Chapter 16
On Monday, I’m in the back room of the fish house making crabcakes when Stewart invites me to Eight Oaks. I stand there with crabby hands and stare at the message for a bit.
Stewart: That’s fine. I’ll come get you then
Me: No, I’ll drive, thanks
And then after a few seconds of staring into my phone, I text: I am extremely nervous about this
Stewart: Please don’t be. They’re really not so bad
I don’t reply. I don’t know where this hesitancy is coming from. I just rubbed all the richest elbows in Providence. But a family dinner. I just don’t know if I can pull it off.
Me: What kind of domestic help do you have in Boston?
Stewart: Why?
Me: I forgot to ask before. Arming myself with facts
Stewart: Helena is my housekeeper. She comes weekdays, does laundry and makes my breakfast. Billy’s my regular driver. There’s a landscaping team—Mike and Reggie—that deal with my yard. Damion deals with house maintenance for the most part
Five people. I do every single one of those things myself. I almost text that to him, but it would only put more distance between us when I’m about to walk into a situation where I’ll have to pretend I’m already part of his world.
Stewart: I texted Gladys. She’s making coq au vin and some kind of goat cheese appetizer. Does that help at all?
I smile at my phone. It helps that he went to the trouble to ask, actually. And I do love fancy chicken.
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.
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.