We took the center table at Plum Island Grille, the only one long enough to accommodate us. Some of us, arriving early, had met beforehand in the bar on the other side of the restaurant, from which you could see the famous Plum Island salt marshes and the turnpike (a grand name for a short stretch of road) we had just driven over to get there. Except for Esther, who lived on the island and had walked down. It was the only time of year it was in any way convenient to be Esther.
In the distance, if we squinted, we could see, or imagined we could see, the Pink House, long empty, much speculated about, which sits in the center of the marsh, paint peeling, roof leaking, cupola choked with birds’ nests. The Pink House was built in 1925 as part of a divorce settlement by a disgruntled husband for his ex-wife. You want your own house? the husband is rumored to have said. I’ll build you a house! And, bam, he built a house, in beautiful isolation.
After a time we repaired to our table to meet those who had just arrived. One of us couldn’t make it, and we were somewhat surprised to find that Brooke Kearney had taken it upon herself (without consulting the rest of us) to invite the new woman, Katie’s mother, to fill the spot. Sherri. With an i. Sherri from the beach.
We were surprised, but we weren’t going to be rude about it. We are nothing if not welcoming. Even though the look Esther shot Brooke when she realized what had happened . . . some of us agreed after the fact that that was borderline impolite.
It was a birthday! We started out with tequila shots, twelve of them, with twelve slices of lime and four salt shakers to share. That is how we always do birthdays. It was a good tequila, a Clase Azul, which had just come on the scene for us, and was so smooth you didn’t really need the lime. Then appetizers: tempura oysters, shrimp cocktail, crab cakes.
Sherri didn’t seem to have any compunction about ordering the surf and turf, we all noted. The rest of us stuck to the grill board with swordfish and pineapple salsa. It was bathing suit season, after all.
With the tequila, and the cocktails that followed, Sherri became a little more animated. Her clothing choices were just this side of okay—when one of us tucked in the label to her dress for her (It was sticking out! We weren’t snooping!), we noticed that it said Ann Taylor Loft. That’s just an observation, not a judgment. She’d worn lipstick, which was brighter than the rest of ours, and mascara, though studying her some of us thought that eyelash extensions would do wonders. Her mascara was clumping. It was hard to put a finger specifically on the rest of what was wrong. Well, nothing was wrong. But something was off. That’s the best way to put it. Something desperate in her laugh? Yes, that’s just it, that’s what it was. Something desperate.