Surfside Sisters(36)
Two pages. One, a standard “we regret to inform you” letter.
The next was a private note, handwritten, from a woman novelist Keely idolized.
Hi, Keely Green,
I’m sorry we didn’t have room for you in our new group, but I wanted to tell you how very much I like the writing that you sent us. If you finish this novel, you could write to Sally Hazlitt at the Hazlitt and Hopkins Literary Agency. Tell them that I recommended you. In fact, I’m dropping a note to Sally today.
Best wishes,
Liane Harington
Keely, wrapped in sweatpants and a flannel shirt, had settled on the sofa where she could enjoy the lights of their Christmas tree while she started one of the five books her mother had given her for Christmas.
Her cell buzzed. She considered letting it go to voicemail, but with Isabelle gone, Janine was her closest friend.
“Merry Christmas! Guess what, I got you a fabulous present!”
“Merry Christmas, Janine. When do I get my present?”
“On New Year’s Eve. We’re going to the Nantucket Hotel party. Champagne, dinner, and a live band!”
“Thanks, Janine, but I might babysit New Year’s Eve.”
“That is not allowed. I don’t care how much money you’ll make. If you keep working and hiding away in your house, you’ll turn into one of those eccentric old women with facial hair who hoards cat food!”
Keely laughed. “I’m not that bad.”
“Not yet. That’s why you’ve got to come to the party with me.”
“Who else is going?”
“Sarah B. and Sarah N. for sure. The usual suspects. Hey, think about it this way. You’ll get more material for your books.”
“Okay, I’ll go. And thank you.”
“You want to know what your present is to me?”
Keely laughed again. “Tell me.”
“There’s a sexy little black dress at Hepburn. I tried it on. I told them to hold it. Because it costs exactly as much as a ticket to the New Year’s Eve party. You can buy it for me.”
“Janine, you should run the town.”
“Hang on, Keely, that might happen one day.”
* * *
—
The ballroom was packed. Colorful helium balloons floated above the crowd. Waiters bustled about removing dishes and glasses. Dinner was over. The band was setting up. Women hurried to refresh their makeup. Men—and some women—stepped out on the deck to enjoy a cigarette. Waiters skimmed through the room setting champagne flutes on the tables.
“I’m so glad you invited me,” Keely yelled at Janine.
“Me, too!” Janine yelled back.
Their gang had a round table for eight, all girlfriends of Keely, all looking smashing in bright silks and extravagant jewelry, and all of them, including Keely, with rosy cheeks from the champagne they’d already enjoyed.
Keely wore a figure-hugging sleeveless velvet dress. Janine had come over earlier that day to put Keely’s brown hair up in a curly mass at the back of her head, with slender red and gold ribbons wound through here and there. With Janine at her side to egg her on, Keely layered her eyes with smoky shadow and black liner. She wore scarlet lipstick—she’d never worn such a bright color before. She felt a bit like a 1950s doxy and when she told Janine that, Janine said, “You feel like a dachshund?”
“No, no, ‘doxy’ means a mistress, maybe for a gangster.” For a moment, Keely was pierced with longing for Isabelle, who would know exactly what a doxy was, and what books and films it had been in.
But Isabelle was with Gordon Whitehead, skiing in Vermont.
The band started with “Love Shack” and slid into “Little Red Corvette.” By the time they played “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” the dance floor was packed. Keely and Janine danced with each other at first. After only a moment, Janine’s eyes went wide. Keely felt a tap on her shoulder.
Turning, she looked into Tommy’s black eyes.
“You’re back from Vegas!” Keely yelled.
He only smiled at her—no one could hear anything but the music. He pulled her into the center of the dance floor. The music continued, fast and loud and manic.
Tommy was an excellent dancer, catching the beat and making it belong to him, slowing the music down as he silkily moved his shoulders, his back, his hips. He sauntered through the music. Gradually, Keely changed her movements from frantic screaming hopping waving madness to catch Tommy’s more languid style. It was amazing. She felt like her body was a dam, filled to bursting with desire, and the fast dancing splashed the desire all over the place but the slow dancing kept everything inside, so her yearning was contained and pressing against her skin.
Tommy knew how to make her want him. He brought his mouth closer to hers. Closer. She couldn’t get her breath, but she had enough pride—or maybe it was an instinctive primitive understanding—that she didn’t move her face toward him to kiss him. Another grin. He moved his mouth slowly and touched her lips. Her eyes were still open, but Tommy’s eyes were closed, and she closed her eyes, and all the world existed right there, in the silk of his mouth, the sweetness of his breath, the wetness of his tongue.
He put both arms around her, pressing his hands against her buttocks, pulling her against him, pulling her to fit him, and she put her arms up around his neck and bravely ran her hands up into his thick black hair. She kissed him back. She pressed her breasts against his chest. She felt his erection against her pelvis and nearly melted into the floor.