Savannah takes a breath for patience. “The police are handling that. You and I have the kids to worry about.”
“The kids love me,” JP says. “But they don’t like me. They liked Vivi. They talked to Vivi.” He offers Savannah the slow, handsome half smile that, Savannah knows, was one of the things that hooked Vivi in the first place. “And they like you. They talk to you.”
“They do,” Savannah says, standing up. “Do you need me to give you a ride home or are you going to call Amy?”
“Amy?” he says as though he has no idea who that is.
“I’m parked out front,” Savannah says. “Let’s go.”
Amy
Amy asks for the day of Vivi’s memorial service off and so does Lorna, claiming that she needs to support her friend, and thankfully, Wednesdays are slow at the salon. Brandi, the receptionist, reluctantly takes them off the schedule, thinking they will be attending Vivi’s service.
Instead, the two of them head to Cru, located on the end of Straight Wharf, which is the best place for day-drinking on Nantucket.
They settle in at the back bar and order a bottle of champagne, the Pol Roger, “in honor of Vivi.” They also order a dozen oysters and, what the hell, while they’re at it, the caviar service—osetra, with all the trimmings. When the glass doors swing open, diners have an unimpeded view across the water. There’s a narrow strip of boardwalk around the back bar, and Amy knows that plenty of people have fallen in; she used to hear the ruckus when she worked across the way at the Cork with JP. The ocean is spangled with sunlight; boats are tilting from side to side in the nearby slips; the ferry’s horn sounds, and seagulls cry out like jealous girls. Tommy the bartender pops the cork on their bottle of champagne.
“Celebrating, ladies?” he asks.
Amy hasn’t thought about the optics of this until now. She’s taking a day off work so she can mourn her boyfriend’s ex-wife, but her version of “mourning” is drinking champagne she can’t afford and eating caviar she really can’t afford. What if someone sees her?
“That’s right,” Lorna says, raising her flute of platinum bubbles. “Celebrating a life.”
Amy had offered to skip the service and reception before JP even asked. “I think everyone, the kids especially, would be more comfortable if I stayed away.”
Amy sensed JP’s relief immediately. “You’re probably right,” he said.
Will the kids miss her? Carson, maybe. But if Amy attended the service, everyone would be watching her because she would be in the uniquely awful position of mourning a woman she had not always spoken of in the most generous of terms. Amy couldn’t bear the scrutiny.
She raises her flute and clinks it against Lorna’s without words. All she wants to do today is drink and forget.
At some point in the future, JP will be able to think about something other than Vivi’s death. The summer will march on, the kids will adjust, Leo will leave for college. Amy will reach out to Carson—this might be a chance for them to grow closer. And JP will be free to propose. Amy just has to wait a little longer.
The champagne is gone before they know it and Lorna orders a bottle of rosé. Tommy asks if they’re thinking about more food. The oysters slipped down Amy’s throat in six briny swallows and the caviar provided three bites apiece. Amy orders two buttery lobster rolls with fries.
She turns to Lorna. “Don’t worry, this is all my treat.” She does some mental calculations and realizes that even if they stop eating and drinking now, their bill will be four hundred dollars. This lunch is extravagant, but she has reached the point of no return. “We could be dead tomorrow.”
As the afternoon wears on, the bar becomes more crowded. The demographic is handsome men, suntanned after a day of sailing or fishing, in groups of three or four. One cute guy in a Torrey Pines visor starts chatting with Lorna. He likes her accent, he says. His grandfather was an Irishman, from Wexford.
“Ha!” Lorna says. “That’s where I grew up!”
Amy tries to contribute to their conversation, piping up in her own accent—Alabama!—but her Southern drawl has dried up in the past ten years and now when she says “Y’all,” it sounds forced. She turns to the remaining warm rosé in her glass and wills one of the other gentlemen to come over and rescue her, but nobody does. She arrived on Nantucket a svelte twenty-three-year-old; now, she’s ten years older and fifteen （no, twenty） pounds heavier, and she looks…worn out. She is worn out. Dealing with JP and his kids and his mother and his struggle to find himself has been exhausting, and wondering when she will stop being the girlfriend （mistress） and start being the wife has left her disenchanted. Her light has dimmed. No wonder all the men at this bar are steering clear of her. She might as well have a sticker across her forehead that says USED UP.