Dolly All the Time(41)

Stewart introduces me to Ellen and Kendall, who do not appear to want to shake hands or hug, so I give a weak wave.

“The mystery woman,” Kendall says, by way of greeting.

“We’ve been seeing photos of you everywhere,” Grant says. “Where did you come from?”

“Goose Lane,” I say, and immediately want to take it back.

He laughs, still holding my eyes. “Really?”

“Also, Boston,” Stewart says. “That’s where we met.”

“On bikes!” says Lilly.

“Dolly doesn’t have a drink,” Stewart says. “Did you want a drink?”

Everyone’s looking at me and I am finding it hard to answer this simple question. Either you want a drink or you don’t.

Busy says, “I’m going to have an old-fashioned.”

As soon as the words are spoken, Gladys appears with a tray of drinks. Busy takes an old-fashioned, likely a standing order, and Gladys holds the tray in front of me. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” she says. “I have an old-fashioned, a pinot gris, or a rosé. Sparkling water?”

“A rosé would be lovely,” I say, and take it. “Thank you.” Gladys gives me the kindest look and then a nod. It’s a You’ve got this nod.

“So, Dolly,” Kendall says. “Who are you and why have we never met you before?”

Oh, I see. Kendall’s kind of a bitch. I understand that Audrey is a friend of hers, but she has to know she’s no saint. “I’m a kindergarten teacher from Boston, but I grew up here. I’ve been delivering fish here my whole life, actually.” I didn’t need to say that.

“Fish?” Henry Whitfield asks.

“Yes, my father is Freddie Brick of Brick Fish House.”

Kendall does the most elegant spit take.

“We’re using them for the Starlight Gala this year,” Victoria says to Henry. “His was the best bid all around.”

“I hadn’t heard, thank you. My dad will be thrilled,” I say, in what is officially the greatest understatement of all time. As soon as I can excuse myself to the bathroom, I am going to text him in all caps and break my own exclamation point protocol. By the end of this summer my dad will be officially in the black.

“Come see the view,” Stewart says to me, and guides me by the elbow to the limestone railing at the edge of the patio. He keeps his hand on my arm as we look down at the waves lapping the rocks below.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know why I told them about the fish house. I’m a kindergarten teacher, the anti-Audrey. Was fish delivery girl too far?” How did we not cover this?

“There’s nothing wrong with the fish house,” he says.

“Okay,” I say.

“And they don’t even need to like you. They just need to believe we’re good together.”

I turn to him and take in that gorgeous profile. I don’t know who would ever believe we were really together, but it’s awfully fun pretending. “They all just about dropped dead when you put your arm around me,” I say. “Want to sniff me again?”

He smiles in spite of himself and keeps looking out at the waves. After a beat he turns and leans in, brushing his cheek against mine. I try to be quiet about it, but I breathe him in, that clean smell of leather and a cologne so faint that it’s like the memory of scent. His lip catches my ear, an accident, and I take in another breath.

“All right,” he says into my ear. His warm breath and the sound of his voice that close trickles down my neck.

“All right,” I whisper. “That’s enough sniffing.” That was a terrible idea.

He pulls away and retucks his perfectly tucked shirt. I can feel his family watching us, so I turn toward the view. I look over the railing, down at the six-mile cliff walk that ends here at Eight Oaks. Beyond it is the rocky shore where the waves are lazily rolling in and out. “Not a lot of drama down there tonight.”

“Put a few drinks in my aunt Ellen and you’ll see some drama,” he says. He dips his head to me as he says it and, without thinking, I touch that place on my ear where his lips were.



* * *





We’re eating outside, which is a relief. I’d been picturing the formal dining room, and a million tiny catastrophes played out behind my eyes. Red wine on the antique carpet, an unsolvable puzzle of slightly different forks. A lady’s maid straight out of Downton Abbey, lurking behind me in case my hair needs arranging. Instead, we are all seated around a table overlooking the orange sunset on the bay. Gladys serves dinner with the help of another woman who has not been named to me. In front of me is a rattan placemat under a white plate, edged in gold and decorated with tiny yellow birds in flight. It’s exquisite, this plate. My napkin is white linen rolled into a gold ring embossed with a jeweled acorn.

Stewart is across from me with his back to the sunset.

“Well, the chicken is delicious,” Henry says to Gladys when she’s refilling everyone’s Sancerre.

“Thank you, sir. Tomorrow I’m making scampi. Dolly brought a load of fresh shrimp.”

Henry raises his glass to me. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Do you cook, Dolly?” Victoria asks.