10. Field and Oar
The Field and Oar Club allows members to bring two guests at a time, but for lunch on Monday, Phoebe Wheeler brings three. Will anyone challenge her? She breezes past the reception desk with a wave, and the young person Sam (they/their, though the old guard at the club pretend not to understand nonbinary) says, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wheeler. Here for lunch?”
“You know it, Sam,” Phoebe says. Sam won’t question her guests; Phoebe helped Sam get their job here.
It’s only noon but the patio at the club is popping. It’s the first glorious week of summer, when every day feels like Friday. Diane is playing the piano—“Building a Mystery” by Sarah McLachlan—and nearly all the wrought-iron tables under umbrellas are occupied. There’s a table of women in tennis whites; one of boarding-school bros in polo shirts and loafers with no socks; one with a mother and daughter poring over a seating chart. Beyond the brick patio, guests can see a manicured green lawn, the giant iron anchor sculpture that children have climbed on for decades, the flagpole flying not only the American flag but the Field and Oar’s burgee, and the brilliant blue water of Nantucket Harbor.
As Phoebe approaches the hostess stand, she sees Busy Ambrose sliding her lightship basket up her arm and rising from her table. Busy is the Field and Oar’s commodore, and she’s a stickler for the rules; if she sees that Phoebe has brought three guests, she’ll make a comment. Phoebe believes she should be allowed to bring as many guests as she wants. She not only sits on the membership committee but chairs the scholarship committee, which means reading dozens of student essays on the topics of character and integrity, a thankless job. But Phoebe would like to avoid trouble, especially since it’s early in the season and one of today’s missions is to introduce Leslee Richardson to the club and the club to Leslee Richardson.
“Let’s take a quick tour,” Phoebe says to avoid a run-in with Busy. She leads the three women through the formal dining room and up the stairs. Leslee is right on Phoebe’s heels, wearing a sundress printed with yellow poppies. Behind her is Andrea, in white capris and a lavender tunic, and bringing up the rear is Delilah, who is decked out in what Phoebe thinks of as one of her “Field and Oar–aspirational” outfits—a kelly-green shirtdress with a stiff upturned collar and a bubble hem. Phoebe wishes Delilah wouldn’t try so hard; her own natural style would have been better. Delilah has paired the dress with matching green Jack Rogers sandals and a wicker purse with faux-tortoiseshell handles.
Phoebe acknowledges then that the reason she feels uncomfortable isn’t that she has too many guests. It’s that Delilah, who is Phoebe’s best friend in the universe, has been trying to get into the Field and Oar for years with no success. Phoebe, although she is on the membership committee and is in the room when the vote is taken, has no idea why. Other couples just have more support, and the Drakes are perennially passed over. Each time, Phoebe expresses her ardent endorsement of Jeffrey and Delilah, but she always gets the feeling that the other committee members are just waiting for her to finish.
Phoebe invited Andrea and Delilah along today so they could meet Leslee, but she knows that Delilah is watching like a proverbial hawk to make sure the Richardsons don’t leapfrog over her and Jeffrey to Field and Oar membership. Would that ever happen? Phoebe wonders. She dearly hopes not, but she admits that it might—Leslee Richardson presents well. On an island where you see the same faces year after year, she’s a breath of fresh air. She’s attractive, stylish, and a social butterfly; she’s already talking about a housewarming party and the first sunset sail on her new yacht.
“This is the Governor’s Room,” Phoebe says, showing off the classic lounge where she hosted her son’s thirteenth birthday party. They move out to the deck, which has an unimpeded view of the tennis courts; a group of kids are heading out for a sailing lesson. “And this is the jewel in our crown.” Phoebe opens a door with a brass porthole window. “The Burgee Bar.”
Delilah loves everything about the Field and Oar. It’s an old-school club where understatement is key. The decor is outdated, but there’s history in the faded chintz, the scuffs in the woodwork, the thick white paint. The walls boast plaques naming the winners of every regatta and tennis tournament since time immemorial. It’s easy for Delilah to imagine women coming for lunch in dirndl skirts, pearls, and white gloves sixty years ago. The club seems determined to keep the twenty-first century at bay; cell phones are forbidden, and therefore you won’t see the Field and Oar appearing on TikTok or Instagram or even Facebook. It can only be experienced in person.
Delilah’s favorite part of the Field and Oar is the Burgee Bar. Burgees from clubs across the country flutter from the ceiling. The bar is made from oak salvaged from the original club floor; the leather stools are comfortably worn; and they famously serve Bugles as a bar snack. Nothing about the Burgee is fancy or sleek, but it exudes the rarefied feel of members-only.
“This place could use a makeover,” Leslee says. “It’s a bit… tired.”
Delilah gives Phoebe a pointed look—Leslee Richardson doesn’t get it—which Phoebe ignores. “Shall we go down to lunch?” she says.
They’re seated at the best table—the one closest to the water that receives a welcome breeze—and Delilah feels like everyone in the place is whispering about her. Delilah and Jeffrey have been languishing on the wait list of this club for years. They can’t seem to get in, even with Phoebe on the membership committee. Jeffrey doesn’t give a rat’s ass, and that’s probably half the problem. He’s not good at schmoozing; his idea of cocktail-party chat is talking about aphids and organic fertilizer.
But there’s a part of Delilah that worries she’s the problem. For years, she was the hostess at the Scarlet Begonia on Water Street, a place known for its spinach-artichoke dip and its wild after-hours scene. Delilah hasn’t worked at the Begonia in over a decade, but she wonders if any of the members here saw her drinking bourbon at the bar at two in the morning, hair frizzed out, blouse undone one button too far, when she had two little children at home. There was one fateful night when Delilah left the Begonia and mistook another Jeep Wagoneer for her own. The keys were in the console, right where Delilah left hers, and she drove it all the way home; it was only in the morning when Jeffrey woke up and went out to the driveway that she learned of her mistake. They returned the Wagoneer to town without anyone knowing, but Delilah found out later that the other Jeep belonged to Talbot Sweeney, a longtime member of the Field and Oar.
Their server appears wearing a name tag that says MEAGHAN and, below that, her hometown: ANNANDALE, VA. Phoebe orders a bottle of Sancerre and Leslee says, “Thank god you’re not a chardonnay drinker.” Delilah clears her throat; her go-to wine by the glass is the Chalk Hill chardonnay; is there something wrong with that? Meaghan leaves to fetch the wine, and Andrea, who is seated to Delilah’s left, goes straight into interview mode.
“So, Leslee, what made you want to come to Nantucket? Do you have friends here, did you come as a child, did you read a novel with Nantucket as the setting?”
Multiple choice, Delilah thinks. B would be the best answer, although Delilah’s own answer would have been D, none of the above. Delilah had run away from home, gone as far east as she could, and ended up here. (Maybe some of the Field and Oar members have heard this story and disapprove?)
“My only friend here so far is Phoebe,” Leslee says. She reaches over to squeeze Phoebe’s hand. Delilah cranes her neck; where is Meaghan with their wine? “Bull and I have spent time in Palm Beach, in Aspen, and, most recently, in the Virgin Islands. We tried the BVIs first. We stayed at Oil Nut Bay—”
“Addison and I love Oil Nut Bay!” Phoebe says and Delilah nudges Andrea’s knee under the table. Addison and Phoebe’s extravagant vacations are a topic.
“Then we spent a few weeks in St. John. We’ve never really done summer on the East Coast—we’ve always gone to Europe.”
Please,Delilah thinks, say something more obnoxious. What are they doing with this woman?
“But this past year we decided we wanted to give up our wandering ways and put down roots. Buy a house, make it a home. Lucky for us, Triple Eight Pocomo was on the market.”
“So lucky,” Phoebe says and again Delilah bumps Andrea’s leg. Is it so lucky that in a few years, the Richardsons are going to be living in a pineapple under the sea?
Meaghan arrives with the wine. Hallelujah, Delilah thinks.
They raise their glasses and Phoebe says, “Welcome, Leslee!”
Delilah smiles but says nothing. Leslee hasn’t done anything wrong but Delilah (stubbornly? childishly?) doesn’t want to welcome her. She doesn’t like the way Phoebe is fawning all over her, and is it not obvious that this woman is glomming on to Phoebe because she wants something? She’s a social climber, and the three of them are the rungs.
“What made you decide on that particular house?” Andrea asks. Ha! Delilah thinks. Andrea is tough with the questions today; Ed should put her in the interrogation room.
“The view, obviously. And the history. When we googled it, we saw it had been featured on the cover of Architectural Digest.”
It wasTown and Country, actually, Delilah thinks, but why split hairs?
“But the thing that really sold me was the upstairs party room. You’ve heard about it? It was designed by Jennifer Quinn, the last Nantucket project she did before she started Real-Life Rehab and became a celebrity.”
“I have,” Phoebe says. “There was an article in the Wall Street Journal a few years ago about Nantucket homes with bars in them, and Triple Eight was featured.”
“We are going to host so many parties,” Leslee says. “And you’re all invited.”
“We love parties,” Phoebe says.
They do love parties, especially Delilah. Back when all the kids were growing up, Delilah’s house was where everyone gathered. At the end of every summer, she threw a lobster-and-rock-anthem party; the counter of her kitchen island was reinforced with steel plates so Delilah and her friends could dance on it. She hosted everyone during hurricanes and blizzards. She concocted signature cocktails and popped popcorn on the stove and made hot chocolate from scratch.
But now that Drew and Barney are grown, the parties have slowed down. Way down. It might be nice, Delilah thinks, to let someone else entertain for a change. Especially at Triple Eight Pocomo. Delilah thinks buying the house was foolish, but the fact remains that it’s a beautiful house. Delilah has seen it only from the water, though she’s dreamed of standing at the railing of that octagonal deck, champagne flute in hand.
When Meaghan comes to take their order, Leslee says, “I’d like the bacon cheeseburger, rare, with fries and a side of mayo.”
“Wow,” Delilah says. “I had you pegged for a slutty vegan.”
“Delilah!” Phoebe says.
Leslee laughs. “It’s a joke. Slutty Vegan is a restaurant chain. I’ve been to the one in New York.” She winks at Delilah. “You guessed wrong—I love meat.”
Delilah warms to Leslee just a bit—but no, she won’t be seduced. She isn’t easy, like Phoebe, who in an obvious attempt to change the subject asks Leslee if she plays pickleball.
Yes, Leslee plays pickleball. In fact, she’s played with “Julie, the over-fifty champion.” Bull isn’t much for the game, and he’s too busy besides. Delilah wants to ask what Bull’s business is (would this be rude?) but she can’t get a word in edgewise because Leslee is exclaiming about how she would love to be their fourth. She pulls a tissue from her Goyard bag and dabs away happy tears. She’s just so touched; she can’t believe how lucky she is to be making such wonderful friends.
Delilah nudges Andrea’s leg again. Is this an act? She’s on her third glass of Sancerre, so she can’t really tell.
Delilah leans forward and says, “So where are you and Bull from?”
Leslee laughs like an audience member on a late-night show and says, “Bull comes from the Land Down Under, which is obvious the second he opens his mouth.” She looks around the table. “I’ve barely asked you ladies anything about yourselves.”
This,Delilah thinks, is true. She wonders what kind of advance billing Phoebe gave them. Did Phoebe define them by their husbands? (Delilah’s husband, Jeffrey, owns Sea View Farm. Andrea’s husband, Ed, is the chief of police.)
Andrea clears her throat. “Delilah serves on the board of the Nantucket food pantry.”
“Nantucket Food, Fuel, and Rental Assistance,” Delilah says, though everyone calls it the food pantry.
Leslee brings her hands together as if in prayer. “You’re a do-gooder!” She makes it sound like she’s opened her front door to find Delilah in a Girl Scout uniform selling Thin Mints. “Phoebe has my email. Just send me the link. I’d be happy to read up on your cause and donate.”
“I used to do a ton of philanthropy before I had Reed,” Phoebe says. “I’ll have more time for it next year once he goes to boarding school.”
“Oh,” Leslee says. “Where is he looking?”
“The usual places,” Phoebe says. “Middlesex, St. George’s, Milton. But the one he has his heart set on is Tiffin Academy.”
“Tiffin!” Leslee shouts. “We know at least half the board at Tiffin.” She waves a hand. “We’ll see to it that he gets in.”
At this, Andrea bumps Delilah’s leg.
Phoebe, who never loses her composure, completely loses her composure. Her composure, Delilah thinks, is rolling around somewhere under the table. “You’d do that?” Phoebe says. “Put in a word when the time comes? Obviously you can’t guarantee admission—”
“I’ll pull every string,” Leslee says. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for writing our nominating letter.” Leslee sighs. “I would love to be a member here.”
Delilah sets her wineglass down on the wrought-iron table harder than she means to. “Nominating letter?” she says. “That was sweet of you, Phoebes.” The legs of her chair scrape against the brick patio as she pushes it back from the table. “Excuse me a moment.”
“Delilah,” Phoebe says.
Delilah slams into the women’s lounge. Phoebe is writing the Richardsons a nominating letter? She’s known them five minutes! Back when Delilah and Jeffrey were applying, Phoebe said she’d rather not write the nominating letter because she didn’t want to be accused of trying to get her friends in. She’d ended up writing a seconding letter, which had apparently done nothing.
The lounge has a seating area with a sofa upholstered in cheerful pink and white stripes and two pink Ultrasuede armchairs. This has never made sense to Delilah—who would want to hang out in what is essentially the ladies’ room?—but now she collapses in one of the armchairs and thinks how nice it is to have a comfortable place to sit while she processes her best friend’s betrayal.
Delilah realizes she’s being petty, even ridiculous. Everyone else in the world has a problem bigger than not getting into a private club. But even so… if the Richardsons get into the Field and Oar, Delilah will never speak to Phoebe again.
Nominating letter!
The women’s lounge, as far as Delilah can tell, is empty, but even if it weren’t, she can’t hold her frustration inside, not after three glasses of wine and two hours in this hideous dress. “Bahhhhhhh!” she cries.
A toilet flushes, and Delilah hears water running in a sink; the bathrooms are around the corner. She closes her eyes, praying that whoever it is will leave the lounge without comment.
No such luck.
“Are you okay?” a voice asks. Then there’s a gasp. “Delilah?”
My life,Delilah thinks, is officially over.
It’s Blond Sharon.
When Blond Sharon finished reading her character-study scene to her creative-writing class over Zoom, there was a lengthy silence.
Pow!Sharon thought. Her piece had rendered them speechless.
Lucky Zambrano cleared his throat. “Nancy, Willow, do either of you have comments for Sharon?”
Both women bowed their heads.
Lucky said, “Well, the physical description of Coco is quite vivid, although a bit of a stereotype, I’m afraid. Wearing black, the flamingo tattoo, the Joan Jett hair, the army duffel.”
“She was a hell of a lot more interesting than the other woman, the one with the shiny hair and the whatever-brand blazer,” Nancy said.
“Veronica Beard blazer,” Sharon clarified.
“Sharon, please wait until the end to respond,” Lucky said.
“I found it predictable,” Willow said. “Like maybe Sharon used ChatGPT with the prompt ‘Write a character study about two women getting off the ferry, one prep and one punk.’”
Sharon pressed her lips together to keep herself from shouting, I did not use ChatGPT!
“ChatGPT will be the end of writing as we know it,” Lucky said. “And while I’m not suggesting that Sharon used this egregious shortcut, I would suggest starting this piece fresh with different characters.”
“Different characters?” Sharon said, aghast.
“Sharon,” Lucky said. “Have you ever heard the phrase kill your darlings?”
“Attributed to William Faulkner,” Nancy said. Nancy was turning out to be kind of a pill. “It means you should delete anything that’s not working in your writing, no matter how fond you might be of it.”
“But my characters?” Sharon said. “Both characters?”
“Kill your darlings,” Lucky said.
Sharon, dramatically, drew an X through her handwritten page.
“Let’s move on,” Lucky said. “Willow, you may read.”
After class ended, Sharon called her sister, Heather. “I thought Walker leaving me for Bailey from PT was a hit to my self-esteem,” she said. “It was nothing compared to the beating I just took in my creative-writing class.”
“Mmgmmghbmm,” Heather said. She was eating while they spoke, which they’d been brought up never to do, but Heather was so busy at work that the only time she could talk was during her desk lunch.
“You read it,” Sharon said. “Did you think it was predictable?”
Heather slurped something through a straw.
“They told me to start over,” Sharon said.
Heather swallowed. “So start over,” she said. “If they thought it was predictable, then look around until you find something… unexpected.”
What kind of crazy advice was that? If it was unexpected, how would Sharon know where to look for it?
The meaning of Heather’s words lands on Monday at the Field and Oar Club. Sharon has just finished a tennis lesson with the new instructor, Mateo, who came to the Field and Oar from Buenos Aires. Mateo has the cheekbones and eyebrows of a luxury-brand model and he thought nothing of wrapping his strong arms around Sharon in an attempt to fix her backhand. A stranger comes to town, part three? she thinks. However, even Sharon knows that lusting after her hot tennis instructor isn’t exactly “unexpected.”
In the ladies’ lounge after her lesson, Sharon is mindlessly emptying her bladder when she hears a woman cry out. Not in fright or pain, Sharon doesn’t think, but in frustration. Sharon pokes her head around the corner to find out what’s going on—expressions of genuine emotion are rare at this club—and sees Delilah Drake squashed into one of the club chairs like a pea smashed into a rug.
“Delilah?” Sharon says. She doesn’t quite consider Delilah a friend, though they’ve known each other forever and are connected through various filaments of the Nantucket web. Delilah is married to Jeffrey Drake; they own Sea View Farm, where Sharon buys her tomatoes and her corn. Delilah is close with Phoebe Wheeler and Andrea Kapenash, and their friend group has a name—the Outcasts? The Commitments? Sharon is guilty of making fun of the name, whatever it is, but that’s just because she’s envious. They are three smart, fun, accomplished women and Sharon has always wanted to know them better.
The other unexpected thing about finding Delilah here is that Delilah isn’t a member of the Field and Oar Club. Sharon sits on the membership committee, and although she always votes to admit the Drakes, the motion never carries.
“Is everything okay?” Sharon asks. The answer is obviously no, but will Delilah spill the tea? Delilah sinks farther into the chair, her green dress billowing around her like a parachute.
Sharon sits on the sofa and props her sneakered feet up on the white wicker coffee table, pretending she needs to take a load off after an exhausting tennis lesson. Sometimes the best way to get people to talk is to be quiet.
Delilah says nothing for a moment and Sharon thinks, Fair enough.Sharon isn’t exactly known for her discretion. She wonders how to describe the color of Delilah’s dress. It’s not lizard or haricot vert; she considers kaffir lime, shamrock, and emerald, but all of those make the color sound more appealing than it is. Traffic-light green, maybe?
Finally, Delilah exhales. “Have you met Leslee Richardson?”
“No,” Sharon says. Cautiously dropping her voice to a whisper, she adds, “But I’ve heard some things.”
Delilah leans forward. “What have you heard?”
Delilah is turning the tables, but as Sharon knows, you must often give information to get information. “She and her husband bought Triple Eight Pocomo, and then a few days later, a yacht, Hedonism.” Sharon laughs. “Sounds like the name of a nudist colony. And I did hear… I can’t say from whom… that she considers herself a ‘party animal.’” The term is so ridiculous, Sharon uses air quotes. “I also heard she’s very eager to become a member here.”
Delilah takes a breath to speak, then hesitates. “This has to stay in the vault.”
Surely she’s being ironic,Sharon thinks. Everyone on Nantucket knows she is constitutionally unable to keep a secret. But maybe this once, to preserve the integrity of her character study, she’ll try? “In the vault!” Sharon agrees.
Delilah starts to talk: Leslee Richardson is here having lunch with Phoebe, Andrea, and Delilah. She has managed to completely ingratiate herself with Phoebe, even offering to help Phoebe’s son, Reed, get into his first-choice boarding school.
“Have you ever heard of anything so transactional?” Delilah says. “She offered because Phoebe is apparently writing the Richardsons a nominating letter to join the club.”
“What?” Sharon says. She is offended on Delilah’s behalf. “There’s a long wait list.” She nearly adds: As you of all people know.
“Leslee strikes me as one of these silky-smooth operators,” Delilah says. “She’s talking about all the parties she’s going to throw at her house and on the yacht. She wants to be our fourth in pickleball.”
Sharon nearly says, I play pickleball if you’re looking for a fourth, but she doesn’t want to sound like what her twins refer to as a “Pick-Me girl.”
“The weird thing is how quickly she’s infiltrated,” Delilah says. “She and the husband, Bull, are out at the restaurants seven nights a week, making connections with every round of drinks they buy. They hired Lamont Oakley as their boat captain.”
“That was a coup,” Sharon admits. “Everyone loves Lamont.”
“Exactly,” Delilah says. “He’s going to lend them legitimacy, but the truth is, nobody knows anything about these people.”
“Where did they come from?” Sharon asks.
“We asked, but Leslee only said they’ve been bouncing around. She mentioned the Virgin Islands, Palm Beach, Aspen…”
“All the hot spots,” Sharon says. “And now they’ve landed in the most exclusive place of all.”
Delilah seems to relax a bit. “It’s not like they have to provide references to live here,” she says. “I just think it’s odd the way they’ve decided to make Nantucket their forever home without any context. I feel strangely threatened, like I’m in middle school and Leslee is the new girl who shows up and steals away my friends. Though I do like her perfume. She smells like crème br?lée.”
Now, that’s a detail!Sharon thinks as she mentally writes the scene: Delilah’s green dress reflects the jealousy she feels about this interloper; Phoebe succumbs to Leslee’s sequined promises and her vanilla-and-burned-sugar scent. How did Andrea react to Leslee Richardson? Sharon wonders. She probably found some middle ground, reserved judgment; Andrea is known for being sensible and measured.
Suddenly Delilah stands, so Sharon does as well. “I’d better get back out there before they start talking about me,” Delilah says.
Sharon laughs, though that’s probably exactly what’s happening. “Thanks for the warning about Madam Richardson.” She wants Delilah to know that she can count on her as an ally—though maybe not too much of an ally because Sharon would like to get invited to the parties at 888 Pocomo Road and on the yacht.
“I’m sure she’s not as bad as I’ve made her out to be,” Delilah says. She tugs on the sides of her dress. “She’s probably harmless.”
“Well,” Sharon says, “that would be a disappointment.”
Delilah gives Sharon a hug before she disappears out the door. Sharon is tempted to poke her head out onto the patio so she can get a look at Leslee Richardson in person, but in the end, she decides to go straight home. She needs to start writing while it’s all still fresh in her mind.