Big Summer(38)
“Meh?”
“Well, not a permanent meh.” She waved her hand. “Stuart’s fine. Just, you know, right now, I’d rather be eating disco fries with you.” As always, I felt my stupid heart lift and swell at the thought of being noticed, being seen, being chosen; the joy of having this gorgeous, wealthy, important person bestowing her attention on me. “So can we?”
I turned, looking over my shoulder, thinking that maybe Stuart would come looking for his fiancée, or that maybe Drue’s parents would have hunted her down. I saw no one but a drowsy-looking doorman, half-asleep behind half a dozen screens showing security-camera feeds, and an older couple, the man in a tuxedo, the woman in an evening gown, coming home from a night out. And Drue, in her shimmering dress, hair and cheekbones glittering gold, was waiting for my answer, smiling in a way that promised mischief and adventure.
“Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course,” I recited. Drue grinned. She smacked a noisy, possibly drunken kiss on my cheek and grabbed my hand. “Wait, wait!” I handed her the pair of flip-flops I’d stuffed in my purse, for my own feet, and she said, gratefully, “You’re the best.” Together, we went out into the darkness, Drue chattering about some cousin’s awful boyfriend whose Instagram account had nothing but posts of right-wing political screeds, along with pictures of their elderly Pekingese dressed in holiday-themed hats and sweaters. “It’s like, Trump, Trump, dog, Trump, Trump, some country singer he hates, some football player he hates, and then more Trump, and then the dog again, and you know I like dogs, I do, but honestly…” I was half-listening to her chatter, half-remembering the line of poetry that had preceded the bit I had quoted, about how “sitting by a lamp more often brings Not peace, but other things. Beyond the light stand failure and remorse / Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course—”
Chapter Seven
On the third Friday in June, I stepped off the ferry in Provincetown, Massachusetts, at the very tip of Cape Cod. The air was fresh and sweetly salty; the sky was a deep, scoured blue, ornamented by a few puffy white clouds. A dock extended into the water; motorboats and sailboats bobbed at anchor or crisscrossed on the water, bright sails snapping in the breeze. Waves were lapping gently at the golden, sandy shore, and the forecast called for more of the same: a week of clear, sunny days and crisp, starry nights. Perfect. Because Drue Lathrop Cavanaugh never got anything less than perfection.
We lingered on the dock, with a member of Drue’s team of wedding photographers crouched down on the wooden boards, taking pictures with her camera and then, at Drue’s insistence, with both of our phones. I’d worn another Leef dress for the trip, a prototype of a garment that hadn’t even been put into production yet, a navy silk dress with a halter-style top and a knee-length skirt that swirled fetchingly in the wind. I’d accessorized with a navy-blue straw sunhat and a red lip, and I’d felt extremely nautical, if not a little overdressed next to Drue, who’d made the trip in cutoff shorts, a faded Lathrop T-shirt, and flip-flops. “I’ll be spending the rest of the weekend in corsets and heels,” she’d explained. “I’m going to dress down while I can.”
A Town Car collected us and our luggage at the end of the dock and drove us twenty minutes west to the town of Truro, Provincetown’s next-door neighbor, where Edward Hopper had lived and painted, and where Drue’s maternal family had summered for generations.
“Stuart and I thought about doing it in the Hamptons, but that’s so predictable,” Drue said. “And here, there’s a lot more leeway with what you can do on the beaches. Wait ’til you see the party tonight.” She shimmied in the back seat, smiling.
Fifteen minutes later, the car rolled up a long driveway lined with crushed white shells and parked in front of a modern, low-slung home clad in silvery cedar shingles. There was a swimming pool and a hot tub in front, surrounded by a deck, rose and hydrangea bushes, pots of pink and red and purple impatiens in bloom, rows of lounge chairs with dark-blue cushions, and blue-and-white-striped umbrellas. Drue led me through the door and up a flight of stairs. “Your suite, madam,” she said, swinging the door open with a flourish.
I stepped inside. “For real?” I asked, looking around. “For real, for real?”
“Yep!” She leaned close and squeezed my shoulders. “All yours.”
The room was enormous, airy and high-ceilinged, with floors of some light-colored wood polished to a high gloss. The king-size bed was dressed in crisp white and blue linens, piled with more pillows than two people (or, really, even four or five people) could reasonably need. To the left of the bed, the bathroom stood behind a wall of smoked glass tinted shades of blue, ornamented with wood carvings meant to evoke waves. Beyond the bed, a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a private deck with a round, white-cushioned daybed, and square planters overflowing with lavender and more hydrangeas and, on one side, a wall of boxwood hedges. Even with the sliding glass door shut, I could hear the hiss and rumble of the ocean.
“Do you love it?” Drue clapped her hands. “Tell me you love it.”
I spun around slowly. “It’s amazing.”
“And look!” Drue led me out to the deck, through a wooden door, painted red, set in the middle of the hedge. Drue opened it. Hidden inside was a hot tub surrounded by lounge chairs, a cocktail table, and a stack of fluffy white towels. “Your bedroom and mine share it.” She gave me a broad wink. “Just put a sock on the doorknob if you’re entertaining.”