THREE

Jean-Rose was filing her nails in a rocking chair on the porch when Heddy and the kids returned home from a nature walk around noon the following morning, their buckets full of feathers and rocks, tiny crab skeletons and oyster shells. As soon as she saw them, she dropped her file and sang out: “I have good news.” She shimmied her shoulders like a jazz dancer and beamed. A Bloody Mary sat empty on the small table beside her, a chewed-up celery stick at the bottom. “I hope you don’t mind, but I love playing cupid. He’ll pick you up at seven.”

Heddy crinkled her nose. “You set me up? On a date?”

Her boss’s dainty jaw gaped with self-satisfaction.

“Sure did,” Jean-Rose said. “On your night off next week. Did I tell you you’re free to do as you wish on Friday nights and while the children are at camp?”

“We’re thirsty,” Teddy whined, tossing his thermos at his mother’s espadrilles. The smell of honeysuckle wafted by. It grew in a tangle up a white-painted arbor over the bricked path to the porch.

“Come, I’ll explain,” she said, and they followed her to the kitchen, Heddy carrying the thermos. “He’s a waiter at the Clamshell, a friend of a friend, and he’s thrilled to meet you.”

A waiter! Heddy tried to hide the disappointment on her face when she turned on the faucet to fill the water bottle.

“But he doesn’t even know what I look like,” Heddy said.

“Who, Mama?” Anna tugged.

Teddy snatched the thermos like a basketball, and Jean-Rose rolled her eyes.

“You think I didn’t show him a picture?” She scooped Anna into her arms, balancing her on a hip; Teddy kicked at the table leg, slurping. “I passed along the lovely photo you sent us with your application.”

Oh God. Her high school senior picture.

Ruth, who was standing at the counter with her back to them, spooned chicken salad onto Wonder bread. She wiped her hands on a tea towel. “That’s the second night of the carnival. I was hoping to take Heddy.”

“Sugarpuss.” Jean-Rose tapped her fingers against her crossed elbows. “Can we finagle a double?”

“Who’s the boy?” Ruth asked.

Jean-Rose whispered in Ruth’s ear, then handed Heddy a wet washcloth to clean the children’s hands.

Ruth grinned. “Oh, that’s easy. Jerome works at the Clamshell, too. They can come together.”

Jean-Rose balled her hands into fists and cheered, her shoulder-length hair bobbing over her shoulder. “Ruth knows everyone. Did I tell you that already?”

Ted ducked into the kitchen, literally, since he was nearly a foot taller than his petite wife, pulling Jean-Rose to him and kissing her sweetly on the top of her head. He threw his voice so he sounded like a girlish teenager. “I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

Heddy and Ruth laughed, probably harder than they would have if he weren’t their boss.

“Jeannie, can’t you let our babysitters focus on minding the kids?”

Jean-Rose flipped her hair, smiling. “I’m good at matchmaking! Look at Shipley and Lindy.”

“You simply picked two people with ridiculous names and got lucky.” The lines around his eyes wrinkled, and Heddy laughed along with them.

“He’s classically good-looking,” Jean-Rose said.

“Ahem, I’m sitting right here.” Ted pointed to his seat.

Jean-Rose rubbed the top of Ted’s hand. “Well, everyone knows Ted Williams is the most handsome man on the Vineyard. But you’re taken.”

Heddy sipped her water, hoping to mask how disappointed she was that Jean-Rose wanted to set her up with a waiter. That wasn’t much better than the boys back home happy with their hourly jobs at the shipyards; didn’t anyone think she was worth the guy in the necktie with the degree in accounting?

“My skin is like an oil slick.” Jean-Rose opened the glass cabinet and reached for a juice glass, then poured from a can of 100 percent Hawaiian pineapple juice. “Can you believe my cold cream melted right in the bottle? How are you smoking that thing in this heat?”

Ted pulled the cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “I paid a mint to have it shipped.”

Jean-Rose made a show of waving the smoke away from her face, and even though Heddy didn’t like the smell, either, she felt Jean-Rose was being a little dramatic.

“It smells of caramel.” Heddy inhaled, pretending to like the acrid scent. The children sniffed at the air, erupting into coughs.

“At least someone appreciates a fine cigar.” Ted smiled at Heddy. “I’m going up to the Old Light to see how my money is being spent. They want another five grand. Do you want to come, dear?”

“We better get prime seats at the benefit. Otherwise, what is the point?” Jean-Rose sat down at the kitchen table, crossing her legs, shiny with baby oil. Ted’s hands went to her shoulders, massaging them over her linen blouse, and Heddy supposed that was what she envied most about their relationship—the small affections they traded. At first, she’d categorized Ted’s morning peck on the cheek as lacking, but after watching the couple the last few days, she realized there were lots of quick kisses and hand squeezes, moments when their bodies brushed by each other, like they were two magnets that couldn’t help but be drawn together, then swiftly pushed apart.

“You hear that, girls? Philanthropy at its best. Give only if you can get,” Ted hollered.

Jean-Rose flicked her head back, laughing, and Ted kissed her bow-like lips. The kids pretended to throw up.

“What’s gotten into you today?” Jean-Rose raised an eyebrow.

“A good morning at the Big Top,” Ted said, grabbing one of the sandwiches and tearing off a bite. It’s what he called his company, but Heddy knew from the manila envelopes delivered by water plane that morning that it was really called Sky Top Steel and Financial. “We’re about to swing high.”

“Well, I can’t come to the lighthouse. Monday is market day, and Heddy and I need to pick up groceries. Then I promised I’d give her a quick tour of the island.”

Heddy nearly said they could skip it, hoping to please Ted again, but she really wanted the tour. Since she arrived two days ago, she hadn’t seen much besides the house and the beach.

Ted disappeared into his study, while Jean-Rose went into the kitchen pantry, holding a small notepad and pencil. “I swear we just bought a box of Frosted Flakes, and where is the macaroni?” She slammed the mauve-painted door.

“Maybe Ted ate them?” Heddy didn’t want Jean-Rose to think she was hoarding a box in her room, perhaps because she’d been tempted. As a girl, she hid Sugar Daddy candies she took from a bowl in the school office under her bed, just in case of what Mama called “a lean week.”

“Ted hates cornflakes.”

“I told you, Mama—there are aliens on the island stealing stuff.” Anna pretended to fly her sandwich around the universe.

Jean-Rose added cereal to her grocery list, then grabbed a mason jar from off the refrigerator, placing it in front of Heddy’s plate. “Have I told you about the fun fund yet?”

Inside the jar was a tight swirl of twenty-dollar bills.

Heddy shook her head. She couldn’t take her eyes off the money.

“How did I forget to tell you? Say you want to take the children to the movies or for an ice cream after camp. It will always be full.” Jean-Rose tapped Ruth on the arm. “You can use it, too. For small stuff.”

Heddy stared at the money, swallowing hard. She wondered what those twenties added up to, guessing there was several hundred dollars right there, enough to pay the rent on her and her mother’s Brooklyn apartment for the year. She needed two thousand for next year’s tuition, which seemed like an astronomical number, but there it was. A little less than half that in a glass jar set aside for entertaining the children.

“I know, it looks like a lot,” Jean-Rose said, reading her expression, “but children are expensive.” She threw the keys against the jar. “You don’t mind driving to the market, do you?”

Driving hadn’t been in Heddy’s job description. She didn’t think it would come up until she’d arrived and seen how large the island was. She watched Jean-Rose flip a page in her date book, the hum of the refrigerator kicking on.

“Jean-Rose?” Heddy waited for her boss to look up.

“What is it, Heddy? You sound panicked.”

Heddy pushed the keys back across the table. “I never learned.”

Jean-Rose looked at her in that tender way Heddy’s own mother had hundreds of times. “Oh dear, don’t worry, this is the summer you’ll learn. You’re hardly dropping an A-bomb.”

“But I don’t have a license.”

Jean-Rose clapped her hands twice. “C’mon, children. Let’s teach Heddy how to drive.” She grabbed her Hermès purse. “Don’t worry about being pulled over—all the cops here are college kids.”

Heddy bit at her cuticles, then forced her fingers out of her mouth, remembering how her mother would grab her arm and hold it by her side whenever Heddy bit her nails.

“If anyone stops us, we’ll remind them you’re our babysitter. The only reason this island functions like a first world country is because Ted pumps dollars into its measly economy.”

On her way out the kitchen door, Ruth tapped her on the shoulder: “She’s set me up with so many duds, but you might actually like this guy.”

Heddy spied her unfinished sandwich on the table, her stomach growling. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

Ruth smiled. “You’ll see.”

“Well, now you’re going, too, so at least I have an escape hatch.” With that, Heddy grabbed her sandwich, shoveling half in her mouth before letting the screen door slam behind her.

---

Heddy tried to seem upbeat as she opened the convertible’s driver’s side door with caution, as if the car might implode at her touch. Driving a car, let alone owning one, was so distant from her daily life, she’d never considered learning. She knew it took twelve minutes from Union Square to the Upper East Side, twenty-five from Atlantic Avenue to Grand Central. She’d been on a train when she first decided to apply to college. She’d been on a train when she got the courage to confront her mother about her father’s identity.

With her thighs on the warm leather seat, Heddy gripped the steering wheel, which was skinnier and more slippery than she’d imagined. The kids settled into the back, and from the passenger seat, Jean-Rose slipped the key into the ignition and turned over the car.

“Just remember three things: the brake is on the left, the gas is on the right, and the steering wheel is in front of you. Go ahead, give it some gas. You’re still in park.”

Heddy looked down at the gearshift and pressed down on the gas pedal, listening as the engine responded with a loud rev. She rubbed her lips together. A bead of sweat dripped down her neck, and she wanted to rub it away but was too nervous to take her hands off the wheel.

Jean-Rose eyed Heddy. “Ready?”

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea, Jean-Rose.”

Jean-Rose banged the side of the door like a drum. “Nonsense. Put the car in drive.”

“I thought all grown-ups could drive,” Teddy said.

“Not everyone in the city learns,” Jean-Rose told him. “Mr. Parker doesn’t know how.”

“But Mr. Parker drives the bus,” Anna said.

“No, dear—he rides the bus.”

Heddy put the car in drive, waiting for the car to lurch forward, but it remained still.

Jean-Rose leaned toward Heddy, whispering. “You have to lift your foot from the brake.”

“Everyone knows that,” Teddy sassed. “Right, Mama?”

“Right,” Heddy said. She glanced at the kids in the rearview mirror, then angled up her foot and the car began rolling forward, creeping right toward the rosebushes. Heddy turned the wheel to the left, then felt like the car might tip, and slammed her foot on the brake. In the back, the kids flew forward, slamming into the back of her seat, erupting into belly laughter.

“Can Heddy drive every time?” Teddy snorted.

Jean-Rose had her eyes on the driveway in front of her, lighting a cigarette. “The car wants to go, Heddy. It’s your job to control it. Keep the wheels straight, brake by pressing the pedal ever so gently. It needs a soft touch, not a swift one.”

Heddy swallowed hard, lifting her foot from the brake once more. Pressing the gas, she felt the car go, allowing herself to steer it slowly down the driveway; it was going better this time.

“Let’s pick up the pace.” Jean-Rose blew smoke into the open air. It filled Heddy’s nose as she stared hard at the road. She pushed on the gas some more, zipping the Bonneville down the street. They passed a biker who had sped by minutes before, causing Heddy to look at the speedometer: she was going twenty-five miles per hour. A car behind her beeped the horn, passing her on the left.

“The speed limit is forty, lady,” the guy hollered. Jean-Rose grabbed on to the windshield and raised herself up, waving over the glass, like it was all a big joke.

“It’s my babysitter, Hal. She’s learning.”

“I thought you’d had one too many cocktails at the club.” He winked, zooming away.

Jean-Rose popped a piece of gum, slumping back in her seat with a chuckle. “He and his wife are going through a nasty divorce. She doesn’t even come to the club anymore. God, I couldn’t bear it if Ted and I split. Sad how quickly you can fall off the list.” She spun the silver knob of the radio until the static turned into the clear voice of Chubby Checker: “Come on, baby, let’s do the twist.” Jean-Rose wiggled her hips in her high-waisted white shorts. She seemed her thirty years then; music had a way of dating people.

“The list?” Heddy was fascinated by the ways the upper crust organized themselves. She’d seen it at school, how different degrees of wealth were delineated, resented, talked about. How people dropped hints by comparing where they liked to stay: Chicago’s Drake Hotel (Judy Garland’s favorite) or the Palmer House (which had gilded-peacock doors). Then there were small details, like the girl spotted wearing a skirt without a satin lining, or a girl whose boyfriend had to walk to a date instead of driving since he didn’t own a car. No one did it to Heddy, at least not in front of her. This kind of heckling was often reserved for girls with money, the unlucky ones the cooler, affluent girls had decided just had cheap tastes.

“The list—” Jean-Rose said as the car bounced over the dips in the road. “It consists of people you like, people you pretend to like because you have to, and people you make plain you don’t like. It’s all about invitations. Who is inviting who? And it changes every summer.”

“How do you make the list?” Her mother would have told her this kind of thing reeked of rotten cabbage, but Heddy wasn’t so sure. She was convinced wealthy women were different from her mother and her friends, and knowing how—really understanding their manners and mannerisms—might help catapult her into their carefree lives.

“The question is: What kicks you off the list? A divorce is never good. Susanne and I hate those new-money girls who come in with the gaudy jewelry piled around their necks, but we often have to make exceptions, especially if, you know, our husbands are connected in business.”

“It sounds stressful.” In the rearview mirror, she could see Teddy and Anna wrestling in the back seat.

“It is stressful. Obviously, you can’t get invited to everything, even though Susanne and I always do.” She chuckled. “But we figure out who should sit next to who, and everyone is always calling one of us to say: ‘If so-and-so comes, then do I have to ask so-and-so?’ I mean, who wants to ruin their summer with the omission of one person?”

Heddy slowed, a milk truck in front of them, heading back to the dairy with the morning’s empty bottles.

“This summer, Ash made it. On his name alone. Who wouldn’t want to fraternize with Harrison Porter’s great-grandson.”

The surfer. Why hadn’t Jean-Rose set her up with him? She was about to ask who Harrison Porter was, when Jean-Rose’s face lit up like there was a string of bulbs around her neck. “You do know Ash, from when you lost the children the other day?”

Heddy’s cheeks burned like one thousand stinging bees. She was going to kill that boy. “I’m sorry, but I had no idea they would wander up there. It was just minutes.”

“It’s okay, dear. Anyway, we all love Ash. He’s really something, isn’t he?”

Heddy stared at the black pavement, wanting to steer the conversation away from her mistake with the children, even though she was dying to know who Harrison Porter was.

“Let’s go back to the list,” Heddy said. “So if I was a Mellon or a Carnegie, I’d make it, even if I smelled like mothballs and painted dreadful artwork.” Heddy imagined her mother sitting in the back seat, rolling her eyes at this conversation, calling Jean-Rose “Lady Muck,” which is what she and her Irish immigrant friends called the rich and pretentious.

Jean-Rose yelled at the children to sit with their backs against the seat, then ran her tongue along her teeth. “You have so much to learn, dear girl. You must think about the friends you keep and what they can do for you. Powerful people weave complicated webs, but if you can make yourself useful to them, they may weave you right in.”

Heddy steered the car past a farm stand selling strawberries and geraniums, excitement building inside her, like she was standing in an airport with a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. Jean-Rose had passed her a hint, a secret she could have scribbled on lined paper and passed in class. Make yourself extra useful, and you’ll be rewarded. Heddy’s eyes crinkled, even as Teddy kicked his feet into her seat. If she made herself indispensable to Jean-Rose, if she took care of the children better than previous babysitters who were there just to collect a paycheck, maybe she’d be invited to be part of the family. Jean-Rose had already set Heddy up. Perhaps she’d offer to write a scholarship appeal for Heddy, or, in a few weeks, Heddy could ask Ted for a loan to return to school.

Heddy marveled at the woman beside her: “Jean-Rose, you’re a true doyenne.”

Her boss opened her compact, checked her lipstick in the circular mirror. “It’s just experience. My mother used to organize these morning teas at her house in Darien, inviting women over after they dropped their kids at school. I thought it was so boring, but my mother taught me how to separate the shiny apples from the bruised ones.”

Darien. Heddy had a friend at school from Darien. The girl wore these large diamond studs in her ears every day, and Heddy thought they must be fake until she heard her complaining to Beryl that her father refused to buy her a full carat until she was twenty-one. “Then he’ll make your husband buy them,” Beryl deadpanned, and the girl pouted: “You’re so, so right.”

Jean-Rose was still talking. “On my wedding day, she told me marrying Ted was the best thing that ever happened to me, but now I had three jobs: keep a fine house, organize an enviable social calendar, and be a tiger in the bedroom.”

Heddy swerved, the car nearly taking out a white fence. Jean-Rose cackled, throwing her head back. “I’m just joking, dear. I love keeping you Wellesley girls on your toes.”

Shingled houses with charming gardens and picket fences lined Main Street, and Heddy made a note to include details about them in her journal entry tonight. It was all so curious to her. She and her mother had taken the bus to City Island in the Bronx once to eat fried clams, passing high-rise buildings on the parkway, then emerging over the small drawbridge to the island’s busy sidewalks. But Martha’s Vineyard was different. There were pristine pine forests, unspoiled craggy cliffs, grassy meadows rolling into dunes, tidy clapboard houses with shutters. Last night in bed, she waited for the wind, so the buoy would rock in Vineyard Sound, chiming, and she watched as the sky faded to pink, the water shimmering. She couldn’t have imagined any of this a few weeks ago, and Heddy relished the mental image of herself driving this car. Sunglasses on, the convertible blowing wisps of hair about her temples.

“See, you’re a natural at driving. You know, I bet you’re capable of so much more than you think. More than your mother even knows.” Jean-Rose reached over to squeeze Heddy’s forearm, but she flinched, making the moment awkward rather than tender. She didn’t like what Jean-Rose had said about her mother. Heddy’s mother knew exactly what Heddy was capable of; she’d been the one to encourage her, helping her study vocabulary and math, even if she didn’t know the answers herself.

More than your mother even knows. When you grew up with a parent short on rent most months, when a budget taped to the fridge accounted for every penny of your mother’s income, you knew what you were capable of because you had to decide early on if you were going to fight against the tide pushing you downstream or simply let yourself sink. You knew that when your mother collapsed from exhaustion on the subway steps after working nineteen hours straight, that she was the definition of the word “tenacious.” Or when she fell into a funk and cried for hours on the couch, the shades drawn and dinner hardly a thought, then you believed your grandmother when she told you, “Times are hard, but this, too, will pass.” You believed it because you had to. It wasn’t whether you were capable in life that mattered, it was whether you got a chance, and her mother’s lies about Heddy’s father had given Heddy a legitimate chance.

Heddy sucked in a deep breath, pushing her shoulders against the warm seat leather. She had to relax. Jean-Rose didn’t mean any harm by what she’d said. Besides, Heddy would have to swallow her pride a bit to keep this job. Everyone in service had to.

---

With its robin’s-egg blue clapboard siding and neat maroon awnings, Cronig’s Market occupied a double-door building on Main Street in Vineyard Haven, near a women’s department store, a candy shop, and an electronics store selling portable radios with large handles and televisions set into shiny mahogany cabinets standing on four legs. The ferry down the hill had just let out, and people were coming up every street from the water. After circling for a parking spot, they lucked into one next to a bright aquamarine Thunderbird, the white steering wheel wrapped in a panel of turquoise leather, a pair of driving gloves on the dash.

Jean-Rose clicked her tongue. “My, my. Look who’s here.” She pushed open her car door and went to peer inside the aqua car. “How ridiculous—who needs air-conditioning in a car?”

Heddy had never seen a car with a cooling system. She felt like those sliding chrome knobs were as high-tech as the inside of the Apollo spacecraft. “I wonder if you need a sweater when you turn it on.…”

Jean-Rose reached for a metal shopping cart in front of Cronig’s, motioning to Heddy to follow her. “Ted asked me if I wanted it in the Bonneville, but I like fresh summer air.”

Heddy wiped sweat from her brow. On a day like this, it might feel as refreshing as ice-cold lemonade, she thought. Anna and Teddy headed to a toy section at the front of the store, while Jean-Rose examined netted bags of oranges. Apparently, shopping was something she considered her job as head of the house, like meal planning, even though she hadn’t prepared breakfast, lunch, or dinner since Heddy arrived. The market was filled with other women like Jean-Rose, some in kitten heels and pencil skirts, others in sundresses or scallop-hem shorts. Jean-Rose knew them all. “How are the kids doing in swimming, Muffy?” “Susan, are we still on for bridge?”

Heddy was in awe: Jean-Rose made grocery shopping look like a fabulous day in the park. While she was fetching her boss a carton of eggs, she overheard two women, their grocery carts nose-to-nose at the end of the aisle, talking quietly. One said Jean-Rose’s name, which made Heddy’s ears perk up. “She must be in denial,” the woman said. “I mean, he hardly even looks at her.”

Heddy hurried back to Jean-Rose’s side, and the eggs went into the cart alongside two boxes of cornflakes and a carton of Minute rice. Heddy mentioned they were low on Tang—the children had to have it every morning at breakfast or they’d throw a fit; she’d learned that much already. While putting the canister of Tang in the cart, Heddy felt an elastic ping her ankle—something about her shoe had given out—and her sandal was now loose, dangling off her foot. She reached down to reseal the closure, but it was missing. The tiny buckle had popped off.

Oh brother, she thought. She couldn’t possibly wear the sandal without a strap and buckle, and these were the only shoes she’d brought. For the entire summer.

Jean-Rose tossed in a can of Cheez Whiz. “Have you ever tried this? It’s just divine. The bridge ladies love a smear on a Triscuit.”

Heddy tried to hide the foot with the broken strap, dragging her foot behind her to keep the shoe from slipping off.

“Why are you walking like that?” Jean-Rose pulled a bag of potato chips off the shelf. “Are you limping?”

“It’s my sandal.” Heddy pulled the silver metal clasp out of her shorts pocket; there was a small square of elastic hanging from it. She opened her palm and held it up for Jean-Rose to see. “Do you have a safety pin to hold it in place?”

Jean-Rose pursed her lips. “Let me see the shoe.”

When Heddy held it up, her sandal, damp with sweat, appeared more battered than she realized. You could see just how much leather had worn away by the crisscrossing straps, how battered the sole. Her heart was racing the way it did when she was called on in class, like she needed to prepare an answer.

Jean-Rose placed the shoe on a shelf lined with canned green beans, opened her purse and removed a handkerchief, wiping her hands clean. “There’s a safety pin in my wallet, but it’s probably time to retire this pair, dear.”

Heddy grabbed the shoe, slipping it back on her foot. “I think I can sew it.” She took the safety pin from Jean-Rose, balanced on one foot for a moment and pinned the elastic in place. How could she tell someone like Jean-Rose she owned only one pair of shoes?

Jean-Rose sauntered ahead, Heddy following behind. “I’ll dig through my closet. I’m sure I have something.” In the refrigerator case, Jean-Rose reached for a glass bottle of orange juice when they overheard a booming voice in the next aisle.

“Yes, you should bring Meriwether. That would be just fabulous, sugar pie.”

Jean-Rose froze, cocking her head to one side, shameless in her eavesdropping, so Heddy listened, too. A click-clack of heels inched closer to them. Jean-Rose pulled out her compact, rushing a few strokes of Chanel rouge onto the tops of her cheekbones, when around the corner walked a woman whose full lips were familiar, whose legs seemed to go on forever, and all at once, Heddy knew who it was.

Gigi McCabe, the Gigi McCabe, and she was walking straight toward them. Heddy had never seen a movie star before, let alone one as famous as Gigi. Only those photos of her in Life magazine, where she’d posed on the island, her shirt unbuttoned just enough to tantalize the imagination. A butcher clerk in a white uniformed shirt, blood splattered on the front, leaned up on the counter, leering.

Jean-Rose, who had thrown her compact in her purse in a panic, took on a contented stance, like she’d been deep in thought about the cookies. She clasped her hands together at her sparkly neck. “Gigi! I was hoping to see you here this morning. You look amazing, as always.”

Gigi did that thing Heddy had seen her do a dozen times in the movies, when she tilted her chin down and turned her coquettish eyes up. “Oh, this? I wore it in Cannes,” she said, sizing up Jean-Rose’s white shorts, the pink espadrilles.

Gigi wore a black-and-white gingham, knee-length skirt popped like a tutu below a fitted black short-sleeved sweater tank, pushing her large breasts up and out, which was precisely the point. A golden snake buckle clasped a thick elastic-band belt at her tiny waist, while oversize black sunglasses sat atop her head. Gigi flicked her wispy reddish-brown hair over her shoulder, like she was annoyed by it. “Are you coming to the party?”

“We have it on our calendar.” Jean-Rose put down her basket of groceries, opening her arms in an embrace. “You’ll have to come to our clambake in mid-August, too—it’s become a highlight of the season, you know.”

Gigi didn’t loop her arms around Jean-Rose, and Jean-Rose awkwardly hugged her middle. “If I’m here,” Gigi said. “Who’s this pretty little thing?” Gigi looked at Heddy just as she was working to hide her damaged sandal.

Heddy sputtered. “I loved you in The It Girl. I want to write a movie like that someday.” It was true. Her dream, the dream she’d never admitted to anyone, was to write screenplays with an actress like Gigi in the starring role. Why she’d chosen this moment to blurt it out escaped her, and her cheeks flushed with heat.

Jean-Rose rolled her eyes, and Heddy wished she hadn’t said anything at all. “This is our babysitter, Heddy. She’s staying with us for the summer, on break from Wellesley.”

Gigi craned her head a bit to look around her, and Heddy swore she was trying to see her shoe. “A babysitter from Wellesley? And you want to be a writer? How interesting. I thought you were all debutantes perfecting your backhands.”

She was waiting for Heddy to answer, so Heddy stopped chewing on her nails long enough to say: “Not all of us, Ms. McCabe.”

Jean-Rose smiled broadly. “Gigi and I are old friends from Darien. Your neighborhood was still considered Darien proper, right?”

Gigi held her head still, her eyes boring into Jean-Rose. “It’s nice to reconnect every summer, isn’t it, sugar pie? Reminisce about the old days, before you married that buffoon.”

Jean-Rose breezed right over her statement. “Gigi bought the house two doors down from ours.”

“I’d say it’s more than a house.”

Jean-Rose turned to Heddy. “Remember the three driveways at the end of the gravel road? The first is Shirley Q’s. Oops, I mean, Gigi’s. Ash lives in the cottage in between.” Heddy pictured the house with the three brick chimneys she could see from her attic bedroom. She’d been staring at those chimneys more than usual since her mind wandered whenever she tried to read Revolutionary Road—she preferred to look out the window than dive into a book about marital discord. Why hadn’t Jean-Rose recommended a love story?

Heddy willed the actress’s eyes away from her sandal. Of all days, this was the one she had to be walking around with a busted shoe. Fate could be so cruel.

“Have you ever tried writing a screenplay?” asked Gigi. “It’s not exactly a growing field for women.”

Heddy, the hair on her arm prickling with nerves, wondered if she should tell. It was silly to even admit. Childish.

“There is one, but… it hasn’t amounted to much. Not yet, anyway.” Heddy licked her lips, her thoughts all mixed up, like swirling paint in a can.

“Don’t write about anything you see in my house.” Jean-Rose chuckled, but the way she held her gaze, Heddy could tell it was a joke based in truth.

“Jeannie, I have a swell idea. Why don’t you bring Heddy to the party?” Gigi’s eyes flicked.

“How thoughtful of you.” Jean-Rose coughed. “But she’ll be watching the children.”

Gigi twirled a piece of her hair around her finger, addressing Heddy. “It’s a Midsummer Night’s party the second-to-last Saturday in July. You’ll need a proper dress. Come over to my house next Wednesday, around two. You and I look about the same size.”

Heddy wished that were true; her own boyish figure was more gamine than sexy, her bust line a constant source of disappointment.

“That won’t be necessary, Gigi,” said Jean-Rose. She glided past her, the other shoppers pretending not to notice the movie star.

“I’m sure someone else can stay with Anna and Teddy for one night.” Gigi tapped one of her black heels impatiently. “Or perhaps there’s another couple who would prefer your place.…”

Jean-Rose froze. The air chilled for a second, and Heddy tried to think of something to say to offset the silence, an apology for mentioning the screenplay. It was the only reason Gigi was inviting her.

“And she can bring the children to my house next Wednesday, Jeannie.”

“But, Gigi, it’s the Fourth of July.”

“Okay, Tuesday then. I picked up presents in Cannes.”

“But I don’t think our babysitter needs an invite,” Jean-Rose said.

“Oh, Jeannie, just let her come.”

Heddy looked from Gigi to Jean-Rose, like they were smacking a tennis ball back and forth. Then Jean-Rose’s hard look softened. “It’s a swell idea,” she said.

“Really?” Heddy had a mouth full of sand. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Jean-Rose said, her voice high-pitched. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Don’t be such a baby, sugar pie. The party is going to be outrageous. Hollywood types will be there.” Gigi picked up another lock of hair, twirled that one around her finger, too, pleased with herself.

Hollywood people. Gigi had been connected in the tabloids to Cary Grant, controversial since he was at least twenty years older and not yet divorced—was he going to attend? How would her friends at school react when she told them about the party? She wouldn’t have to listen silently to all the other girls’ lavish reports; she was going to a real-life movie star’s party! Then she remembered the letter. The scholarship. That unless she found a way to get two thousand dollars, she wasn’t returning to school at all, and her knees felt like Jell-O.

Gigi kissed Jean-Rose once on each cheek, then turned to Heddy to do the same, but Heddy turned her face the wrong way at the wrong moment, slamming her nose right into Gigi’s lips. “I am so sorry. Thank you, Ms. McCabe. Thank you.”

Jean-Rose pushed past Heddy with a peevish sigh, walking toward the cashiers, where the kids were playing tag with another child. “Let’s check out.”

Gigi waved, closing one finger at a time into her palm. Her peach lipstick was so lush it looked painted, her eyebrows arched with interest: “Au revoir, mes enfants.” Heddy had been so awestruck she didn’t even notice her sandal flopping off her heel as she walked to the registers.

“Not so fast, miss.” It was Gigi’s husky voice, and when Heddy turned, the actress was dangling something shiny and silver from her fingertips. For a moment, Heddy mistook it for a sardine. “I think you lost something,” Gigi said.

Heddy pushed back her shoulders and reached for the safety pin; this would go down as one of the most humiliating moments of her life. “Thank you. The strap popped. I’ll just grab another pair from my suitcase. Maybe the red ones with the little bows.” She’d cut pictures of those shoes out of a catalog and glued them in her journal. One day, she’d wear shoes so chic no one would ever guess she’d once had only one pair. She backed away, the safety pin buried in her palm. “Thank you, Ms. McCabe. Thank you very much. I’ll be going now.”

Gigi’s voice was breathy. “Don’t let her fill your head. She’s the destroying type.”

Heddy curtsied, then laughed at how idiotic it was, like Gigi was royalty. She hurried to Jean-Rose, who was at the cashier, the steady ding of the checkout ringing up the groceries. “Twenty-three dollars,” the cashier announced.

Jean-Rose hollered to the kids, and she and Heddy carried the paper bundles out to the convertible. Heddy got in the passenger seat, looking back at the double screen doors of the market, wondering what it would be like to be Gigi McCabe. That’s when she heard the driver’s side door of the convertible swing open, slamming the car next to them. Jean-Rose had pushed the driver’s side door open with all her might, hitting hard into the aqua Thunderbird’s glossy passenger side door. A small dent shined next to the silver metal handle.

“Oops,” she said gaily. She jerked her door shut, scooting herself into place behind the wheel. “I can be so clumsy.”

Heddy squinted from the passenger seat, trying to see how much damage she’d done. “Gosh, maybe you should tell someone.”

Jean-Rose spit through gritted teeth. “If people knew who she really was! The things she did.” She smacked the steering wheel, started the car. “And this nonsense with you. Why would she be so interested in you?”