Chapter 16 Liz
In the morning, Liz turned on her phone and saw a voicemail from Victoria, her best friend, who was in fact married to the man who had abandoned her, the man she had yearned for her whole life.
Liz deleted the message without listening to it.
She couldn’t face whatever Victoria had to say.
Liz turned off her phone again. She thought maybe she’d even leave it at home and intentionally invite the slippery feeling of walking out into the world without the ever-present appendage of an iPhone.
Preston would probably understand that choice even less than the dramatic restructuring of Liz’s family tree.
He was already awake, hammering out emails even though it was a Sunday morning, his body facing away from Liz so the little tap-tap noises of his finger pads against the screen wouldn’t disturb her.
“Morning,” Liz said.
“You’re up.” Preston shifted his body towards her. “How’d you sleep? Is your back feeling better?”
“I think so,” Liz said, making a show of stretching out and assessing her phantom sciatica’s overnight relief. “I’m going to shower and get ready.”
That involved feeling like a moose when Liz studied herself naked in the mirror under the bathroom skylight’s bright natural glare and working herself into a panic trying to figure out what to wear to see Preston’s family.
She knew that Victoria would’ve been able to suggest the perfect outfit.
But that option was lost to Liz now. Her best friend slash maternal figure slash life coach was married to the person who had wanted nothing to do with her.
Who said the universe didn’t have a sense of humor?
Liz bit her bottom lip and stared into a pile of moth-nibbled sweaters.
She tried to rid all thoughts of Victoria and Ace from her mind.
She told herself: Just get through this day.
Put on your game face and get through this day.
Luckily, Preston didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss on the drive down to Orange County.
He filled Liz in on some workplace shake-ups, fanboyed over a new client, and warned her to avoid the Caesar salad at the club.
Preston’s father Tripp always told guests to order it, but the anchovies were practically drowning in the creamy garlic dressing, which Preston suspected was from a bottle—or worse, a box bought at Costco.
Liz thanked him for the tip and looked out the window as the sun streamed down from a cloudless, robin’s-egg-blue sky until the ocean’s sparkling horizon came into view.
On the right, developments stacked with multimillion-dollar homes rose up on cliffs and crawled across the valleys.
Manicured, emerald-green lawns stretched to the borders of pristine sidewalks.
It was all so ruthlessly perfect that Liz felt unkempt even though she had put herself together with painstaking precision.
“Ten more minutes,” Preston announced.
“Great,” Liz said, feigning as much enthusiasm as she could and trying to ignore her mounting anxiety.
They pulled up in front of the club nine minutes later.
A gangly valet opened Liz’s car door and Preston rattled off his family’s membership number to the guy behind the desk.
When they walked in, Liz expected to see framed oil paintings of sea bass and flounders decorating glossy wood-paneled rooms for smoking cigars and comparing one’s ancestry, but the exclusive club was too WASPy to show off the wealth of its members with opulence; instead, threadbare rugs and worn lemon-yellow couches belied any hints of new money.
There were a few nautical touches—some mounted schematics of ships, and a black-and-white photograph of a 1960s surfer.
Liz and Preston walked over to the dining room, a sprawling space overlooking the golf course.
The hostess, a perky young thing who seemed a little too thrilled to see Preston again—“Weren’t you a senior when my sister was a freshman?
” she said coyly—led them over to the table.
Liz saw that Preston’s parents were already seated and at least one cocktail in.
Tripp and Cricket Lancaster waved robotically, like pageant contestants, then stood up.
“Preston, darling,” Cricket said, kissing her son on each cheek.
Liz respectfully hung back while Preston greeted his parents.
“How are you, sport?” Tripp asked, then embraced him and clapped Preston on the back.
“Can’t complain, sir,” Preston said. He turned and held out his hand to Liz. “You remember Liz.”
Liz stepped forward and slipped her hand into Preston’s palm, grateful to have something to hold on to.
“Well, well, well!” Tripp said. “Look at you.”
“How are you feeling, dear?” Cricket said. She stepped closer to Liz and double-kissed the air near her cheeks.
“The first trimester was a little rough, but I’m feeling better now. We’re excited,” Liz said, sneaking a sideways glance at Preston.
“So excited!” Preston said.
“You must be due soon,” Tripp said, taking in Liz’s midsection as if it were a volcano that might spew at any second.
Cricket swatted her husband’s arm. “Tripp, manners.”
“Only a couple more months to go,” Preston said.
Both Cricket and Tripp briefly inspected Liz’s belly, like they couldn’t believe this to be the case. Then Cricket gestured to the table. “Shall we sit?”
“Maker’s, rocks, for you?” Tripp asked Preston.
“If that’s what you’re having,” Preston told his father.
Tripp pointed to his empty glass, then flashed two fingers to a waiter who had silently materialized tableside.
Cricket discreetly tapped the rim of her glass with her index finger to signal that she’d like another as well.
Liz knew that Preston’s mom favored vodka and preferred to keep the calories down by avoiding any mixers.
Cricket had the kind of physique best described as birdlike, and she considered her slim and slender frame a point of pride.
Even though it had been a genetic gift, a birthright along with the deed to her family’s summer home in Newport (the other Newport), Cricket had maintained her looks with discipline and thought she deserved credit for this dedication to deprivation. The waiter turned to look at Liz.
“Water for me, thanks.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” Cricket told her. “You’ll work it off once the baby’s here. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer an Arnold Palmer?”
“Water’s perfect. Thank you, though.” Liz hoped Cricket wasn’t going to dispatch her personal trainer to the delivery room as a baby gift. They all made polite small talk, and then the waiter returned with the drinks. Tripp looked at his watch.
“Piper and Brooks should be here any minute,” he said. “But we’ll toast again when they arrive.” Tripp held up his glass. “To the new member of the family.” Liz didn’t know whether Tripp was talking about her or the baby, but she held up her water glass and clinked it against everyone’s.
Out of the corner of her eye, Liz saw Piper sweeping into the club.
Brooks was by her side, dashing as ever with a thicket of wavy brown hair and a gold signet ring on his pinkie finger, which only a man who used summer as a verb could pull off.
Piper was wearing what she had referred to on her Instagram as equestrian chic.
Brooks always looked like he had stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad and today’s popped-collar-and-driving-shoe combo didn’t disappoint.
The hostess who had hit on Preston directed Piper and Brooks to the table, and Liz averted her eyes before Preston’s sister could notice her staring.
“Hello, hello,” Piper said as they drew closer. Liz thought that if sterling silver had a sound, it would be the smooth polish of Piper’s voice. Everyone stood up from the table. Piper went to embrace Preston first, so she didn’t notice Liz—or that she was pregnant.
“You’re such a stranger,” Piper said to Preston, playfully punching her younger brother on the shoulder. “Have we lost you to the wilds of LA for good?”
“Just been busy,” Preston said. “You’re looking sharp as ever, Pipes. How do you find the time to get all dolled up when you’re so busy bossing everyone around?”
While the siblings continued ribbing each other, Brooks greeted Cricket and Tripp, then turned to Liz.
She watched his eyes pop open in surprise, then become clouded with something—alarm?
Liz was about to offer her arms to hug him hello, but Brooks hesitated and shot a nervous look at Piper.
As if she could feel something lurking in the shadows, Piper turned slowly.
“Surprise! We’re having a baby!” Preston needlessly narrated.
Piper’s face folded violently. Then she ran off in the direction of the bathroom. Liz didn’t know what to do; none of her feared scenarios had been this bad.
“Oh my,” Cricket finally said. They all tried to pretend that the other country club members weren’t looking over at their table, that it hadn’t been a scene.
Brooks cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned to Preston and Liz. “We’ve been having a hard time getting pregnant.”
Liz’s heart sank. For fuck’s sake! She had shoved her unborn child in front of a woman battling infertility? The one thing Piper couldn’t do, Liz had accomplished (mostly) by accident?
“I should check on Piper,” Brooks said, then set off after his not-pregnant-but-otherwise-perfect wife.
Cricket and Tripp sat back down, and then Preston, so without knowing what else to do, Liz joined them. Cricket took a sip of her cocktail, then blotted the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
“I’m so sorry,” Liz said softly.
The waiter appeared and set down a basket. Tripp dug into it with gusto and pulled out a roll and a pat of butter. Liz could see where Preston had gotten his bearing from; nothing could get the Lancaster men down for too long.
“It’s not your fault she waited,” Tripp said. “She’s practically forty.”