“It’s got the schedule and maps and all the hashtags for stuff. Now come on,” she said, plucking the bottle of prosecco out of the basket and pulling me to my feet. “The party starts in three hours! We have to get ready! We have to pregame!”
“Hold on! I’m downloading the app,” I protested as Drue pretended to tow me to the door. Being near the ocean always improved my mood, and between Drue’s enthusiasm, the beautiful setting, and a suitcase full of gorgeous clothes that I was being paid to wear, it was almost impossible not to feel happy.
“Please. You probably know the schedule better than I do,” Drue said. I wasn’t sure that was true, but I at least knew the weekend’s contours. Tonight, there would be a rehearsal dinner featuring a clambake on the beach. Tomorrow morning, there’d be optional paddleboard yoga, followed by a brunch for the female wedding guests in our house, Sea Star, with a companion brunch for the men next door at Sea Breeze. After brunch, we’d all get our hair and makeup done and get into our dresses. The photographer wanted us on the beach at five o’clock sharp, just as the setting sun would tint the air peach and tangerine and gold (“Sunsets on the outer Cape are magical!” Drue had told me, and I hadn’t wanted to mention the story I’d read in Scientific American that had explained that the lovely sunsets were the result of all the pollution that had drifted up the East Coast). At six-thirty, a bus would come to drive us to the winery. At seven o’clock, a string quartet would start to play the wedding march, and the ceremony would begin. When it was over, there’d be a cocktail hour and dinner at the winery, and dancing all night long, first to the music of a band, then to a DJ, flown in from Holland for the occasion. Every single detail had been covered, up to and including the installation of a funicular for guests who were too incapacitated or too inebriated to manage the four flights of stairs from the beach back to the houses.
Don’t count other people’s money, my nana liked to say. In general, I tried to follow her advice, but as the wedding had gotten closer I’d found it almost impossible not to keep a running estimate of how much the entire affair would cost. The home where we were staying rented for $18,000 a week. I knew because I’d looked it up online. The other places had to come with similar price tags. Then there was the cost of the food, and the musicians (string quartet for the ceremony, twelve-piece band for the party, big-deal DJs flown in from Los Angeles and overseas). There were the florists from New York, and makeup artists, also from the city. Drue’s dress alone had cost more than any car my parents had ever driven, and it was one of three that she’d be wearing on her wedding night. The whole affair could end up costing more than a million dollars. A lot of money under any circumstances; maybe a crazy amount if Darshi was right and the Cavanaugh Corporation was in trouble.
“Just let me hang up my dress,” I said, detaching my arm from the bride’s. I wanted to unpack, to explore my room, and to answer the emails that had hit my inbox as soon as I’d logged on to Sea Star’s Wi-Fi (the password was “DrueandStu2020,” because of course it was). I also wanted to check in with Darshi, who was spending the weekend at an economics seminar in Boston, one that she swore she’d signed up for prior to Drue’s reappearance in our lives. I hadn’t pressed her, but I had wondered if Darshi had wanted an excuse to be nearby, if she thought that I’d need to be rescued at some point before the weekend was over.
After confirming that the bathroom, with its freestanding bathtub and its open-air shower, was just as luxe-y as the rest of the room, I hung up the clothes that I’d packed. I hear yr going 2 B in VOGUE, Leela Thakoon had texted me, followed by a string of exclamation points and heart-eye emojis. I, too, had heard those whispers, and that Drue and Stuart were in the running to be featured in this week’s Vows column in the Times. “Which is huge, because some big-deal agent is getting gay-married in Aspen tomorrow night,” Drue confided.
“I think you’re just supposed to say ‘married.’ ”
Drue had patted my arm and poured me a glass of prosecco. “You’re cute,” she said. “Meet me downstairs. We’ll get our hair done.”
Once the rest of my clothes were unpacked, I gave my bridesmaid’s dress a shake. Drue, thank goodness, had not decreed that her bridesmaids had to all wear the same dress. Instead, she’d picked out a fabric—chiffon—and a range of shades, from sand to taupe to pale gold to saffron, and let us choose our own designs. When I’d learned that most of the bridesmaids were having their dresses made, I’d asked Leela if she’d be willing to design something. Leela had eagerly agreed, and she’d outdone herself. The silhouette was simple: a sweetheart neckline; wide shoulder straps that would leave my arms and the top of my chest bare and keep my bra covered; a boned bodice that would hug my torso from breasts to hips, where the skirt flared out full. Somehow, Leela had managed to fold the shimmery gold fabric into dozens of tiny pleats that gave the fabric the illusion of motion, so that even when I was standing still the dress looked like a pond ruffled by a breeze.
“You’ll look like Venus, rising from the sea,” Leela had said, hands pressed against her heart.
I’ll look like Venus, rising from the all-you-can-eat buffet, I thought before I could stop myself. I didn’t want to dwell on the pain that Drue had caused me. I wanted to believe that she was truly sorry and that we could move past it. I wanted to enjoy this beautiful place with my best friend.
From the beach, I could hear someone performing a microphone check on the newly constructed stage and the lulling sound of the waves. A familiar excitement was humming in my chest, an anticipatory buzz. When I was a little girl and my parents took me on trips to the beach, I could remember feeling this way, when the traffic slowed down and I could sense but not see the ocean; when I knew that fun was close. Maybe it will be wonderful, I thought. Maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams. With the breeze against my face and half a glass of prosecco fizzing inside me, it felt like a night made for miracles; a night made for falling in love.
Chapter Eight
I gave my bridesmaid’s dress a final shake, hung it up, and pulled on another one of Leela’s creations, a spaghetti-strapped, down-to-the-ground maxi dress in a bold hot-pink floral print, called the Daisy. Downstairs in the beauty suite, Drue was already in a chair, eyes closed, with Minerva tending to her face while another woman worked on her hair. “Is that you?” Drue called, and patted the seat beside her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s get pretty!” At five o’clock, with my complexion smoothed out, my hair pinned up, and my new dress swaying in the breeze, I stood next to Drue at the top of the staircase leading down to the beach and the party.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Drue asked. I nodded, truly at a loss for words. The beach had been transformed. The sand was covered in layers of Persian rugs in vivid shades of scarlet and indigo, gold and copper and cream. In between the arrangements of carpets were bonfires—I counted four of them, three already burning and the fourth being lit by a uniformed server. Piles of blankets and embroidered pillows in hot pink and turquoise and gold, some fringed, others stitched with bits of mirrors, were stacked by the fires, and there were long tables set up, buffet-style, underneath tents behind them. Waiters circulated with trays of drinks. It looked like a seraglio had tumbled out onto the sand.
“The bar’s over there,” said Drue. She pointed toward the center of the beach, where a freshly assembled bar stood, fully stocked and bustling, with tiki torches flaring in a half-circle around it. She pointed again. “Over there is where they’re cooking the lobsters and the clams.” I could see white-uniformed caterers bustling around behind a screen, carrying platters of food to one of the buffet tables. “Oh, and wait ’til you see what else!”
“What else,” I saw as we made our descent to the beach, was a bed. A king-size bed, set on the rug-covered sand, with a curved brass headboard, surrounded on all four sides with gracefully draped mosquito netting that swayed in the breeze. The bed was dressed all in white, from the crisp pillowcases to the down-filled duvet. A placard on the coverlet read
“Reserved for the Bride and Groom.” Selfie sticks protruded from both sides of the bed, as well as from its base, all positioned to snap the perfect shot. A sign affixed to one of them reminded the guests of the nuptial hashtag, #DRUEANDSTU. There was also, I noted, a hashtag for the mattress company and one for the linen supplier. When I pointed them out, Drue gave a modest shrug. “It was no big deal. Just a couple of brands came to us, and we figured, why not?”
Of course they did, I thought, feeling jealousy twist in my gut.
We left our shoes in the pile at the base of the staircase, where dozens of pairs of Docksiders and Havaianas, Prada flats and Tory Burch flip-flops had already been discarded. I unbuckled my sandals and did a quick scan of the female guests, noting that—no surprise—I was the largest woman there. Possibly even the largest person there. All of Drue’s people—and, from the looks of it, lots of Stuart Lowe’s, too—were fine-boned folks who looked like they subsisted on salted almonds and alcohol. There were cameras everywhere—one professional photographer gathering guests for posed shots, another snapping candids, and the majority of the guests with their phones out, taking advantage of the gorgeous setting to snap shots of themselves and their friends on the sand or by the water. A three-person video crew, with a fancy camera and a boom microphone, filmed the people photographing themselves.
“Let’s get a drink.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Drue. I was edging away from the cameras when I heard a dreamy voice behind me.
“Isn’t it so so incredible?”
Corina Bailey, the groom’s former fiancée, had padded up beside us and was looking rapturously out over the scene. Her flaxen hair was down. She wore an airy white eyelet cotton sundress, suspended from her shoulders on skinny lengths of satin ribbon. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed in her babyish voice. As I watched, she gave a dreamy sigh, pressing her hands against her chest in a prayerful pose.
Drue and I looked at each other and, in a moment of perfect BFF telepathy, we both rolled our eyes. Corina gave one more deep sigh and went drifting across the sand, heading toward the water’s edge.
“Is she even leaving footprints?” I asked, half to myself.
“Nope. Jesus is carrying her.” Drue folded her hands in imitation of Corina’s, bowed, and squeaked, “Namaste.”
I elbowed her. “You’re going to hell.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Drue winked. “And if you’re wondering why Stuart went from a dim-bulb like her to someone as wonderful as me, the answer is, I don’t have an answer.”
Before I could respond, a woman with a silvery chignon yodeled a “Yoo-hoo!” in Drue’s direction.
“Gotta go,” Drue said, and went bouncing off in the chignon’s direction. I was heading for the bar, planning on finding an out-of-the-way place from which to drink and people-watch, when I heard a male voice, close behind me.
“Signature cocktail?”
I turned to see a guy smiling at me. He was about my age, with curly light-brown hair; emphatic, dark brows; a prominent nose; and a friendly expression. He had broad shoulders and slightly bowed legs. His shorts had once been red and had faded to a pinkish-salmon color; his frayed white button-down shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal curling chest hair. His skin was olive-tinted and tanned in a way that suggested a lot of time spent outdoors, in the wind and the sunshine. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but he had a friendly, open face. Plus, I noticed, biceps that pressed at the seams of his shirt. He was just a little bit taller than me. In one big hand he held two flutes full of pinkish-orange liquid.
“What’s in it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. As if Drue and I hadn’t spent an hour in deep discussion on the question of whether she should go with a classic or have their mixologist come up with a bespoke cocktail for the rehearsal dinner, and if it should complement the one served after the wedding, or go in a completely different direction.
“I think they’re Bellinis,” said the guy. “Champagne and fresh peach juice.”
I knew that they were actually called the Drue Gets Lowe, and that they were made with champagne and apricot nectar with a squeeze of lime, but decided not to say so. “Are they any good?” I asked.
“They’re very sweet.” He handed me a glass. “But I like sweet,” he said, smiling as his gaze met mine. My cheeks felt hot as my fingers brushed against his. Oh, God, I thought. Did he think I was flirting with him? Then I felt my cheeks get even hotter, as I thought, Was I?
“Cheers,” he said. “I’m Nick Andros.” He clinked his glass against mine.
“Daphne Berg.”
“Friend of the bride?”
“You got it.”
“Are you staying in the big house?” He nodded in the direction of the stairs that led to the mansion.
“That’s right. It’s really something. It is big. The biggest big house I’ve ever been in!” Oh, God, I thought, cringing. This was the problem with a life where the male person I spent the most time with was eight-year-old Ian Snitzer. Get me around an actual man my age and I started babbling like a dolt.
“It’s the Weinbergs’ house.” A strange look crossed his face and was gone so fast that I doubted I’d even seen it. He drained his glass, considered it, and said, “That was an experience.” He looked at my glass, from which I’d taken a single sip. “But I think I’m going to get a beer. Can I get you something else, or are you going to finish it?”
“I’d love a glass of water.”
He held out his hand for my glass. “Still or sparkling?”
“Still, please.” He trotted across the sand, and I watched him go, appreciating the view, feeling flattered and confused. Was this guy actually interested in me? Maybe he was using the bar the same way old Brett had done and that would be the last I’d see of him. But a minute later, Nick was on his way back, holding a glass of water and a bottle of beer.
“That raw bar is insane. They’ve got crab legs. They flew them in from Florida.” He shook his head. “Clams and mussels and oysters right here in the bay. I could wade into the water and come out with a bucket of littlenecks.”
“Well, you know Drue! Only the best.” That was my sneaky way of attempting to learn whether he did, in fact, know Drue; whether he was on the bride’s side of the guest list or the groom’s. My guess was that he was one of Stuart’s buddies, maybe even a groomsman. He had the look: the broad-shouldered body of a rugby player, the worn but high-quality clothes, the easy, almost negligent manner that said My family has been rich forever.
But I was wrong. “Drue’s an old family friend,” Nick said. “But I haven’t seen her in years. We were summer neighbors. My family used to have a place in Truro. Drue and I went to sailing camp together in Provincetown.”
“Fancy,” I said, imagining kids in Izod shirts, khaki shorts, belts embroidered with tiny whales, and Topsiders standing on the sleek wooden decks.
Nick smiled again, shaking his head. “It’s the opposite of fancy. The fancy place is the Cape Cod Sea Camp in Brewster.” His accent rendered the town’s name as Brewstah. I smiled, charmed, as he kept talking. “The place we went is called the Provincetown Yacht Club. It’s this hole-in-the-wall on Commercial Street, with a bunch of beat-up Beetle Cats and Sunfishes. They charge fifty bucks for the summer, and they teach you how to sail. The camp’s mostly for townies. Or the rich families that have been here for a million years and know about it. They send their kids there.”
Nobody loves a bargain like rich people, I thought. “Fifty bucks for the whole summer?” I asked, certain that I’d misheard.
He nodded. “You show up at nine in the morning, and you spend the day learning to sail. You get a free hour for lunch, and if it’s high tide you ride your bike to the center of town and spend the hour jumping off the dock into the water, or you get a slice from Spiritus Pizza.” His expression became dreamy. “It was great. I remember riding my bike around P-town, feeling like I was the king of the world.”
“
And that’s where you met Drue?”
“Yup.” He raised his beer to his mouth and tipped his head back as he drank. I watched the column of his throat shift under his smooth, tanned skin as he swallowed. When he finished, he wiped his lips and said, “She locked me in the supply closet.”
“She what?”
Looking shamefaced, Nick said, “Drue had this gang of girls, and every few weeks they’d pick someone new to razz. When it was my turn, they’d send me to the store to get a half-dozen snipes, or they’d put hermit crabs in my shoes, or they’d make up names for points of sail so I’d fail my skipper’s test.” He smiled, remembering. “Beam reach, broad reach, beachward, landward, Squidward…”
I nodded, trying to look like I had any idea what points of sail might be.
“And one day, they sent me to get a life jacket, and they locked me in the supply closet.” He shook his head, remembering. “Lots of spiders.”
“Ugh. Sounds par for the course with Drue.”
“So you’re a friend?” He settled his arm on top of the cocktail table and leaned toward me.
“From sixth grade.”
“Are you in the wedding party?”
“I’m a bridesmaid,” I said. “I’ll be right up front tomorrow. You won’t be able to miss me.” Especially since I’m twice the size of the rest of the bridesmaids, my traitorous mind whispered. I told my traitorous mind to shut up and concentrate on the cute guy across the table, on his arm, covered in curling brown hair, resting just inches from my own.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “The oysters look good.”
I had no idea what made an oyster look good, but I’d already decided to follow this guy wherever he wanted to take me. “Lead on, Macduff,” I said.
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