The Identicals(60)

Before she heads out for dinner, Tabitha realizes that she needs to call Ainsley and Harper and tell them she’s here.

Ainsley doesn’t answer her cell phone, and neither does Harper. Well, that makes sense. The boutique stays open late on Friday nights, and they should both be at work. She calls the boutique, but no one answers. Tabitha puzzles over this and gets a bad feeling. Then, a second later, Meghan calls from her cell phone. She is in the storage room—Tabitha can tell just by the way her voice reverberates off the concrete floors.

“Tabitha?” Meghan says.

“Can I talk to my daughter, please?” Tabitha says. “Or my sister?”

“Um,” Meghan says. “They’re busy.”

“Busy?” Tabitha says. She assumes this is a euphemism for They cut out of work early so they could have cocktails at the Gazebo. She starts to tremble with anger and frustration. She should never have left Ainsley in Harper’s care.

“They’re with customers,” Meghan says.

“Both of them?” Tabitha says.

“Both of them,” Meghan says. “We’re slammed right now.”

“Slammed?” Tabitha says. This sounds like a snow job. In all the years she has been running the boutique, she would never have described it as slammed. It’s not a slammed kind of place, despite Tabitha’s efforts to diversify the inventory. The ERF boutique is similar to the art galleries in town; it’s for interested and serious buyers only. And Eleanor refuses to put anything on sale. Sale means “dirty” in French, and that’s exactly what Eleanor thinks of the word. It’s dirty. Every ERF piece evokes a classic timelessness, a quality that should never be discounted. Every once in a while, a group of well-heeled women will come in off someone’s enormous yacht and indulge in competitive shopping, but that kind of behavior pretty much petered out when the economy failed in 2008. “So you’re telling me that they’re both there but that they’re too busy to come to the phone?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Meghan says. “And I was in the middle of helping someone as well when you called the store line.” She pauses, and Tabitha thinks she hears music, voices; she hears a dog bark. A dog? Surely she’s mistaken. “So I’d better hang up…”

“Okay,” Tabitha says. She is still suspicious, but her stomach is rumbling, and she’s thinking about the burgers and live music in her future. She should ask about Meghan’s pregnancy, but she doesn’t want the answer to ruin her night. As long as Meghan is in charge, Tabitha doesn’t have to worry that there’s a dog in the store or that merchandise has been put on sale or that any other protocols are being broken. Once Meghan goes into labor, it will be another story. “Have one of them call me as soon as she’s free, please. Either. Both.”

“You got it,” Meghan says. She sounds eager to end the call.

Tabitha stares at her phone. Should she worry about the store? she wonders. She probably should, but she doesn’t want to. She’s off to the Ritz.



Going out by herself in a strange town is an unfamiliar experience, but rather than being self-conscious, Tabitha is energized. She has tried to dress down—white AG Stilts and a pink-and-orange Trina Turk halter top—and she put her hair in a ponytail and went light on the makeup in an attempt to convey that this is no big deal.

From the outside, the Ritz Café looks like a dive. Does Tabitha care? Is she going to be a snob about the establishment? No. She enters with a smile fastened securely to her face, her best accessory.

The bar is dark and smoky and completely mobbed. Tabitha nearly turns around—back to the safety of her FJ40, back to Vineyard Haven, back to Billy’s house. And then tomorrow, back to Nantucket. But she hears the strum of a guitar, and she turns to see a guy in jeans and a Mocha Mott’s T-shirt sitting on a stool behind a microphone. The blackboard behind him says: THE VINEYARD’S OWN FRANKLIN PHELPS. The Vineyard’s own Franklin Phelps is around Tabitha’s age and incredibly hot. He has dark shaggy hair and big brown eyes, and he rests his guitar casually over one knee. When the Vineyard’s own Franklin Phelps sees Tabitha, he waves, and she thinks, He knows me!

But then she gets it.

Franklin starts playing “Carolina in My Mind,” by James Taylor, and a cheer goes up.

There’s a seat at the bar, despite the crowd. Tabitha sits and smiles at the bartender, a young woman with clear eyes and a friendly smile.

“Hey, Harper,” she says. “Long time no see! You want a beer and a shot?”

Tabitha opens her mouth to correct the young lady. I’m not Harper. But the bar is loud, and this girl actually seems to like Harper, so Tabitha sees no harm in nodding. Beer and a shot? Sure! Tabitha has never had a beer and a shot in all her life. Maybe she’s been missing out.

The drinks appear—a tall golden pilsner glass full of beer with a neat half inch of foam and a shot of some purplish-brown liquid. Tabitha lifts the shot glass for a discreet sniff.

Dear God: J?germeister.

She throws it back, trying not to cry, and chases it with a long draught of her beer. Her chest instantly warms. The Vineyard’s own Franklin Phelps segues into “Wild World” by Cat Stevens, which is a particular favorite of Tabitha’s, and she lets out a little fan shriek. She is so embarrassed that such a noise came from her mouth that she drinks more of her beer.