Dolly All the Time(40)

Me: It does. I’m in. See you at 5:30



* * *





When Gladys opens the door, I immediately realize my mistake. I’m standing at the delivery entrance. I was so focused on parking where my car wouldn’t be an eyesore and then making sure the bag of shrimp I brought wasn’t leaking that I forgot that I’m a guest. Above all, I forgot that I’m Stewart Whitfield’s beautifully dressed girlfriend.

“Dolly,” she says. “Welcome.”

“Old habits,” I say, and take a deep breath. “I brought these, just came in. Maybe for tomorrow?”

She takes the bag of shrimp and thanks me. “Mrs. Whitfield will be delighted. Come in. Now everyone’s outside, are you ready?”

She holds my gaze for a second, and I know that she knows this is all a lie. It was two weeks ago that I showed up here on my bike in my fish house T-shirt saying I was just in town to help out. There is no way I was Stewart’s girlfriend that day. It doesn’t seem to bother her, and I wonder if not being bothered is part of her job.

“You look absolutely lovely,” she says, and I smile at her shoes.

“Thank you. Okay, I’m ready.”

When I step foot inside Eight Oaks, it’s the first time. The delivery entrance opens to a small office, just a desk and a chair and a few shelves with three-ring binders, and then into the kitchen. It’s clearly been updated in the past two hundred years but is still a place strictly for cooking. There is no kitchen island or big TV to watch the game, just a twelve-burner stove and a stainless-steel workspace with a few stools. Copper pots and pans hang, polished, from the ceiling.

She leads me through the cutting room. I know what it is because mounds of fresh peonies lie on a wooden counter that slants down into a sink, draining excess water while they wait to be readied for vases. There was an article about it in Better Homes & Gardens that the whole town was quite proud of. We walk through the living room with the giant stone fireplace and imported coffered ceilings. I crane my neck to make out a tiny gold acorn painted in the center of each carved mahogany square. The doors to the veranda are open, and a handful of people are gathered around a low coffee table. The men are in button-down shirts and freshly pressed pants, and the women are in perfectly cut dresses. The thought comes to me as a wave, starting in my crown and moving to my feet: I have been invited to the Whitfields’.

“Stewart,” Gladys says.

Stewart rises to his feet more quickly than I’ve ever seen him do and crosses the patio to me. “Very pretty,” he says, and quickly shakes his head. “That was my first thing, but I know it’s not specific. It’s to do with your eyes and the dress. I should have led with that.”

I smile at him because I do love these compliments, and also because he’s taking it all so seriously. I can feel all eyes on us, so I say, “Perfect. Thank you.”

He takes my hand and entwines our fingers. “Extra credit,” he says.

Stewart’s parents stand to greet me and eye our entwined hands. “Mom, Dad, this is Dolly Brick,” Stewart says.

“I’m Henry Whitfield. This is my wife, Victoria.”

“Hello,” I say, and shake their hands. “It’s beautiful here.” I’m so glad I came tonight to point that out. They’ve probably never noticed.

“Dolly!” Busy comes bounding my way and takes me in her arms. “You. Are. Gorgeous!”

“Thank you,” I say, and awkwardly pull at the side of my dress like I’m going to curtsy.

Victoria gives me a smile that does not reach her eyes. She has dark brown hair neatly tied into a bun at the nape of her neck. She is tanned and completely without makeup, small gold hoops in her ears. If she was your doctor, you would never guess she lived in a place like this. “Dolly?” she asks. “Is that short for Dorothy?”

“No,” I say. “My mother is a country music fan.”

She gives me a tight smile.

Oscar stands. “I’m Oscar. This is my wife, Lilly.”

Lilly reaches out to shake my hand, but then changes her mind and hugs me. I am lost in the jasmine scent of her long dark hair and the undeniable sincerity of this hug.

“I want to know everything,” she says. “How you met. When it started. How you tolerate what a bore he is.” She gives Stewart a mischievous smile. “But seriously, tell me.”

All eyes are on me to recount the details of our sordid affair. I say, “Bikes. We met on bikes.”

“We did,” Stewart says. “And we got ticketed for illegal biking.” He puts his arm around me and pulls me toward him just the slightest bit, and now all eyes are on the hand on my shoulder. Stewart wasn’t kidding about not being a big toucher.

The last of their party arrives—the dreaded cousin Grant, his wife, Kendall, and his mother, Ellen. Ellen and Kendall stand back while Grant reaches out to shake my hand and keeps it in his for the count of Mississippi. He has full lips and a square jaw and extreme rich-guy hair. Rich-guy hair is Gus’s joke. It’s hard to describe it but you know it when you see it. It’s brushed straight back and sometimes has a distinctive wave in the front. There is always tons of it, which Gus chalks up to expensive hair-care products, but I suspect is the result of having absolutely nothing to worry about.