TWENTY-SIX

From the kitchen window, Heddy, who was soaping the second round of cocktail plates, could see guests mingling in the yard, the skies pink with sunset. The Williamses’ unassuming backyard had been transformed into a gleaming party space, with twinkling lights, a dozen white picnic tables, and a gravel pit, where the makings of the clambake were tucked under the hot coals.

A bespectacled man in a shirt too small for his belly stuffed his mouth with a pastry puff. A slender woman laughed with Susanne, while Abigail Rhodes, smoking long skinny cigarettes, kept her eyes on Edison Mule and his wife, dark rings under her eyes. In all directions, clumps of guests pulled at meat on sticks, glasses of punch in hand, while a rectangular stereo speaker, the wire lowered down from the living room window, played Little Richard.

“Now aren’t these darling?” A sultry voice carried over the others, and Heddy startled, dropping a plate into the suds. Gigi, dressed in a low-cut spangly tank and pedal pushers, examined one of the table centerpieces: white buckets with lobster bibs, a lobster cracker, and decorative placemats of the island. “Ted, I just know you had something to do with this.” A throaty laugh.

With Ted’s back to Heddy, she watched his Hawaiian shirt jostle in response, and how he wiped his hand on the back of his khakis after shaking hands with the man on Gigi’s arm.

That man, who was he? A stranger with dark skin and imposing height, chiseled, but hardly an actor—no Cary Grant. Even from here, she could see the dull energy of the party had heightened with Gigi’s arrival, a rise in the octave of everyone’s voices, the darting of eyes, partygoers shifting an inch or so forward or back or sideways, trying to get a little closer to the actress, the intoxication of celebrity.

“Ted, what happened to my invitation?” Gigi pouted her lips, her eyes sultry and full of dare. “Am I not on ‘the list’? Your wife has been keeping those lists since high school, you know.”

A waitress rushed into the kitchen and slid another stack of plates into the sink, splashing Heddy’s apron with water. She dried her hands on the front, untying the apron and throwing it over the back of a chair.

Heddy hoped she didn’t look positively homely as she approached Gigi, who was nibbling on cheese with her date, but if she did, Gigi didn’t let on, pulling her into an embrace the moment she laid eyes on her.

“Did you hear anything from school?”

“They said no.” Heddy cast her eyes around until finding Jean-Rose, standing with friends near the back door, pretending not to notice Gigi.

“Oh, honey.” Gigi rubbed Heddy’s back. “We tried.”

Heddy got on tiptoe to reach Gigi’s swaying earring. “There’s something else… Ash Porter is a phony, and he was going to steal everything, and I’m not sure I can forgive him.” She’d whispered it, and perhaps, Gigi hadn’t heard or cared, because she pulled at her date’s hand.

“Heddy, this is Nelson Cruz, a friend from Darien.” She thought of Jean-Rose drunk on the couch at the beginning of the summer, repeating that name: Nelson. Was this him?

The man puffed on his cigar. He raised Heddy’s hand to his half-cocked smile, kissing it. “Pleasure.”

“Nelson owns Havana Nights Supper Club in New York. Have you heard of it?” He tucked his thumbs into his belt loops, puffing out his chest, making apparent his healthy ego.

Of course, Heddy had heard of it, as notorious for its airtight guest list as it was for hosting celebrities.

“Imagine my surprise when my agent and I go for a drink, and it’s Nelson who comes over. He and I grew up a few houses apart.”

“Nice to meet you,” Heddy said, but the man was staring over Heddy’s shoulder at Jean-Rose, her hair in a French twist, her white satin pantsuit glowing in the moonlight. Nelson grinned, his eyelashes long and thick, and tucked his cigar between his teeth. “Did you ever think we’d be at a party like this, Gigi? With the Sunday casserole crowd,” he laughed.

Gigi ran a hand along his chest, the top buttons of his shirt undone and the hair so thick it was bear-like. “Well, we still don’t belong here,” she said. “But we can have some fun.” Gigi grabbed his hand, placing his left palm on her right hip and swaying her hips. With his cigar in hand, he moved along with her, doing the merengue.

Nelson threw his head back, laughing like he knew people were watching. “Look at her. She swings like a senora,” he told Heddy.

Gigi unfurled herself from Nelson with a dramatic twirl, smirking at Jean-Rose, who was approaching them. “Well, Nelson, look who we have here. The island’s newest-named saint.”

“Nelson?” Jean-Rose tried to hide her surprise but her breath caught.

Nelson pushed the nub of his cigar out in an ashtray, fanning the smoke away from his face. “You did well for yourself, querida.” He pulled her into an embrace, and they hugged like people did in movies, going on a beat too long.

Jean-Rose seemed struck by lightning. “It’s been years. I can’t remember the last time…”

He kissed her hand, letting his lips linger near her princess-cut diamond wedding ring. “Let’s not think of that day.”

Gigi put her arm around Nelson’s broad shoulders. “You look as good in this suit as you did at the altar. I swear, this man doesn’t age.”

Jean-Rose’s nostrils flared. “I wish Gigi’d told me you were coming. I wish Gigi’d told me she was coming.”

“I thought she did.” His eyes sparkling, Nelson took Jean-Rose’s hands in his again, sizing her up. “You are happy, though. And that is what matters. It seems you chose well.”

Jean-Rose seemed to forget Heddy and Gigi were beside them. “I heard about the supper club. Your parents must be proud.”

He seemed disappointed by what she’d said; perhaps he’d wanted to tell her. “But you never visit. I want to show you.”

Heddy kicked Gigi’s yellow kitten heel, whispering, “What is happening?” Gigi tilted her head toward Heddy’s shoulder, shrugging, but her grin was mischievous.

Ted, who’d been drinking heavily in an act of defiance since Jean-Rose asked him not to drink at all, came to his wife’s side. “Do you know each other?” he slurred. His voice snapped Jean-Rose out of her trance, and she elbowed her husband off her arm, placing a hand on her silken hip.

“I was so sorry to hear about your rejection from the Island Club, Gigi—I tried to make a case to the board for your admission, I did, but apparently, you didn’t meet our decency standards.”

Gigi stilled a twitch in her lip. “Is that so? Because I pulled my application weeks ago.” She purred. “Is that all you got?”

“How dare you come to this party. You think this is funny?” Jean-Rose angled her body so Nelson was back in Gigi’s vision; he tipped his hat, shadowing one half of his face. “You don’t think this isn’t cruel?”

Nelson blew Jean-Rose an empty kiss, strutting past her, his shiny black shoes clip-clapping through the hush of the crowd. “I’m sorry, bella—Gigi said you wanted to see me.”

Gigi smoothed the fronts of her pedal pushers, strands of silver woven in the fabric. “Don’t let her think you’re not welcome, Nelson. She doesn’t have anything over us anymore…” Gigi bent down, so she was eye level with Jean-Rose, her cheekbones caked with foundation, her peach blush shimmering under the lights. “And it’s killing her.”

“Get out,” Jean-Rose said, studied measure in her voice. She looked around her, smiling at the other guests. The bartender, who’d been putting on a show juggling liquor bottles, set them carefully on the bar top.

Heddy knew she should go back to the dishes, but something percolated inside of her. Was it anger? Resentment? Or was she simply excited that someone was standing up to Jean-Rose? Words started coming to her, then sentences. She wanted in on this fight, but why? It wasn’t her past or her friendship.

Gigi glanced at the partygoers, winking at Susanne, but Susanne crossed her arms. “Can’t we be grown-ups?” Gigi said, wiggling her curvaceous behind. Someone whistled, pleasing Gigi.

“Get out. Now.” The album had finished and it skipped, the needle hitting into the center of the turntable, repeatedly bleating through the speaker.

Gigi looked down her nose at Jean-Rose. “What happened to you?”

Jean-Rose didn’t look away, clenching her fists. “I grew up. I got married, had kids. Stop hating me for having the life you wish you had.”

Gigi cocked an eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“I’m sorry I’ve always been the prettier one. The popular one. The daughter your mother wished she had. I’m sorry I landed Ted, and that your famous boyfriend is cheating on you.”

Gigi blanched; the actor’s latest affair and rumored divorce had been in the papers the day before, even Heddy saw it. “You and your sad sorry self. You think anyone wants what you have?” Gigi’s wicked laughter ricocheted through the crowd. “Oh, Jeannie. The ego on you, the false sense of purpose. Always pretending you feel sorry for everyone. Why don’t you look in the mirror? See who everyone feels sorry for.”

With anger pinching her face, Jean-Rose shoved the actress backward into a picnic table, and Gigi, despite being bigger, lost her balance. “Get out now.”

“That’s enough, Jean-Rose,” Ted said, draping his arm around her back, breathing heavily by her bosom. “We have guests.”

Gigi, still facing Jean-Rose, poked at her bare clavicle with her pointer finger. “Why did you take Teddy’s toy away? Scared that he might be a little too much like daddy? Your damn babysitter had to fetch it from the garage just so he’d stop crying himself to sleep.”

“You what?” Jean-Rose stiffened, sneering at Heddy.

Footsteps pounded into the yard, dress shoes on stone. Heddy thought Nelson Cruz was back, but it was Ash standing before her now, breathless.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. Ash realized then that he’d walked into something awkward, registering the rage on the women’s faces, while tugging on Heddy’s arm, trying to steer her away. Ted looked dazed, and she wondered if Ted knew about Ash, but then he ran toward the bushes, emitting the unmistakable spray of vomit.

Heddy planted her sandals firmly on the patio. Safety pin and all. “Are you here to sell more bogus real estate developments?”

“You hate me, I get it, but listen.” He looked greasy, his hair disheveled.

“Tell them who you really are. Why you’re on this island.” Now it was her voice that sailed out over the crowd, and at once, there were whispers.

He shook his head, like she didn’t get it, crestfallen and his tail between his legs. “Heddy, stop. You need to come with me.”

Jean-Rose grit her teeth behind a smile. “Get back to the dishes, Heddy. That is why I pay you.”

Heddy shirked from her, from Ash. She was done with all of them: “I’m sorry, Jean-Rose, but… But he’s worse than you thought.”

The lipstick in the corners of her boss’s lips had smeared, giving her the appearance of a deranged clown. “No, dear, he’s exactly what I thought. And he’s done with you, isn’t he?”

Ash grabbed Heddy’s shoulders, shaking her to attention. “Heddy, listen to me. It’s Ruth.”

Heddy blinked twice, letting what Ash said register. Ruth. Fear swept over her. Had her mother passed away?

Gigi lit a cigarette, blowing a plume of smoke into Jean-Rose’s face. “Why do you try to hurt her? She’s just a girl.”

“Well, she provided you nothing but amusement.” Jean-Rose gestured toward Heddy.

Gigi tucked Jean-Rose’s bra strap back under the tank of her pantsuit. “You are a miserable thing, aren’t you?” There was a murmur in the crowd, the crackle of the firepit, unfamiliar faces holding sticks with meat on them, waiting for the show to go on.

Jean-Rose twisted the emerald pendant at her neck. “No matter how big your house. No matter how many movies you make. You’re an actress, not a Rockefeller, and on this island, you may as well be a whore.”

“Bravo,” Susanne barked, and she shifted awkwardly when no one else applauded.

“Is that what the Academy voted last March? That I’m a streetwalker?” Gigi sounded charmed, scanning the crowd for a response, summoning up a few delayed chuckles.

“You’re all so curious about her,” Jean-Rose told the partygoers. “Well, I know her. Oh, I know her. I was there the day she terminated a pregnancy—a pregnancy!—because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

Gigi’s eyes bulged, her lips falling open with surprise and disgust—or was it betrayal? She inhaled and exhaled, her gaze boring into Jean-Rose like a drill. Then with bravado—and plenty of cleavage—Gigi’s face changed to something wicked, and Heddy wondered what she’d say next. But she said nothing. The muggy air hung like wet towels, waiting for words to cut it; the American flag on the porch flapped in the breeze, the turntable still skipping.

“Heddy, please,” Ash said, tugging on her elbow, her hands on her hips. The words raced through Heddy’s mind. Nasty. Entitled. Superior. A complete bitch. No, that wasn’t it. What did she want to say?

Heddy cleared her throat.

“Jean-Rose,” she said to her boss, who, having turned her back on Gigi, apologized to guests for the “rude interruption.”

“Jean-Rose.” Heddy, louder this time, waited for her boss to turn, this woman who pretended to be her booster, then accused her of stealing. Who wanted everyone else’s heart to break simply because her own heart broke long ago.

“Heddy, go back to the kitchen,” Jean-Rose said, her silver heels pert and aligned.

Emboldened by the chorus in her head, by all the people who ever said no or looked at her like she was less than, Heddy cleared her throat a second time, taking Gigi’s hand. She felt heat building in her chest, ideas forming in her mind. Heddy hated Ted, yes, but she’d come to hate Jean-Rose and Ted as a couple even more. And Jean-Rose was so selfish, so cruel and uncaring to everyone around her, that it was hard to feel sorry for her. She held this power over everyone, even Gigi, and Heddy wouldn’t let her crush the actress’s spirit, just as she’d tried to break Heddy’s own.

“Want to know what I learned this summer?” Heddy let go of Gigi’s hand, but she could feel the actress towering next to her. “I learned that money doesn’t buy happiness. Or kindness. Or class.”

It hadn’t come out the way she wanted, feeling contrived, cliché. Heddy stared at the horizon, where a lighthouse beam strobed across the horizon. She searched her heart, clawing for the right words. The truest ones. She found Jean-Rose’s eyes again, shadowed in silver, her mascara a perfect fan of long lashes. Even now, her beauty startled her.

“I started this summer thinking I wanted to be you. This perfect life of yours. And I may go home and live with nothing for the rest of mine.” The pain of it burned in Heddy’s chest, and she bit her cheek. “But here’s what I know: You taught me that the most dangerous kind of woman is one without dreams. A woman who plays by someone else’s rules rather than her own. Who does what she thinks people want her to do rather than what she wants. And I will never, ever, be a woman who lets someone, no matter how much money they have, make her believe she’s not good enough.”

Her eyes were damp, her lips trembling, and still the words came. “I’m sorry, but you can’t talk to me like that, Jean-Rose. And you certainly can’t talk to Gigi McCabe like that. The Gigi McCabe.”

Gigi elbowed her, a pleased smile spreading across her face. She mouthed to Heddy: “Good girl.”

Ted stumbled back to Jean-Rose, like nothing ever happened, and the sight of him wiping his mouth turned Heddy’s stomach. “And you,” she said to Ted. Later, Heddy might regret this, she knew it even as she felt her arm go up, but she needed to do it. Her flattened palm sailed through the air, poised to slap Ted’s chiseled cheek. Someone gripped her hand, stopping her. It was Gigi.

“Please. Allow me,” Gigi said. But instead of Ted, she slapped Jean-Rose, who emitted a yelp. She knew then that Gigi didn’t know about Ted’s abuse, that no one did but her and Ruth, and she was sorry then that she’d started this.

The faces around Heddy had turned to a concert of scowls, a sea of murmurs, and Heddy felt her knees buckle as Gigi shook out her hand. She leaned on Gigi to steady herself, her vision blurring for a moment before sharpening.

Ruth. She needed her.

Heddy turned to Ash, who was waiting. “Come on,” he said.