The Identicals(27)

“You’ve never been married, Pony,” Eleanor says. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a newspaper clipping. She hands it to Tabitha

“What’s this?” Tabitha says. She unfolds the clipping; it’s well worn, softened, and smudged. It’s a photograph of Billy and Eleanor, Eleanor smiling as though she’s won fifty million dollars in the lottery, Billy kissing her cheek. The caption reads: Boston Royalty—Fashion designer Eleanor Roxie-Frost and husband, Billy Frost, enjoy an evening out at Locke-Ober to raise funds for the Boston Public Library. Ms. Roxie-Frost wears a gown of her own design.

Tabitha has seen dozens of such photographs of Billy and Eleanor together, and she always thinks the same thing. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end… but end they did. Still, this photograph prompts Tabitha to acknowledge her mother’s sorrow. Eleanor thought to bring this clipping to Billy’s memorial reception; it means something to her. Even after all the years of contempt and disregard, she might still have loved him.

Tabitha can’t deal with the emotion right now; she is too exhausted. So instead she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that dress.” It’s a long strapless column of dark silk with a pleated top reminiscent of a Japanese fan.

“I still have it,” Eleanor says. “Someday it will go to the Smithsonian.”

“I’m sure it will,” Tabitha says. “It’s very…” She nearly says pretty, but pretty has never meant anything to Eleanor. “Strong. Makes a statement. Perhaps you should bring it back.” She returns the clipping to Eleanor.

“Perhaps I should,” Eleanor says. She tucks the clipping into her purse before laboriously getting out of the car. She’s less steady on her feet these days, especially when she’s wearing heels—slingbacks, at that—and she’s had at least half a dozen glasses of champagne. Tabitha should walk her to the door, help her get situated inside—make her a cup of tea, fix her a snack, fetch her a robe.

But no. Tabitha won’t do it. Not tonight. She’s too angry, and the things Eleanor has said today are too hurtful. Eleanor longs for Harper. Fine. From now on, when Eleanor wants something, she can ask Harper for it. Harper can manage the Nantucket store, maybe sell meth or heroin in addition to the Eleanor Roxie-Frost label. That, at least, would put an end to their cash-flow problems.

“Have a good night, Mother,” Tabitha says.

Eleanor makes her wobbly way up the flagstone path toward the steps of the front porch. Tabitha studies the grandness of the house and decides that she will throw a party there in a few weeks, when Eleanor goes to New York to meet with the tailors and ERF manufacturing people. Ha! Tabitha is no better than Ainsley! But really, Eleanor’s house is ideal for entertaining—cocktails on the porch, buffet dinner in the dining room, dancing in the living room. Maybe Tabitha will invite Captain Peter. Maybe she’ll invite young Zack, the bartender from Nautilus. She will definitely invite Stephanie Beasley now that Ainsley and Candace are friends again. And maybe Teddy’s uncle Graham while she’s at it.

She needs more friends, she thinks. Ainsley is right. Eleanor has ruined her life.

Eleanor climbs the stairs holding on to the rail. It’s like watching paint dry, Tabitha thinks.

She’ll invite the Tallahasseeans!

Harper has been conducting an affair with Billy’s married doctor. Does no one but Tabitha find this disgusting?

Eleanor reaches the porch and turns around to wave, or maybe not wave, maybe signal, because she is now crying. She steps forward—possibly she wants to apologize to Tabitha or maybe she’s left her reading glasses in Tabitha’s car—but she misjudges her footing and falls down the porch stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom.





AINSLEY


She is so busy getting her phone up and running that she doesn’t know anything is wrong until she hears the ambulance sirens. At first they’re distant, and she barely registers them, but then they get closer, and then they’re basically on top of her, and she looks out the window and she sees the flashing blue and red lights pull into their driveway. She spies the distant figure of her mother waving the ambulance over in the direction of Grammie’s house.

Ainsley dashes out the front door in time to see the paramedics sliding Grammie onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance. Tabitha gets in her car, does a doughnut in the driveway, and follows the ambulance out. When she sees Ainsley, she puts down her window.

“Grammie fell. I’m going with her to the hospital. Do you want to come with me or stay here?”

“Stay here,” Ainsley says. She feels bad for that choice, but her mother actually looks relieved.

“Does your phone work?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you,” Tabitha says. And off she goes.



Ainsley goes back into the house alone. This is what she’s been waiting for since Friday night—to be left alone, with a mode of communication—yet she regrets the answer she gave her mother. She should have gone to the hospital. What if her grandmother dies? What if she loses both of her grandparents in the same week?

She waits for her phone to boot up. She’s expecting a host of texts and missed calls, but only one text comes in, from Emma, dated Sunday at noon. It says: Head hurts. Call me.