss you, Ellie.”

Eleanor feels color rising to her cheeks. It’s true—the silver lining in the cloud of breaking her damn hip has been spending the past few weeks with Flossie.

Sisters, she thinks. There’s nothing like them.



Flossie comes back a scant ten minutes later. “There’s no one at the carriage house,” she says.

“No one?”

“No one,” Flossie says. “I left a note on the counter, telling them we were home.”

“Good,” Eleanor says. “I’m sure Tabitha and Ainsley are at the store.”

But by eight o’clock that night—after the bisque, burger, and truffled fries are consumed and cleared away—there is still no word from Tabitha. Eleanor tries Tabitha’s cell phone—voice mail. She sends Flossie back over to the carriage house.