Big Summer(15)

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Drue removed her jacket. Underneath, she wore a long-sleeved ivory silk blouse, with mother-of-pearl buttons at the cuffs and a bow at the collar, and a pair of beautifully cut, high-waisted, wide-legged navy-blue pants. Her earrings were pearls, each one set in a circle of tiny, brilliant diamonds, and her hair was pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Work look, she’d probably tag it, if she’d posted it on what she called Fashion Fridays on her Instagram page. I did my best to avoid Drue’s online presence, the same way I’d tried to avoid her IRL, but it wasn’t easy. Especially not after the New York Times had included her in a round-up of rising businesswomen who were using social media effectively. With her breezy yet down-to-earth tone and balanced blend of philanthropy, Boss Girl–style tips and fashion, Drue Cavanaugh of the Cavanaugh Corporation has become a must-read for the rising generation of young women who want to have it all, and look good while they’re getting it, the piece had read, quoting an advertising executive’s praise of Drue for putting a fresh, young, relatable female face on the staid old family brand.

Drue pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat down. “I need to talk to you.”

Instead of sitting, I looked across the table at her as I said, “I don’t think we have anything to say to each other.”

“Please, Daphne,” she said. “I know you’re still mad, but can you just give me a minute? Please?”

I stared at her for what felt like a long time. Her features were still perfect, hair still shiny; she was still chic and gorgeous and flawless. I could feel the old, familiar longing, and could remember how easily she’d pulled me into her orbit with the unspoken promise that, if I got close to her, if I did what she wanted me to do, I’d end up elevated by proximity; looking like her, being like her, having that beauty and the power and confidence it conferred.

“Please,” she said again, her voice cracking. Or maybe not so much confidence. I sat down and pushed my empty plate away. I wouldn’t have been able to eat, even if I’d wanted to. Whatever appetite I’d had had fled.

“Five minutes,” I said curtly. “I have things to do.”

Drue crossed her legs and toyed with her fork. “Could I have some water?”

Here we go, I thought, and went to get a glass. I could have used a drink myself, but I couldn’t permit myself even a sip of water with Drue, any more than Persephone should have allowed herself a single pomegranate seed down in hell. Water would turn into coffee, which would turn into a glass of wine, which would turn into a bottle, and then I’d invite her back to my place. She’d keep my glass full, and I’d be spilling whatever secrets I had to spill, agreeing to anything she wanted. I could feel her allure, as insistent as the tide, the way the water tugged you when you stood at the edge of the ocean with your feet in the sand.

I set the glass in front of her so hard that some of the water splashed out. “Why are you here?”

Drue sighed. In the late-afternoon sunlight, she was even more beautiful than she’d been in high school, like a pearl polished to its highest gloss, but she kept fidgeting, smoothing her hands against her thighs, tapping the floor with one toe. She’s nervous, I thought. Then I thought, Good.

“Well?”

Instead of answering, Drue extended her arm, angling her hand so that there was no way I could miss the enormous diamond ring on her finger.

“I’m getting married,” she said. “To Stuart Lowe.”

I stared at her mutely. I knew, of course. I didn’t follow Drue, but I did live in the world, where there were newspapers and gossip blogs and People magazine, and all of those had made Drue’s impending nuptials impossible to avoid. I knew Drue was engaged, and I knew her intended had been last season’s star on All the Single Ladies, a dating show where, over twelve weeks, one eligible bachelor worked his way through a pool of eighteen women, taking them on dates in different locales (most of which had been chosen because of their willingness to pay promotional fees to the network), finally narrowing his choices down to two lucky ladies, and proposing to one during the finale. Eight months ago, Stuart Lowe had put a ring on the finger of his “winner,” a blond, breathy, baby-voiced nanny from Minnesota named Corina Bailey. Two months after that he’d dumped her, telling the world that he was still in love with his college girlfriend: Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh.

So I knew. But what did Drue want from me? Did she expect me to start celebrating with her? Shriek with happiness, jump for joy, act like this was the best news I’d ever heard? Like she was still my friend, and I still cared?

“Congratulations,” I said, keeping my voice expressionless.

“Hey,” said Drue. She stretched out her fingers to brush my forearm. I jerked it away. “It’s been great to see how well you’re doing. Truly.”

I shrugged.

“I can’t believe that Jessamyn Stanley follows my high school BFF,” Drue burbled. Jessamyn Stanley was a plus-size yoga instructor, a black woman with close-cropped hair who posed in sports bras and yoga pants and occasionally smoked weed on camera and was pretty much the opposite of all of the yoga instructors I’d encountered during my dieting years. I’d been delighted to find her, and Mirna Valerio, another plus-size black athlete who ran ultramarathons in a body that looked like mine, and even more thrilled when they’d followed me back.