“It will be installed next week.” Griselda opens the same umbrella. Did I give it to her?
“A Viking oven,” she says. “The eight-burner Wolf range is the most exciting part.”
I can’t stand it. I look at my cell. “Excuse me, I have to check in … work-related.” I move away, toward what will be the eat-in area of the kitchen.
“Shall we continue?” Mom asks Griselda.
“We ought to wait for Elodie. I have questions about the island in the kitchen. I’m imagining that for guests or a charity event, the flow would be—” Griselda says.
“Oh, don’t wait for me on that.” I raise my voice to let them know. “My mom can weigh in.”
“Elodie,” Mom says, “you don’t mean that! We’ll wait.”
Although I hope never to boil water again, I hang up quickly.
“Griselda, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t want to cook. Not anything.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Griselda perplexed. “Your kitchen! Most of my clients would be thrilled! You have top-of-the-line—”
“Of course she does. It is Aubrey who loves to cook. When she comes over—”
“When she has the time,” I say. “And remember, she is a vegetarian.”
“Of course I remember.” Veronica is pinching my elbow.
A second after that, Griselda’s cell rings to Stevie Nicks’s “After the Glitter Fades.” Bending toward her shoulder, she says in an inviting voice, “This is she.”
Veronica puts her mouth to my ear. “Things are moving along, Elodie. The house is going to be luminous, a curated house. Aubrey is pregnant. You will enjoy every part of your new life.”
I move a few steps away. They’re right: Most women would be elated, not squelched.
“Mrs. Cutler, Elodie?” Griselda comes closer. “That was my latest wallpaper contact—in London. By tomorrow we’ll have samples for the bedrooms and for the nursery suite. They can be delivered to the Literary Society for Elodie to see soonest. Once chosen, we’ll do a special order.” Griselda cheerily glances at her watch. “If only I didn’t have to dash. I was only dropping by.”
“We have to leave, too,” I say. “Don’t we have a six-thirty?”
The rain stops as we walk outside. Veronica takes off her hat and rolls it up neatly. If ever I have felt a rush when I arrive and a pang when I leave, there is none of that now. I am devoid of the sensation that inanimate things seem alive. This house does that for James. Veronica is definitely identifying with the very walls as they are constructed. She places her hands on my forearm and Griselda’s forearm and beams. I haven’t seen my mother distracted for a while.
“It’s glorious, Elodie, Griselda, totally glorious,” Veronica says.
A few gulls caw overhead. Griselda is half running, half pirouetting to what will be a paved circular driveway in several weeks. When she is halfway down the path, she turns and shouts, “Oh, Elodie! I meant to congratulate you! What amazing news. We’ll do the nursery next—that’s our timetable!”
Is Griselda speaking to me when she calls it amazing? Of course she is. But ever since “the news,” I have this sensation that I’m hearing words through some barrier. Or it doesn’t hit me right—what is being said. Or it’s like a staccato hammering. I remember those jackhammers on the streets of New York City when James and I lived there. You’d be walking along, talking, without hearing or being heard. Maybe a salient point was made, maybe it wasn’t. Either way, you couldn’t hear, so you couldn’t react.
I do the familiar smile and wave, code for so many versions of reality. “Sure, all good.” I smile wider.
After she slides into the front seat of her tidy white SUV and pulls out, Veronica and I stand beside each other, facing the A1A. Cars are speeding by; there is a hum that I’ve never heard before, like it’s the turnpike, not an ocean road.
It could be the twilight that makes Veronica too fatigued, how the hour belongs to neither of us. Both of us should climb into our cars and head to our next destination.
“Elodie,” my mother says, “could I see some enthusiasm, please?”
CHAPTER 17
ELODIE
At dusk the Turquoise Go super-yacht is about to sweep along the Intracoastal. We, the guests, are at the Grotons’ first party on board their new purchase. The celebration of their son Seth’s engagement to Tabatha Langley is festive; people are jubilant. Both families are longtime Palm Beachers, and “yacht people.” Still, everyone is astounded by this current brand of boat—an aqua hull that blends with the water, the five decks, eighteen cabins. The glossiest Palm Beachers would admit that the Grotons’ treasure is the sleekest of boats. No one bothers with views to the west when they walk on board. What is a sunset compared to exploring a forty-million-dollar, 253-foot yacht?
“Otherworldly,” I say to James, who is dumbstruck.
He is too busy scouting out the forward deck to answer. Around us, Pamela Groton is flitting, hailing guests like it’s an assembly line as we pile onto her mega-yacht. Although I’ve not read Emily Post lately, I believe the etiquette is flipped tonight, since the Grotons are hosting, not the Langleys. Aren’t the parents of the bride expected to host the engagement party? Except perhaps when the groom is in the stratosphere in terms of net worth. I doubt that any of the two hundred guests care who pays. Pale Martini, a local party band that both Aubrey and Tyler know, is starting up a few feet to our right. The lead singer announces he’s about to pay homage to Bon Jovi.
James, a step behind me, says, “We’ll dance.” We share a smile, mostly because it’s an easy night. It isn’t about the Literary Society or a private party hosted by a client of James’s. We are mere guests. Thanks to my sister, the millstone of being barren is lifted. As a couple, we are almost weightless, for the first time in years.
“I’d love that.” I mean what I say.
James leads us toward the dance floor. The Bon Jovi sound is amplified; couples in their twenties and early thirties twist themselves to “It’s My Life.” We bend, buckling slightly to a slow dance when the singer puts his mouth close to the mike for “Bed of Roses.” Since it is an engagement that is envied and perfected—a family party—I spot my parents to my left. My father is stuffing his face with mini crab cakes while shaking hands with people. My mother, at her best in her Lela Rose dress and carrying a vintage Gucci clutch, is taking inventory.
Across the way, Aubrey and Tyler are affixed to each other. Mrs. A. seems focused on my sister and Tyler drifting along the margin of the dance floor. Aubrey is more incandescent, more lustrous than ever, her hair tumbling out of a pile-high hairdo, her legs longer than anyone else’s. Yet it is Aubrey’s body profile that has gotten Mrs. A.’s attention. My sister has a bump and her breasts are inflated. I know, although she’s hiding it well, that she’s pregnancy seasick. The steady waves of the Intracoastal tonight are revolting to her—I sense it. Only she and Tyler are dancing cheek-to-cheek; he, in fact, is holding my sister up.
What a relief that I’m not the one carrying a baby—this thought seeps into my consciousness. Aubrey, meanwhile, conveys little. If she craves bananas or gags on once-adored dishes—ravioli with butternut squash, crème brûlée—or has a baffling rash on her upper back, she isn’t confiding anything. We don’t sit around laughing at how her inner thighs already appear padded or she craves sleep by eight P.M. When I mentioned her reticence to James yesterday, he shrugged husband-style. “We have a plan in place, don’t we?” he asked. Yet when I look in the mirror, it is a divided reflection—what I have endured, what my sister is sacrificing.
* * *
Conversations rise, voices mix, those that are overly confident with those that are muffled. PT—a frozen shoulder … skiing Deer Valley … acupuncture for six-year-olds … twins everywhere … purchased two tables … in the Daily Sheet … member guest tournament,… the bridal registry. I lead James past the cluster, only to meet the Veronica and Simon Show joined by Mimi. They have moved themselves t
o the sofas and lounge chairs of the upper deck.
Veronica is speaking in her serrated-knife voice. “I’m not sure how this happened. When I see the husbands or husbands-to-be that Tabatha and her sisters Linnie and Rainey have found…”
Simon, taking in the night, speaks up. “Aubrey seems pleased to be with her old cronies tonight.”
“Do you believe that, Simon? Aubrey grew up with both Tabatha and Seth. The yacht is swarming with her old friends,” Veronica says. “Were she that smitten with the group, she wouldn’t be here with Tyler.”
“Tyler is an entrepreneur. We just aren’t familiar with his business, what the music business is about.” I look to my father when I say this. He nods slightly.
“I’m referring to a more known, more conventional form of happiness,” Veronica says.
“A merger in a marriage!” Mimi adds. “That’s a goal.”
Beside me, James stiffens, holds his head higher. Although he is cautious in engaging in these sorts of conversations with my parents and his mother, Aubrey is dear to him.
“Mom, please,” he says.
“Aubrey has chosen another path.” I, like my father, defend her.
“I know what Elodie means. Aubrey isn’t a Palm Beach girl who has angled for tonight,” James adds.
“That’s enough,” Simon says.
Aubrey has her back to us, her arms only half raised to Bono’s “All I Want Is You.” It is Tyler who faces us without any idea what the topic of conversation is. Gliding around the dance floor, neither has had a drink. How protective he is of her, that she doesn’t slip and fall, that no one accidentally crushes too close.
As I observe her, James slips off to the aft bar, returning with two highball glasses. I practically swig it. A tray of cheese puffs is passed to my left and I grab one while James is being offered mini beef Wellingtons from another tray. As he lifts two, one in each hand, the server almost twirls away from him. I turn slightly, take my cocktail napkin with Tabatha and Seth printed in a bright blue, and spit out the mushroom that was not named by the server as part of the cheese puff.
“Shall we do a tour?” Simon holds up his glass of Grey Goose as if it were a hurricane lantern. “Let’s take the elevator.”
* * *
One floor below, guests clamor for the sushi bar and raw bar. My mother offers her unreadable face. If she is still thinking about Aubrey and what’s next, she doesn’t concede this. Instead, she moves toward her friends from the Mothers and Children board, where she is most welcome. My mother-in-law finds the widows and divorcées, snowbirds from New York and Greenwich, and heads in their direction. Their voices are raspy or too high, rising over the slap of the waves, clearer because of it. Dalton, no, then Harvard … acupuncture, that was what saved the day … a mini lift, neck and jawline … No, no, thermage if you are under sixty-five … not real estate, a hedge fund … the best Traviata since 2004 … at the Norton until the end of February … one red Birkin left … a third granddaughter … a newish husband … only a Labradoodle … the Miami City Ballet.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” I hand James my half-empty glass.
A crew member leads me to one of the two VIP staterooms, since the other bathrooms are in use. As we take the central staircase up, icicles fall over us in a trickling effect. At the top of the stairs, she is texted and holds up her hand, then pauses and walks off to the side. I ought to tell her I’ve had too much of the Boozy Tea and can’t wait much longer. I find my own way.
I expect the stateroom to be empty and for the crew member to be right behind me. Instead, I’m alone. I hear crying; someone is sobbing and another person is consoling her. Although the lights are low, there is mood lighting on the walls. The decor is white and turquoise, including the bedding and chairs. On the floor by the coffee table are my sister and Tabatha, the bride-to-be. Aubrey has her arms around her.
“Elodie! What are you doing?” Aubrey asks.
“Peeing,” I say. “I came with someone who works on the boat. She’s right outside the door.”
When Tabatha pulls away from my sister, she is crumpled. Her emerald green tulle dress is decaying. She’s gazing at her Harry Winston six-carat oval-cut solitaire, which she showed me at the Literary Society months ago. The ring catches light in the darkened room, sparkling wildly. Jumping up, Tabatha sniffles.
“Your little sister, she and I were remembering the things we did at the Academy when we were sixteen,” Tabatha says.
“After, too, when we started college and came home for break.” Aubrey stands up. “So much reminiscing, maybe too much, Tabatha.”
“Well, you were great friends, egging each other on,” I say.
When they stand together, I realize my sister has been away from Palm Beach for ages, enough time to no longer be a threat, no more a fish in the bowl.
“Definitely, besties.” Tabatha snorts in a small wad of mucus. “I’d better get back to the party.”
“Me, too.” Aubrey doesn’t look me in the eye. “Tyler is probably searching the ship for me.”
“The yacht,” I say. “Probably.”
Tabatha slides beyond me easily, then smooths her dress around her hips.
“Can you wait a minute?” I ask my sister.
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I’d better follow her.”
* * *
The sun sets a fiery orange more to the west than usual for late January. The entire guest list congregates by the starboard bow on the second deck. Rory and Max Langley stand behind their daughter, while Pamela and Robert Groton are behind their son. Although there isn’t a woman on board over fifty who hasn’t had her face improved or a total redo, both Rory and Pamela are newly minted. They are chiseled—maybe that is why neither woman is smiling. The affianced are far from each other and I realize I’ve not seen them together the entire night—not on the dance floor, not to mingle, not to party.
Robert Groton steps forward. “Everyone, welcome. Welcome to the Turquoise Go. My wife, Pamela, and I are delighted to host you.” He clears his throat. “Each of you has been invited to celebrate the engagement of Tabatha and Seth. Their union, their marriage, their hopes for a future together. What should be a very celebratory occasion.”
People begin to shift their weight, cough, glance at one another. They wait for Robert Groton’s pause to end.
“However, it isn’t a celebration. Until the final hour, we believed—that is, Seth, Pamela, and I believed—that Tabatha would sign documents on behalf of herself and Seth, my son.”
Gulps from the guests. Mumbling, a muffled epicenter. The men drink up; the ice in their refills clinks. They tap their Gucci loafers against wood flooring. The women are confused, forlorn. Robert Groton waves his hand.
“Please let me go on, let me explain.” He sighs. “We, both sets of parents, had high hopes for this couple. Love, privilege. A future. But Tabatha and her lawyers, if not her father, maybe her parents, cannot come to an agreement. They cannot come to terms that work for the marriage to go forward.”
Rory Langley steps up. In the starlight her face is refined, incredibly honed. Her hair has that keratin sheen. Tabatha, actually all three daughters, look like her. She smiles regretfully, winces. “My daughter isn’t comfortable with what is being asked of her. That’s what has occurred. To put it plainly, Tabatha won’t sign the prenup.”
“There won’t be a wedding.” Robert Groton obscures Rory. “Tonight is a party on a boat. Nothing more.”
Tabatha, without turning away, begins to cry, heaving, bereft, and Seth leaves his parents to console her. His mother stops him. “Seth, no, no. Not now, not again.” Seth is constrained by his mother while Tabatha looks out over the guests, weeping.
“Please, please, everyone, have more to eat, to drink,” Robert Groton says. “The evening is young.”
* * *
Two distinct line surges begin. The groom’s side beelines for the Grotons, to voice their support, promise to stay longer, lap up
the ambience. The bride’s side is already scurrying to get off the yacht, only slightly short of a stampede. Veronica and Simon have a dilemma; they are friendly with both sets of parents. After a pause, they congregate with other couples who have the same decision to make.
Aubrey’s arm is looped into Tyler’s. That’s when it registers that she is not well; it’s as if someone has made her up with the wrong color foundation. She has a greenish gray tint to her.
“Leave or stay?” James asks.
“Leave. Aubrey looks sick; maybe she’s seasick,” I say.
“That was a minute ago.” James points at Aubrey, who is throwing up into a small bag.
She is discreet, off to the side, while the stampede is at the center of things. As Aubrey keeps vomiting, a soupy sadness descends. A blasted hope that is palpable. Beyond, gossip boomerangs through the air, soon to be carried off the Turquoise Go to the outer reaches of Palm Beach, then across the bridges to West Palm Beach and north to Palm Beach Gardens.
Tyler, behind Aubrey, sturdily steers her our way. They are coming to where James and I line up to leave the yacht. Maybe my sister isn’t wrong to be with this man.
CHAPTER 18
AUBREY
“Look.” Elodie holds up a Stella McCartney designer sneaker. “I love the colors—great effect.” She points to a white Gucci bee-pattern sneaker. “Or?”
“I don’t know.” I’m trying to imagine my near future in flats or sneaks with billowy dresses to fit my billowy body. Boots on a cooler day. “I have plenty of sneaks.”
“I’ll get these for you, Aubrey. James and I are in your debt.”
“Well, hello there.” Tiffany’s voice flutters toward us from the escalator, located beneath the fabric butterflies that hang from the ceiling. As a child, I was petrified of this swarm of butterflies and would beg my mother not to go to Neiman’s. Saks, I told her, was better.
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