Brooke’s party was a tradition, practically an institution, and we all looked forward to it. She heated the pool up to the high heavens, knowing that at some point one adult was going to jump into it, and then another, until the whole thing felt like a Southern California scene you’d see in the movies. Nobody wore silk to Brooke’s end-of-summer bash for exactly that reason. Nobody wore anything that needed to be dry cleaned, and people tried to remember to leave their good watches at home. But other than that: People. Dressed. Up.
Normally we would have a girls’ trip in the works for September or October, and we’d be talking about that at Brooke’s party. But the summer had been a funny one, and we hadn’t planned anything yet. Rebecca hadn’t said a word, and the rest of us were unsure if we could reasonably take the reins or not. We were in a holding pattern. Circling. There had been all of those changes with the group chat, and the splitting into factions. There had been the newcomer.
A brief rain shower had come on in the early afternoon, but the rain stopped in plenty of time, and the small staff of caterers was put to work placing super-absorbent towels all over the outside furniture. The sun came out in force around four. By the time we arrived at seven it was as if the rain had never happened. The mosquitos had considered coming out to snack on the party guests, but Brooke’s husband had invested in some sort of really expensive silent zapper, so the mosquitos changed their tune, and fast.
The party progressed quickly, the way Brooke’s parties always did. Something about the end of summer made people feel both celebratory and frantic at the same time. We noticed it every year, and every year we got a little more frantic. A new school year always made us realize how quickly our kids were growing up, or, in a more general sense, that time was passing and we weren’t getting any younger.
One of us had a mother suffering from dementia; another, a father with pancreatic cancer. One of us, although you’d never know it, it was all very hush-hush, had a stepchild in rehab. One of us had nothing saved for college, not a penny, and woke up at two thirty nearly every morning in a panic about it. We all felt the future, our futures, reaching out to grab us with terrible talons.
We assuaged that consternation at the bar. Brooke did some of the cooking for the party herself, but she always had caterers to help, and she always hired a bartender, which we believed was one of the reasons it was common for people to drink a lot, and quickly.
Some of the husbands were playing corn hole on the other side of the lawn. A couple of Brooke’s children were wandering through the party, although the hope was that they would be safely ensconced in the media room before any of the behavior got really bad, especially the youngest, Taylor, who was in the group of girls with our daughters. We all feel it is important to set a good example for the younger generation.
We wondered where Rebecca and her Mystery Guest were—neither had arrived.
The sun began to move lower, bringing with it the sense not just that the day was coming to a close but that summer was as well. We could feel just the very slightest hint of chill in the air, and we remembered that in July the sun set a full hour later than it did now.
Steam started to rise from the pool, the way it does when the water is warming up just as the air is cooling down. It gave the whole yard an otherworldly look.
And then Sherri Griffin walked in.
Okay, we almost didn’t recognize Sherri. For one thing, she was blond! A bright, bright blond. Very well done, we decided, once she moved under the lights and we could get a good look at her. (Was it an Interlocks blond or a Shanti blond? We divided almost immediately into two camps.)
Then there was the way she walked into the party. Some of us were reminded of the scene in The Devil Wears Prada when Andy is walking down the street in New York City with this badass attitude and all of these gorgeous clothes, sprung from her mousy demeanor. It was kind of like that. Others of us thought about Grease, when Sandy puts on that black number and the red shoes and struts her stuff and sings “You’re the One That I Want.” It was a total transformation. Total.
Then there was her dress. We were shocked by that too. Looking back we weren’t sure we’d ever gotten a good look at Sherri’s body. Even at barre class (that one time) she wore something shapeless. Nobody wore shapeless clothes to barre class, so hers stood out—that’s why we remembered. Not because we’re judging. But anyway, we had no idea that she’d been hiding a rocking body under those bad clothes all summer. No idea.
(How was that possible? We live in a beach town. Had we never seen her in a bathing suit? Had she never been in the water? Hadn’t we met her for the first time at surf camp, way back in June? We spent so much time quietly cataloguing each other’s bodies for pounds lost or gained, lines emerging or erased, eyebrows that needed more or less shaping—how had we missed this body?)
Okay, and seriously? That dress was to die for. Somebody said later it had come from Bobbles and Lace. Maybe it was the Portsmouth location—we were in the Bobbles in town all the time and we had never seen it there. The shoes, the earrings, all of it. It was so very completely un-Sherri that we didn’t know what to do. We just stared. Then one of us said, “Ohmygod, Sherri, you look amazing,” and soon the rest of us followed suit, the way you do. OMG. OMG. OMG.
Except for Melanie. She had nothing to say; she was nowhere to be found. Later we learned that she and her husband had been at the far end of the lawn, just out of reach of the lights, arguing to beat the band.
There was no band, by the way. Brooke always hired a really good DJ from Boston.
Did we mention that the rest of us, excepting Melanie, and Rebecca, who hadn’t yet arrived, were all standing near the bar when Sherri entered the party? The bartender Brooke hired was, dare we say it, easy on the eyes. She’d stocked the bar with some really good tequila. Like we told you in the beginning, it was the summer of tequila.
The bartender was making an Aperol tequila cocktail, which was a-mazing, even though some of us had never tried elderflower liqueur. We contemplated a round of shots before we got into the cocktails, and the bartender was kind enough to allow one of us to pick up a bottle from the bar while we thought about it. It was Roca Patron Silver, very good, though he was using a Blanco in the cocktail.
Yes, we decided. Yes. Summer was almost over; Brooke’s party came around only once a year; the night was gorgeous; the very air felt full of longing and possibility. We all felt the need to make something happen. Or to let something happen. The DJ was playing something background-y and good vibe-y, something you didn’t specifically notice, nothing you’d dance to yet, but something that echoed the mood exactly. The bartender readied the shot glasses.
And then, like we said, Sherri Griffin walked in, and our mouths fell open. She walked toward us, smiling an unfamiliar smile. Even her walk was different. Not like she was impersonating a hot person, no. Like she had become a hot person. Those of us who were blond may have attributed the change completely to her hair color, but the brunettes among us (there were a few) believed that there was more to it than that.
Sherri greeted us. She accepted our compliments. She watched some of us cast nervous glances at our husbands to see if they were looking at Sherri the way we were looking at Sherri.
Then Sherri said seven words that changed everything that night.
“Pass the bottle,” said Sherri Griffin, without so much as a please or a thank-you. “And a shot glass.”
We all looked at each other like, “Whaaaaat?”
And then we passed the bottle.
And a shot glass.
Honestly, it wasn’t until a couple of days later, after the dust had settled, so to speak, that Brooke reminded us that Sherri hadn’t even been invited to the party.