The Identicals(20)

“I remember it differently,” Tabitha says.

“We must leave the reception at three o’clock sharp,” Eleanor says. “You needn’t worry about driving us. I’ll happily pay for a taxi.”



Ainsley looks out the window, trying to take it all in. There’s a pond, a bridge, a field. It looks like Nantucket, but it’s not Nantucket.

“Six towns,” Harper is saying. “Seventeen thousand year-round residents. The greatest ice cream in the world at Mad Martha’s.”

“You’ve never tasted the ice cream at the Juice Bar,” Ainsley says. “Or have you? Have you ever been to Nantucket, Aunt Harper?”

“I have,” Harper says. “But not in a long, long time.”

“Who’s going to be at this reception?” Tabitha asks.

“I’m not sure,” Harper says. “Daddy wanted this, not me. But an announcement went up on Islanders Talk and my Facebook page, so…”

“So mostly Billy’s friends or mostly your friends?” Tabitha asks.

“Daddy’s.”

“Do you have any friends?” Tabitha asks.

“Mama!” Ainsley says, forgetting that she’s not speaking to Tabitha.

“I have friends,” Harper says.

“I’m not talking about the men you’re screwing,” Tabitha says.

“Tabitha!” Ainsley says, more to get her mother’s attention than to be disrespectful.

“I’m surprised anyone talks to you after that… that… drug bust,” Eleanor says. “I still can’t get over a daughter of mine… arrested! Your grandparents are rolling over in their graves, I assure you.”

“What do you know about it, Mommy?” Harper says. “Honestly, what do you know about it?”

“Ann-Lane told me everything,” Eleanor says. “You do realize she lives right next door to the family whose child you corrupted, don’t you? She said the state police were there and the FBI.”

The FBI? Ainsley thinks. Her aunt is way more interesting than Ainsley realized.

“I didn’t corrupt any child,” Harper says. “The ‘child’ in question was already plenty corrupted when I encountered him. Ann-Lane can stick a Pop-Tart up her ass. And I can assure you she will not be at this reception. Unless you invited her. Did you invite her?”

“No,” Eleanor says.

“Who is Ann-Lane?” Ainsley asks.

“A busybody,” Harper says.

“My roommate,” Eleanor says. “From Pine Manor.”

There is a loaded silence, during which Harper’s driving becomes markedly more aggressive. She honks her horn and flips people off. By way of explanation she says, “It’s so early in the season that the taxi drivers don’t know where they’re going. They’re accidents waiting to happen.”

“So,” Tabitha says, leaning forward. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“You haven’t said boo to me in fourteen years,” Harper says. “And now you want me to answer personal questions?” She puts on her turn signal and makes a left down a long driveway bordered on both sides by white fencing. The sign says: FARM NECK GOLF CLUB. PRIVATE.

“We’re here,” Harper says. She seeks Ainsley’s eyes out in the mirror again. “This was your grandfather’s favorite place on the island. Farm Neck.”

“This is private?” Eleanor asks.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“How did your father manage to get in?”

“He knew people. Unfortunately, you can’t pass the membership on. This died with Billy, but we get to use it one last time.”

“I didn’t even know Gramps golfed,” Ainsley says.

“He was an abominable golfer,” Eleanor says. “He downright embarrassed himself at the country club with my father in 1968, the summer we were married.”

“He was a better drinker than a golfer,” Harper says. “I’ll agree with you there. Made him popular in a foursome. Everyone could beat him, and he told good stories at the clubhouse.”

“Please don’t glorify alcohol consumption in front of my daughter,” Tabitha says.

Ainsley rolls her eyes.

Harper parks the Bronco, then hurries around to help Eleanor out. When they are all standing in the parking lot, Harper holds her arms akimbo. She looks off balance, like she might topple over. “Welcome to Farm Neck,” Harper says.

The grounds of the club are pretty. There’s a line of golf carts, some with bags of clubs in the back, and there’s a putting green by the front entrance. The air smells like cut grass and french fries. Ainsley marvels that Billy managed to belong to a private club when she knows that both Eleanor and Tabitha have been languishing on the list at the Nantucket Yacht Club for nearly a decade.

“Obama played here,” Harper says. “And Clinton.”

“I wouldn’t advertise that,” Eleanor says.



The reception is being held in a tent off the side of the clubhouse, and although it’s a much smaller affair than Ainsley anticipated, it’s still very nice. The tent is decorated with white lanterns and potted plants; there are high-top tables scattered throughout, and a waitress holds a tray of champagne flutes filled to the brim, greeting people as they walk in. There’s an easel holding a picture of Ainsley’s grandfather in his later years, after he’d lost his wire-rimmed glasses and his white patent leather belt. In this photo, he’s on a boat. He wears a visor, his face is tan and weather-beaten, and he’s holding up a striped bass. Above the photograph, it says: REMEMBERING WILLIAM O’SHAUGHNESSY FROST, APRIL 13, 1944–JUNE 16, 2017. There’s a table beneath the easel on which rest blank name tags and a Sharpie marker.