“I thought you said you were staying away from women in the service industry,” Jake says.
“Nanette is different,” Cooper says. “She’s a bartender and a slam poet. Besides, we can’t all meet our soul mates in the eighth grade.”
“Well,” Jake says.
“Seriously,” Cooper says. “Why are you making Ursula wait so long? Just marry her already.”
Jake laughs. “I think we need more shots.”
Jake is drunk when he leaves the Tombs. The Jim Beam in his system acts like steam from the shower that reveals a word written on the bathroom mirror: Propose.
The saleswoman at Market Street Diamonds, Lonnie, wears a lot of makeup—sparkling eye shadow, glistening red lipstick that reminds Jake of a cherry lollipop—and she has a huge head of permed hair that is iridescent with hair spray under the lights. The shop is empty and probably about to close for the day, but Lonnie welcomes Jake in. He’s sure she sees an easy mark: a young guy on a bourbon-fueled mission.
“What kind of engagement ring are you looking for, handsome?” Lonnie asks.
“The kind that looks more expensive than it is,” he says, and she laughs. She asks about his budget and he says five thousand dollars because it sounds like a reasonable round number, and she says she can work with that. She produces one ring after another, from the minuscule to the absurd, displaying them on a black felt cloth. He can’t decide. She asks rapid-fire questions about “the lucky girl,” a term that would surely make Ursula shudder. Jake says, “She’s been my girlfriend for the past fourteen years, on and off, but we’ve both been with other people.”
This ratchets up Lonnie’s enthusiasm. “You were each with other people but you’ve found your way back,” Lonnie says. “Now that is true love.”
It’s a lot more complicated than this, but he won’t get into it with Lonnie.
“She’s an attorney for the SEC.” Jake waits a beat to see if Lonnie is impressed, but she might not know the SEC from the FCC or the EPA. Washington is a town of acronyms. “She’s a serious person. I don’t want anything flashy.”
“Simple,” Lonnie says. “Classic, tasteful. Does she wear other jewelry?”
Well, he says, she’s fond of a gold cross she received from her parents for her confirmation in ninth grade, and she wears the slim gold watch they gave her when she graduated from law school. She has a strand of pearls, Jake says, but her ears aren’t even pierced. He feels like he’s slurring his words, but if Lonnie notices this or the smell of cigarette smoke and cooking grease that followed him out of the Tombs, she doesn’t mention it.
“This,” she says, “is the ring I would recommend. You’d be a fool not to get it. It’s a bit out of your price range—sixty-four hundred—but it’s head and shoulders above the rest of these rings. A carat and a half, clarity at the top of the charts, in a setting of white gold.” She holds the ring out on her outstretched palm.
“Okay,” Jake says, looking at it. “Let’s go with that one, I guess.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Lonnie says with an exaggerated wink. “Trust me, handsome—Mallory is going to be thrilled with this ring.”
Jake’s head snaps up. “Mallory?”
Lonnie’s eyes grow wide and a bit of glitter under her eye shines like a tear. “Did I get the name wrong? You said Mallory, I thought.” She lays her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s Ursula,” he says. He’s drunk! He told Lonnie his girlfriend’s name was Mallory! Why did he do that? Probably because he was thinking that when this was all over, he would have to call Mallory, and as soon as she answered the phone, she’d know. She knew before he even left Nantucket, he’s pretty sure. She was silent when she drove him to the airport in the early morning on Monday. When he’d said, “Same time next year?” she’d shrugged.
“No matter what, Mallory Blessing,” he’d said. He kissed her, climbed out of the Blazer, then turned back. “No matter what.”
Jake makes himself focus on Lonnie—eye shadow, hair spray, and all. “My girlfriend’s name is Ursula. Her name. Is Ursula.”
Lonnie doesn’t miss a beat. She snaps the box closed, rings up the purchase, and accepts his credit card. “Ursula is going to be very happy,” she says.
He wonders how to propose. Over a romantic dinner? He can’t imagine Ursula agreeing to go out to dinner when she’s still so sad, and she wouldn’t eat anything anyway. He could take her to one of the monuments tonight—the Lincoln Memorial or the Jefferson. He could lure her on a jog tomorrow and get down on one knee in front of the Reflecting Pool just as the sun is rising and the wavering image of the Washington Monument appears on the surface of the water.
Paris was a missed opportunity, he thinks.
He considers waiting for Thanksgiving, when they’ll be back in South Bend. He can take Ursula to the skating rink on Jefferson, the place where he screwed up his courage to ask her to skate couples. He was so nervous back then that his hand had been sweating inside his glove.
He holds the vision of thirteen-year-old Ursula—still in braces, wearing a turtleneck printed with bicycles under her navy-blue Fair Isle sweater under her navy pea coat, the striped hat with earflaps and strings that ended in pom-poms on her head—as he enters the new apartment. The apartment is so big that if Ursula is in the bedroom, she can’t hear him enter.
The foyer is dark and Jake thinks she must still be at work until he sees her attaché case at the foot of the mail table.
Jake heads down the hall to the bedroom. He’s a man on a mission. He taps on the door, cracks it open. Ursula is lying on the bed in a sleeveless navy dress, the belt of which is pulled to its last hole. She has a washcloth over her eyes.
Jake eases down onto the bed next to her. “You okay?”
She reaches up to remove the washcloth. “Headache.”
Jake holds out the box. “I got you something.”
She blinks, accepts the box, opens it. Her expression reveals nothing—not surprise, not joy, not Well, it’s about time. She takes the ring out and slips it on the fourth finger of her left hand. It’s too big, he can see that, but they can go back to the store and have it sized.
“It’s lovely,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Will you marry me?” Jake asks.
Ursula sinks back onto the pillow and closes her eyes. “Yes,” she says, and all Jake can think is how devastated Lonnie would be if she could see Ursula in this moment.
Summer #5: 1997
What are we talking about in 1997? Princess Diana; Harry Potter; Madeleine Albright; the Hale-Bopp comet; Lima, Peru; Tony Blair; Google; Gianni Versace; “I’m the king of the world!”; Garuda airlines; Brett Favre; Hong Kong; Notorious B.I.G.; “Candle in the Wind”; the Heaven’s Gate cult; Louise Woodward; John Denver; Promise Keepers; Mulder and Scully; Chris Farley; Evander Holyfield and Mike Tyson.
On the third weekend of June 1997, Jake McCloud and Ursula de Gournsey are to be married in South Bend. The ceremony will be held at the Log Chapel on the campus of Notre Dame, and a small wedding dinner will follow at Tippecanoe Place. Mallory has learned these particulars because Cooper is serving as Jake’s best man. Mallory asked Coop for details in a casual way. Are there groomsmen? Only one, apparently, Ursula’s brother, Clint. And who is Ursula’s maid of honor?
Cooper has no idea. “Her mother, maybe?”
Her mother? How bizarre, how bizarre, Mallory thinks. (This was her students’ favorite song this past year and the lyrics are an unwelcome earworm.) Or maybe what’s bizarre is that Mallory would never in a million years ask Kitty to be her matron of honor.
“Is Jake excited?” Mallory asks. Her voice is tense, but Cooper won’t notice.
“Excited?” Cooper says. “I don’t know. Do you get excited about marrying someone you’ve been dating for sixteen years?”
Mallory can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that Jake’s wedding weekend is the only weekend of the summer—of the past four summ
ers—that Leland is able to come to Nantucket for a visit. She and Fiella arrive at six o’clock on Friday. Mallory drives down to Steamboat Wharf to pick them up from the ferry.
“That took forever,” Leland says. “Five hours on the highway and two on the boat.”
“Why didn’t you just fly?” Mallory asks. She checks behind Leland for Fiella. She’s nervous to meet her, not just because Fiella is her best friend’s lover and she wants to make a good impression but also because she’s famous, a real famous writer. Fiella’s first novel, Shimmy Shimmy, is being made into a movie starring Angela Bassett and John Malkovich, and her second novel, Cold Ashes of the Heart, was picked for Oprah’s Book Club and has been sitting at the top of the New York Times bestseller list for twenty-seven weeks.
Mallory spots Fiella halfway up the gangplank, surrounded by college-age girls who are asking for her autograph. It’s not surprising that she’s been recognized because her looks are so distinctive. She has deep copper-colored skin and corkscrew curls that start dark brown at her part before turning golden at the ends. She’s wearing a bright orange halter dress that puts her breasts on perfect display. Honestly, Fiella Roget is even more breathtaking in person than she is in photographs or on TV (Mallory has seen her on both Oprah’s and Jay Leno’s shows).
“Fifi didn’t want to fly,” Leland says irritably. “She wanted to ‘experience the journey over water.’”
“I can see that, I guess,” Mallory says. No sooner does Fiella sign an autograph for one person than another girl appears in her place and Mallory wonders if Leland has to deal with this everywhere they go and also if they’re ever going to make it off the dock and back to the Blazer.
Eventually Leland has to wedge herself into the crowd and yank Fiella free, causing a bit of a scuffle.
“Personal space!” Leland shouts at a perky blond girl in a Tarheels T-shirt who’s holding a paperback copy of Shimmy Shimmy. “We’re on vacation!”
Still the girl thrusts the book at Fiella, and still Fiella seems happy to sign it. Then she eases out of the crowd like she’s slipping off a silk robe and offers her hand and a radiant smile to Mallory. “Sorry about that,” she says. “I’m Fifi and you’re Mallory. I know because I’ve seen all the photographs of you and Lee from growing up. I couldn’t be happier to meet you.” Her voice makes Mallory shiver. Fiella—Fifi—has the slightest French Creole accent. The woman is majestic; she is royalty. Mallory can see why Leland fell in love with her.
“Honestly, I’m sick of it,” Leland says on their way through the parking lot. “They sat on the boat ogling you for two hours but they only screwed up the courage to approach you as we were disembarking?”
“They’re harmless,” Fifi says, waving away Leland’s complaints. “Plus they pay the bills. Anyway, look at this charming place! Aren’t we just the luckiest creatures on earth. Thank you, Mallory, for inviting us.” They come upon the Blazer, freshly washed and waxed and vacuumed for their arrival. “Oh, is this our chariot?”
“Please,” Leland says. “Talk like a normal person.”
It’s fun entertaining houseguests when one of them is as enthusiastic as Fiella Roget. Fifi sits in the front of the Blazer while Leland rides in back with the luggage; when Mallory peers in the rearview mirror, she sees Lee glowering, a look Mallory knows only too well. Still, she assumes it must be humbling, and maybe even demoralizing, to have a famous girlfriend—especially for someone like Leland, who is used to being the center of attention. But surely Leland has grown accustomed to her role. She and Fiella have been together for over two years.
Fifi pulls a clothbound journal out of her leather satchel and starts scribbling things down even as the Blazer bounces over the ruts in the no-name road.
“Stop!” Fifi cries. Mallory hits the brakes, thinking Fifi is uncomfortable or she’s forgotten something back on the wharf, but Fifi jumps out of the car, runs to the banks of the pond, picks a fuchsia blossom off a rugosa bush, and inhales the scent.
“Look at this, Lee!” Fifi cries out, holding her hands over her head. She seems to be hugging the entirety of the landscape—the flat blue mirror of the pond, the electric green of the surrounding reeds, the pink and white explosion of the rugosa rose.
“It’s called nature,” Leland says. She does not look amused.
At the cottage, Fifi spends a long moment taking in the vista of the beach and ocean, then she turns her attention to every detail inside. Mallory has done a proper spring cleaning. She bought a new duvet and sheets for the bigger guest room. There’s a crystal pitcher and glasses on one nightstand and a bouquet of wild irises on the other. Over the winter, Mallory had her sole bathroom renovated; now there’s clean white subway tile, a new vanity instead of the pedestal sink with the rust stain that was impossible to get out, and a new toilet with a slow-closing lid—such a luxury! Mallory kept the porcelain claw-foot tub because her contractor Bob (who has such a thick New England accent that Mallory thinks of him as “Bawb”) said that it was in good shape and would be hell to replace. Mallory got some new throw pillows to soften up the unyielding green tweed sofa and she placed a jar of shells and beach glass on the coffee table next to Cary Hazlegrove’s book of Nantucket photographs. She bought Russian River chardonnay for Leland and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire for Fiella, who drinks only gin over ice. Mallory made a layered fruit salad and baked Sarah Chase’s orange-rosemary muffins, which she’ll serve for breakfast with homemade honey butter.
Fifi exclaims over the cottage, the shells, the narrow harvest table, the bowl of peaches, plums, nectarines, and apricots—and then the wall of books.
“My God,” she says. “I’m never leaving.”
Leland emerges from the bathroom. Mallory gives her friend a hug and whispers, “I’m glad you’re here. I’m happy to see you.”
Leland pulls away, and her expression says it all: Leland is suffering. Fiella takes up all the oxygen in every room.
“Tim Winton, The Riders?” Fifi says, pulling the book off the shelf. “I’ve been desperate to read this!”
Mallory nearly snatches the book from Fifi’s hand. It was Jake’s Christmas present to her this past year. This is by a man too. But it’s good anyway. XO, Jake.
“You’re welcome to borrow any books but the four on that shelf,” Mallory says.
“Why?” Leland says. “Are those sacred?”
Fifi replaces The Riders. “I feel the same way about certain books,” she says. “Song of Solomon. The Bone People. All of my Jamaica Kincaid.” She plucks a book from the shelf below. “The new Mona Simpson! Okay if I borrow this?”
“Yes!” Mallory says. “I loved it.”
“Wine, please,” Leland murmurs.
Mallory mentions that she has tuna steaks marinating and a fresh baguette and fixings for salad. “Or we can go out,” she says. “I’m friends with the bartender at the Blue Bistro and he has a table for us at eight o’clock if we want it. But I didn’t want to assume…” Mallory looks at Leland. “Did you two make other plans?”
“Other plans?” Fifi says. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mallorita, we came to Nantucket to spend time with you. So that I can get to know you. Of course we’ll stay in; we’ll eat the beautiful meal you prepared and we’ll talk all night and share our deepest secrets.” Fifi takes Mallory’s hand in both of hers and Mallory looks down to see their fingers, dark and lighter, wound together. Mallory is mesmerized, but when she looks over Fifi’s shoulder, she sees Leland rolling her eyes.
They pour wine, snack on the salt-and-pepper cashews that Mallory made earlier in the week.
“When did you learn to cook?” Leland asks. “If memory serves, you couldn’t even operate your Easy-Bake Oven.”
“Stop it, darling,” Fifi says. “You sound like a petulant witch.”
“I taught myself,” Mallory says. “It’s quiet here in the winter.”
They toss a salad, heat the bread, grill the tuna, shake up a vinaigrette. Mallory lights the sole votive candle.
They raise their glasses.
“Thank you both for coming,” Mallory says. “I’m so happy you’re here.” As they touch glasses, Mallory realizes this is true. She has barely thought of Jake and Ursula’s rehearsal dinner—which is being held at a pizza parlor called Barnaby’s—at all.
During dinner, Mallory tries to keep the conversation focused on Leland.
“So,” she says. “How are your parents?” What she really wants to know is: How do the Gladstones feel about Leland and Fifi together?
“They’re getting a divorce,” Leland says.
Mallory sets down her fork. “What?”
“My father is sleeping with Sloane Dooley,” Leland says.
It takes Mallory a minute. Sloane Dooley? Fray’s mother, the disco dancer and maybe cocaine addict? “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Not kidding,” Leland says. “My mother seems to think it’s been on again, off again for a long time. Like maybe even since Fray and I were together.”
“I can’t believe this,” Mallory says. She cannot, in fact, believe this. Steve Gladstone and Sloane Dooley sleeping together? Maybe even way back when Mallory and Fray and Leland and Cooper were all in high school? “When did you find this out?” What Mallory means is why didn’t Leland call her when she found out? And why didn’t Kitty call her? But then Mallory remembers that Kitty has called, three times in the past few weeks, and left messages begging Mallory to call her back, messages that Mallory ignored.
“End of May,” Leland says. “Geri went to the Preakness with the Ladies Auxiliary and she came home to find my dad and Sloane in the hot tub together.”
“Geri is a wreck,” Fifi says. “We almost brought her up here with us.”
“That was Fifi’s idea,” Leland says. “I didn’t entertain it for a second.”
28 Summers Page 13
