Golden Girl(54)

Amy texts Lorna. JP informed me he’s going to dinner tonight at Savannah’s house.

She waits. Lorna is her best friend; there won’t be any need for further explanation.

WTF????!!?!

Exactly, Amy thinks. She texts: Can you meet me at the Gaslight in an hour? Girls’ night out!

Wish I could, Pigeon, but I’m on the boat over to Hyannis. I have the doctor bright and early.

Ugh, right. Lorna has an appointment at Cape Cod Hospital; there was something in her mammogram that needed a second look. If JP had let Amy know his plans a little earlier, Amy would have taken the ferry over with Lorna. They could have eaten at Pain D’Avignon and shopped at the mall like regular off-island people. Amy could have been there for Lorna’s appointment.

No worries! Amy says. Good luck tomorrow. Call if you need me. Now Amy needs to make a decision—stay home or go out alone?

Go out alone, she thinks. She pulls her sexiest dress out of the closet and lays it across the bed where JP will be sure to see it. He comes out of the bathroom in his boxers, his face slathered with shaving cream.

“You’re shaving?” Amy says. “Is this a special occasion, then?”

JP shrugs and goes back into the bathroom. He doesn’t even glance at the dress.

Amy drinks another glass (two) of the Cliff Lede but there’s still half a bottle (a third of a bottle) left for another night. She’s wearing the sexy black dress—black is so forgiving—and she feels good. It’s not weird that she’s going out alone, she tells herself, or that in the ten years she’s lived here, she has made only one friend. She imagines herself as a character in a Vivian Howe novel—those women are always venturing out solo and finding a good time.

The Gaslight used to be a movie theater but has been reimagined as a live-music venue. It has a pressed-tin ceiling and a wall of vintage turntables and speakers; there’s a stage with a hot-pink neon sign that says GASLIGHT over the drum set. The crowd at the bar is lively; the food is delicious, and the cocktails are the kind that have been created by a mixologist and include ingredients Amy has never heard of.

There’s one open seat at the bar—Amy imagines this conveniently happens in Vivi’s novels as well—and Amy doesn’t recognize anyone, another blessing.

The bartender is a big, strapping bear of a man named Nick. He’s a Nantucket celebrity. He says, “Are you waiting for someone, ma’am?”

“Yes,” Amy says brightly. “My friend Lorna.”

“Lorna from RJ Miller?” Nick says. “She cuts my hair. She should have texted me to let me know you were coming, I would have saved you two seats.”

“May I please have a Blackout Barbie?” Amy asks. “Two, actually. I want to have one here waiting for Lorna when she arrives.”



The Blackout Barbie is a cocktail made with fresh-picked strawberries from Bartlett’s Farm, lemon juice, tequila, and a splash of cava; it’s garnished with thyme blossoms and served with an oversize round ice cube. It’s delicious. Amy drinks both hers and “Lorna’s” in short order and after she asks Nick for a third, she says, “I guess Lorna isn’t coming.”

“Yeah, I texted her,” Nick says. “She’s off-island.”

Amy isn’t sure if she should act surprised or just keep rolling. She decides on the latter. “In that case, I’m ordering food. How about the cheeseburger bao buns and the poke nachos?”

Amy’s cocktail comes before her food. She drinks it while studying the other people at the bar as though she’s an anthropologist. The clientele is young and stunning; everyone is filled with joy and bubbly laughter, and Amy feels worse and worse about herself with every passing second. Where did she go wrong? Well, she knows where. She should never have gotten involved with a married man. She could still end things and start a new relationship with someone like Nick. Or maybe Nick is too young. He is too young.

Amy’s food comes, but for once, Amy just isn’t herself and isn’t hungry. She asks Nick for to-go boxes. She would like the check, please.

“You got it,” Nick says. She tries to ignore the pity in his voice. “The band starts up at ten if you want to come back then.”

“Thanks,” Amy says, and for a second she feels like a strong, independent woman who might be back to enjoy the band if the spirit moves her. “Maybe I’ll do that.”



Out on the street, she has an idea. Then she tries to talk herself out of it.

She puts her to-go containers in the front seat of her car. Home, she thinks. Go home.

But she’s drunk, she shouldn’t drive; she should walk it off, and if her walk happens to take her down Union Street, is that a crime? She strolls along until she reaches Entre Nous. The two onion lamps, one on either side of the front door, are lit and the front windows are bright, but the rooms appear unoccupied. Amy has never been inside the house so she isn’t sure of the layout, though the kids used to swim in the pool all the time back before Vivi put in her own pool at Money Pit.

Amy sees a discreet flagstone path that leads between the hedges just beyond the driveway. She checks the street—deserted. She sneaks around the side of the house to the backyard. She fears motion-detector lights will announce her trespassing, but the back is quiet. Accent lights illuminate the teal-blue rectangle of the pool.