Harpswich, Massachusetts
China or Corelle?
Louise raised the two dessert plates and looked between them as the debate raged: Her wedding china—a Blue Willow pattern—was elegant, or maybe too elegant? Would it seem she was trying too hard to impress? The Corelle was serviceable and had a lovely sea-foam green trim, but she didn’t want to appear as if she weren’t trying at all …
She lowered the two with a disgusted sigh. Five-star generals debated over battle strategies in less time than she’d been considering the dishware. But then she’d given the same deliberation—no, more even, it galled her to admit—to which hand towels to hang in the half bath off the hall. It was a wonder she’d managed to get anything on the table to eat, let alone the spread of hors d’oeuvres she’d been baking and slicing and rolling and filling since four that morning. As if she’d been able to sleep last night knowing Glory Cartwright was due to arrive sometime after three.
Glory Cartwright. Coming to her town.
To her kitchen!
Louise slid her hands along the sides of her head, desperate to smooth down the wisps of curls that had come loose. She’d tethered her shoulder-length hair with a tortoiseshell clip at the base of her neck—yet another choice she’d deliberated for far too long.
It didn’t help that the earlier breeze had vanished in the last hour, once coming through the screens strong enough that she’d worried the gusts might overturn the flower arrangements that bookended her dishes. Despite it only being the end of May, the temperatures were already rising to midsummer numbers, bringing a blanket of humidity with them. The lavender and white lilac blossoms, soon to be frothy and fragrant on their branches in the front yard, would wilt prematurely at this rate. Heat this early in the season didn’t bode well for a cool summer.
She clapped a hand under each armpit, crushed to find the pink polyester damp. Why hadn’t she worn the linen instead? Everyone knew linen breathed.
Speaking of breathing—
She glanced back at the stove clock, startled to see it was nearly two thirty. How long did it take to get a bottle of Dubonnet? Unless Gifford’s was out and Russ had been forced to travel to Wellfleet, though Louise doubted her husband would take the extra time, not wanting to risk being absent when Mitch and his wife made their grand arrival. Maybe Louise wouldn’t have been so insistent if she hadn’t found a photograph of Glory Cartwright drinking Dubonnet at an Oscar party. Russ had been dubious, suggesting that someone from the liquor company might have simply stuck it in her hand and snapped a photo, because they did that sometimes, he told her with a ridiculous degree of authority. As if her husband knew anything about Hollywood? As if he was the one who pored over the magazines in the grocery store?
She caught a whiff of fry oil and winced. What happened to the buttery sweetness of the mushroom tartlets she’d just pulled from the oven?
She held her temple, her head spinning. She couldn’t remember when she’d been more nervous.
No, that wasn’t true.
Her wedding day. She’d been a tangle of nerves then, too. Not over the ceremony itself—no, she’d been sure she wanted to marry Russ Chandler from the moment she watched him gently capture and free a crow that had accidentally flown into their high school’s gymnasium in the middle of assembly. No, it had been the threat of exposure that had worried her. Her wedding bouquet of calla lilies had been a serviceable shield, until she’d had to relinquish it during the vows, and she’d been terrified the wind would pick up and press the loose fabric of her empire waist flush against her rounding belly. Looking back on that day always brought with it a twist of regret, that she’d worried so much for nothing …
What she really needed was to sit and cool down. She made a valiant attempt, getting as far as the edge of the couch before her attention swerved to a pile of unopened mail on the sideboard she’d forgotten to stuff out of sight. She hid all but the letter on top—a thick electric bill—which she used to fan herself madly as she returned to the kitchen to survey the spread of hors d’oeuvres that looked, not surprisingly, entirely unchanged from the way they had appeared when she’d scanned the table five minutes earlier.
The station wagon charged up the driveway, startling her from her thoughts. She rushed to the window in time to see Russ emerge with a promising-looking brown paper bag under his arm.
She met him at the door as winded as if she’d run in from the backyard. “Did you find it?”
“Two stores later,” he said, freeing the bottle from its brown paper sleeve and stepping inside.
So he had gone the extra mile, literally. “My hero.” She gave him a grateful kiss on the cheek as she took the popular aperitif from his hand and added it to the collection of liquor bottles on the counter. “Do you suppose they’ve hit traffic?” she asked as she returned to the table and reached for the tin of Sterno, struggling to pop the top.
“Let me.” Russ came beside her and gently eased the tin from her hands.
She offered him a sheepish shrug. “I’m all thumbs today.”
The top off, he lit a match, the sizzle of the strike making her jump. Russ glanced at her, his pale eyes tender. “You don’t have to be nervous, sweetheart. Just because he’s some big star now doesn’t mean he isn’t the same goofball we grew up with.”
She blinked at him as he slid the lit tin back under the fondue pot. Did he really think it was Mitch she was nervous to see?
“Where are the crab balls?”
She wiped her hands briskly on a dish towel. “I didn’t bother to make them. What’s wrong with hush puppies?”
“Nothing. I just know Mitch always loved your crab balls.”
“Then you’re welcome to run over to Chowder’s and pick up an order if you’re so worried about disappointing him,” she said, more sharply than she meant. Moving down the counter for a package of cocktail napkins, she could feel her husband’s confounded stare burning into her cheek.
He cleared his throat pointedly. “So let me get this straight: I drive all over town for a bottle of Dubonnet for a total stranger but you forget to make our oldest friend’s favorite food?”
“Not ours—yours,” she corrected coolly. “Your oldest friend who lived in a palace in Hollywood for fifteen years and never once invited us out to see him.”
“Because he knew I couldn’t leave my practice.” How many times over the years had Russ used that rationale to excuse Mitch’s neglect? Louise reached back to free the knot of her apron string, plucking the half skirt off her waist and thrusting it into the nearest chair. She’d vowed not to air old grievances, that this was a day for new beginnings. She’d blame the heat.
When she marched into the living room for a final inspection, Russ followed her, joining her by the fireplace while she scanned the mantel for dust.
“Lou, stop. You don’t have to make such a fuss.”
She turned to face him and sighed, surrendering to the prickles of defeat she’d been feeling all morning. “You’re probably right. I’m sure the minute she gets out of the car and sees our simple little house, she’s going to want to drive straight back to LA.”
Russ leveled her with a stern stare. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He pulled her into a reassuring hug, and she lingered there for several beats, taking comfort in the grassy smell of his mint aftershave before stepping back.
“I just can’t for the life of me figure out what she’s going to do here, Russ.”
“I’m sure you can introduce her to people, bring her to things.”
She stared at him—he wasn’t serious? “Oh, I’m sure Glory Cartwright will be dying to join the garden club. Or maybe the used book sale committee is more her speed?”
He frowned, clearly not appreciating her sarcasm. “All I know is what Mitch told me. He said they needed a break, a little breathing room to reassess their careers.”
If they needed breathing room, they’d have little of it in the Connellys’ house. Compared to their sprawling estate in the Hollywood Hills—Louise had seen the pictures in magazine spreads of Shadowlands, named after Mitch’s first picture—the beach house would seem like a closet.
“It’s just a year, Lou,” Russ said as they returned to the kitchen. “People can do most anything for a year.”
The crackle of arriving tires sailed through the screens; her breath caught in her chest.
Russ glanced at the window above the sink. “They’re here.”
She was smaller in person than she was on the screen. That was Louise’s first thought when Glory Cartwright stepped out of the ivory Cadillac that had just pulled into their driveway. Or maybe anyone would be dwarfed under that gigantic-brimmed hat and those enormous sunglasses—though there was no mistaking the lithe form that her shiny emerald jumpsuit revealed, tight as a second skin all the way down to her waist, where the pant legs flared out like two sails. Louise looked down reflexively at her long corduroy skirt, the one she’d felt so stylish in five minutes earlier, and flushed with regret.
In the next second, Mitch burst out of the driver’s seat with a loud hoot. The matching denim jeans and shirt may have been a strange style for the son of a fisherman who had once preferred bare feet to cowboy boots, but the slow grin that spread under his moustache when he saw them was entirely familiar.
Louise slowed at the edge of the steps, her heart thundering behind her ribs. “I’ll wait here. I’m so nervous I’m liable to trip down the stairs.”
Russ smiled, taking her hand and tugging her forward. “So I’ll catch you.”
Mitch closed the distance between them in a handful of long strides, lunging first for Russ like a boxer looking to land a punch. Louise hung back while they embraced with several hard shoulder slaps, grateful for the gift of distance while the old friends beamed at one another. Her time in the welcoming line would come soon enough.
“Lou…” When Mitch’s eyes slid to find hers, she’d already secured a polite smile. “Man, you’re a sight.”
“Hello, Mitch,” she said tightly.
His arms spread wide and Louise stepped into them, allowing him a brief hug—and nearly choking on a smoky breath of his woodsy cologne—before he stepped back to call to Glory, who was still scanning the yard from the car.
“Glow, come on!”
“Coming!” she cried as she pranced across the driveway, slivers of cork platform heels peeking from beneath her pant legs. Louise felt a bolt of panic—she just prayed the woman didn’t break her neck on the uneven surface of crushed shell.
“Glow, I want you to meet my oldest friends,” Mitch said, swinging one tanned hand in their direction while he pulled Glory against him with the other. “This is Russ and Louise Chandler. Russ, Lou, meet the woman who finally made an honest man out of me.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Glory said with a coquettish grin as she dove forward to offer her hand, a stack of turquoise bracelets colliding at her thin wrist. She swung off her sunglasses and appraised the house, her heavily shadowed eyes blinking approvingly. “Oh God, Mitch, it’s adorable! And there’s even those little shell wind chimes you promised,” she cried, pointing her folded sunglasses at the clattering collection of stringed sand dollars hanging from the rafters. Adorable? Louise savored the compliment, feeling a flush of relief, then another of doubt—would Glory Cartwright still think so when they came inside?
Russ took Glory’s outstretched hand and covered it with both of his. “We’re honored, Ms. Cartwright.”
“Does this mean I have to call you Dr. Chandler?”
“Only when he’s sticking a needle in your arm,” Mitch teased.
Russ smiled, flushing slightly. “Of course not.”
While her voice may have been different, Glory Cartwright was certainly every bit as beautiful as she appeared on-screen. Did Russ agree? Louise stole a glance at her husband, but his smile remained even, his gaze moving between Mitch and Glory with equal interest.
“You know, I was bracing for a crowd,” Glory said, searching the lawn.
“No crowds, baby. Not yet.” Mitch tugged her against him. “I made Lou and Russ promise not to tell anyone when we were coming in,” he said with a quick wink in Russ’s direction. “I wanted our landing to be private.”
Still caught in Mitch’s clutch, Glory turned to catch Louise’s gaze.
“Private?” Glory laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”
They spilled into the kitchen.
Glory Cartwright swung off her hat and revealed her trademark auburn mane, the sides feathered back in two perfect wings. Louise had always marveled at those fashionable waves in the magazines and on TV, always convincing herself they were some sort of trick of the camera, that they could never look that perfect in real life. She felt a flutter of envy. So much for her theory.
“Drink orders?” Russ asked.
“G and T for me,” said Mitch, already circling the table of food.
“I’d love a splash of Dubonnet, if you have it,” said Glory.
Louise flashed Russ a small smile of satisfaction.
“Please help yourselves,” she said, sweeping her hands like a game show hostess to display the spread of hors d’oeuvres.
Mitch stepped forward. “Lou, you can go ahead and put away that celery and those carrot sticks,” he said, casting Glory a teasing smile. “I told Glow as long as we’re here, she’s not allowed to eat anything that hasn’t been brought up in a net or fried within an inch of its damn life.”
“And I reminded him that he’s not the one who has to worry about fitting into a pink cat suit for our new film next summer,” Glory said, lunging for a whiff of the centerpiece of bright blooms of wildflowers and dried grasses that Louise had assembled that morning. “These are beautiful. You’ll have to be sure to give me the number of your florist.”
Louise smiled, feeling a flicker of pride. She reached back nervously to test her hair clip. “I did the arrangement myself.”
“Really?” Glory Cartwright blinked at her as if Louise had claimed to have built the Pyramids. Was she honestly so impressed?
“Lou’s quite the gardener,” Russ said, returning with their drinks.
“And what about these?” Glory asked, her attention pulled to a stack of sand dollar coasters, picking one up and studying it with wonder. Louise leaned closer and drew in a whiff of jasmine. Just a few minutes inside and already Glory Cartwright’s sugary perfume had overtaken the greasy smell of fried batter.
“I found those at one of my favorite boutiques,” she said. “But they sell them all over town.”
Mitch dragged a chip through the bowl of clam dip and pointed it at Glory. “Lou and you should go shopping this week. She can give you decorating tips—can’t you, Lou?”
Louise shot him a wary look. As if she would presume to advise someone with Glory Cartwright’s expensive taste how to decorate her house?
She smiled politely. “I’m sure you won’t need my help…”
“Oh no, I’m counting on it,” Glory said. “The house comes furnished but I want to add a few touches of my own.” She glanced between Russ and Louise. “They filmed Jaws near here, didn’t they?”
“I think that was on the Vineyard,” said Louise.
“You know, I was actually up for the part of Brody’s wife,” Glory said, peeking into the living room. “But Lorraine was just so perfect. She and Roy had the most fantastic chemistry.”
“Glow, sit,” said Mitch, plunging a wedge of bread into the fondue pot.
“Lou loves movies,” Russ said. “We don’t get to the movies nearly as often as she’d like.”
“You’re not missing anything these days, trust me.” Mitch tipped the skewer into his mouth and pulled off his cheese-soaked catch. “It’s still all this cinema verité crap.”
Glory cast him a disapproving stare over her shoulder. “Just because you refuse to try something different doesn’t make it crap.”
“If by ‘something different,’ you mean I don’t feel the need to starve myself or not sleep for a week to get into character, you’re right, I don’t.”
Glory rolled her eyes. “It’s called method acting.”
“I know what it’s called, Glow. Who the hell do you think had to wait in his trailer to film a thirty-second scene because De Niro wanted to do sprints up and down the lot for three hours?”
“He won an Oscar, didn’t he?”
Mitch swatted the air as if to close the subject and turned to Russ. “Did I tell you I’m getting Essie back on the water? I called Curtis before we left LA to make sure she’d be ready. Can you believe he kept her stored for me all these years?”
“Do you like to sail, Ms.—” Louise stopped herself. “Glory.”
“Not yet—but she’s going to love it,” Mitch said, glancing over his shoulder to find Glory peering down the hallway. “Glow, if you want a tour, all you have to do is ask, you know.”
Russ stood. “Gladly.”
“You two start without me,” Glory said. “I’ll catch up.” She looked at Louise and smiled. Louise had never seen such white teeth in her whole life. “Which way to your restroom?”
When fifteen minutes had passed and Glory still hadn’t returned to the kitchen, Louise assumed Mitch’s wife had joined the house tour—until she passed the slider and saw Glory outside, skirting the flower gardens and puffing madly on a cigarette. A part of Louise wanted to remain inside, let the woman wander and smoke in peace, but another part, the hostess part, felt compelled to make sure she was okay.
Hearing the slider whirl down the track, Glory turned, her face lighting immediately into a sheepish smile. “I promised myself I wouldn’t start again and look at me,” she said, waving her cigarette as Louise approached. “Not exactly the best first impression to make on a doctor, huh?” She glanced at Louise’s empty hand. “Where’s yours?”
“Oh, I don’t smoke.”
Glory laughed. “Well of course you don’t. I meant your drink.” She raised her glass and sipped. “I’m always grateful to find another Dubonnet lover. Mitch can’t stand the stuff. He refuses to keep it in his bar.”
His bar. The pronoun wasn’t lost on Louise. Still she felt a short flush of pride at the unexpected compliment; it never occurred to her that Glory would think she kept a bottle in the house normally. Maybe Louise would pour herself some when they found themselves back inside later. Maybe just a pinch. It was a celebration, wasn’t it?
They circled the perimeter of the gardens.
“I still don’t understand why you two never came out to LA to see us.”
“I suppose because Mitch never asked,” Louise said flatly. Why lie?
“Good God.” Glory groaned and rolled her eyes. “I love that man but he is such a Neanderthal. He thinks people will just show up, like stray cats. Consider this your official invitation to come visit.” Glory flicked her cigarette; Louise marveled at the perfect crescent of fuchsia gloss left on the crisp white filter. “I’m sorry if I rambled in there. Mitch really doesn’t want us talking about movie business. He said the whole point of coming here was to get away.”
“It’s understandable you’d want a break. It must be exhausting work.”
“You’re just being kind—we’re not exactly brain surgeons.” She tapped off another coil of ash. “I think people who need a break from being paid ridiculous amounts of money to play make-believe should be rounded up and fed to wild boars.”
Louise chuckled. Glory’s glossy lips rose into a smile.
“Do you want to know the real reason we’re here?” Glory’s voice lowered conspiratorially; Louise leaned in. “John Cassavetes wants to cast us in his next picture and Mitch doesn’t want to do it, so he thinks if he pulls us out of Hollywood for a few months, I’ll lose interest. As if I could. The man’s a genius.” She took several quick puffs, like someone drawing oxygen from a mask. “But Mitch says, why do I want to make a movie where all we do is scream at each other? And I keep telling him: That’s not the whole of it. The beauty of Cassavetes’s work is in the range.” She pushed out a sigh with her ribbon of smoke. “Range. Now there’s a word never associated with a Beckett-Cartwright movie.”
Louise nodded thoughtfully, but not with too much conviction, unsure if she was meant to agree or not.
A flock of sparrows swept across the lawn; Glory watched them land and rise over the gardens for several seconds before she turned back to Louise, whatever indignation that had flashed there seconds earlier now cooled.
“So how much do you charge?”
Louise blinked at her. “Charge?”
“For your flower arrangements.”
“Oh, I don’t sell them.”
“You should. People in LA would pay a fortune. Where did you learn to make them?”
Did she really care to know? Louise eyed Glory quickly, searching her flashing green eyes for proof before she answered. “I worked at a flower shop all through high school, and then for a few years while Russ and I were in Boston for his residency. When we moved back here, I even considered opening a shop of my own.”
“Why didn’t you?” Glory asked, as if opening a business were as easy as opening a jar of peanut butter. Louise felt a prickle of shame.
“Life stepped in, I suppose,” she said. “I had no idea that being a doctor’s wife would be a job in itself. Expected seats on boards, fundraising…”
“It’s never too late.”
If only that were true, Louise thought as she gazed wistfully at her beds, recalling the cool, herby smell of freshly cut stems she couldn’t wait to breathe in every morning, the narrow corridor of their work area, the counter always splashed with blossoms, like the canvas of one of the abstract artists she so enjoyed viewing at the MFA. How much peace and distraction it had provided her in those impossible days after she’d miscarried.
She glanced up to find Glory studying her intently as she drew on her cigarette. “You know, I tried to contact you years ago.”
Louise blinked, startled by the confession, sure she’d misheard.
“When Mitch and I were making One Summer in San Clemente,” Glory said as they circled a patch of violets. “I played a doctor’s wife.”
Louise recalled the film well, how Russ had spent the drive home from the theater critiquing Mitch’s performance, wondering why they never asked real medical professionals to review scripts, how her own envy had swayed between Glory’s glamorous wardrobe and her take-charge persona, the snappy comeback lines she fired off with such confidence.
“I wanted to shadow a real doctor’s wife for the role,” Glory continued, “so I asked Mitch for your number…” Louise stared expectantly while Glory sipped her drink, the wait excruciating until Glory finally swallowed. “He could never find it.”
That she should be disappointed over something years past was absurd, still Louise felt a short pang of remorse. “That’s too bad. I would have enjoyed that very much.”
“And I’m sure you would have been far more helpful than the plastic surgeon’s wife I ended up shadowing for a week. All she did was take two-hour lunches at the Beverly and train with her tennis instructor, Julian.” Glory rolled her eyes. “But it looks like we’ll get our chance to team up after all.”
Louise tilted her head. “How do you mean?”
Glory smiled. “You can show me how to play a proper Cape Cod wife, of course.”
Louise wasn’t sure which part of the sentence—“proper Cape Cod wife” or “play”—unsettled her more, when the whoosh of the slider sailed across the lawn, pulling her attention to the house before she could decide.
Russ and Mitch stepped out. Mitch waved.
“We’ve been spotted,” Glory whispered playfully, waving back.
Mitch raised his bare wrist and tapped it pointedly.
“I’m sure you’re anxious to get settled,” Louise said, steering them back up the lawn toward the deck.
“Do you know the house he leased?” Glory asked.
“I do. I used to know the owners.”
“I told Mitch I didn’t want anything too fancy. That if he wanted us to live here for a year, I wanted to experience a real rustic beach house. No frills.”
Louise smiled agreeably. She’d get her wish, all right.
“You gals making plans already?” Mitch asked as they climbed the steps to the deck to join them.
“How’s Monday for our shopping date?” Glory cast Louise a wishful look. “Ten o’clock?”
Mitch came behind Glory and crossed his arms around her. “And while you’re at it, Lou, take her by Wards and get her some proper shoes, will you?”
“What’s wrong with my shoes?” Glory cried, swatting playfully at his hands as he squeezed harder.
Ten minutes later, Louise and Russ waved them out of the driveway.
“Looks like you two were getting along famously.” Russ waited a beat before grinning at his own pun as he followed Louise back into the house. “And you were worried she’d hate it here.” He chuckled. “I’ve never seen anyone gush over coasters before.”
“She talks about moving here like she’s come to film a movie, Russ. Like it’s a role she’s set to play.”
He shrugged. “Is that so strange?”
“I suppose not.”
Louise surveyed the remainder of the hors d’oeuvres. “I made too much food. She barely touched any of it.”
“Mitch enjoyed himself enough for both of them,” Russ said. “Hopefully she’ll actually eat when you have your lunch date on Monday.”
“Don’t be silly, she was just being polite,” Louise said, picking up a stuffed mushroom and popping it into Russ’s open mouth. “I’m hardly going to put it on the calendar.”
And she didn’t.
Which was why, when Mitch’s cream Cadillac charged up the driveway on Monday morning at 9:52, Louise was elbow-deep in a bowl of bread dough at the kitchen counter. She gave her hands a brisk rinse, still digging out leftover dough from the webs of her fingers as she hurried down the front hall and opened the front door to find Glory Cartwright in skintight black jeans and a garnet velour blazer.
“Don’t tell me you forgot?” Glory swept off her sunglasses and looked her up and down, her eyes pooling with dread when she finally settled them on Louise’s face.
Louise blinked. “Of course not—I’ve been looking forward to it all weekend,” she lied quickly, reaching for her purse where it sat—thank God—on the entry table. “I’m all ready to go.”
Glory bit back a smile and gestured to her waist. “Are you sure about that?”
Louise looked down, seeing her apron still tethered, and flushed.
The house was fine, Glory explained as she spun them out into the street, fast enough that Louise reached for the door handle to keep from tipping into the center of the seat. She thought at once of their movie Moonlight Magic, the heart-pounding car chase as Mitch tries to outrun the bounty hunter hired to find them.
Coming around a curve, they encountered a slow-moving sedan. She glanced to Glory’s feet, silently willing her white pumps to hit the brakes as they drew dangerously close to the upcoming car’s bumper.
“What’s Mitch up to this morning?” Louise asked, gripping her purse like a flotation device.
“He mentioned something about surprising Russ at the office and taking him to lunch,” Glory said, nearly kissing the bumper before she swung them around the car without so much as a glance in her rearview mirror.
Louise closed her eyes and pulled in a steeling breath, grateful when they entered town a few minutes later and Glory had to bring them to a crawl at the first intersection.
“Is it always this busy on a Monday morning?” she asked.
“This is nothing,” said Louise. “It’s still early in the season. After Memorial Day, the traffic will be impossible.”
They were barely into one boutique before a trio of young women rushed Glory at a display of sundresses and asked for autographs, which Glory graciously granted while Louise slipped off to browse a shelf of sandals. But even from the other side of the store, she could still make out their conversation, the girls’ high-pitched praises and Glory’s warm replies as she signed a napkin, then a restaurant receipt, then finally the back of a picture of one’s boyfriend. “Oh, he won’t mind, don’t worry,” the girl had assured Glory when she’d hesitated. When the flushed fans had dashed off with their prizes, Louise made her way back to Glory’s side, only to find more adoration when they reached the cash register.
After a second store—and another succession of requests—they agreed it was time for lunch.
“Where should we go?” Glory asked as they started down the sidewalk.
“I’m sure Mitch has recommended plenty of places to you.” Louise could already imagine them. Grease-soaked fish shacks, with picnic tables that would surely give you splinters.
Glory’s smile was downright mischievous. “He has, but I want to go somewhere you’d go. That special place you and your girlfriends meet when you want to have pie for lunch and tell secrets about your husbands.”
“I don’t really have that.”
“Pie for lunch?” Glory grinned. “Or secrets about your husband?”
Louise flushed with apprehension. She might have admitted to having none of the three things, but confessed to only one: “A group of girlfriends.”
“Well”—Glory threaded her arm through Louise’s and tugged her close—“you do now.”
Still an hour before the lunch rush, Petite’s was barely a quarter full when Louise and Glory stepped inside. Unlike so many of the Cape’s quintessential restaurants, Petite’s bore a decidedly European flavor—more Parisian café than fish shack. Where most local eateries hung netting and faded buoys from their ceilings and walls, Petite’s strung white Christmas lights and covered their tables with ivory tablecloths edged in lace.
“If you want someplace more traditionally coastal, we can always try—”
“Oh no,” said Glory, already settled into her side of the window booth. “It’s darling. Very American in Paris.”
Louise wondered if there had ever been a time in Glory Cartwright’s life when a setting didn’t have a film comparison.
She recognized all three of the waitresses behind the counter—local girls who in a few weeks would find themselves having to share their tips and their beaches with college students who came for summer work. The tallest of the group hurried over to their table, already wearing the flush of excitement as she greeted them, her hands shaking visibly as she set down their settings then freed her order pad from her pocket, holding it out to Glory. “Could I have your autograph, Ms. Cartwright?” Glory obliged her with a warm smile. But even after the waitress had returned to her group with her prize and their lunch order, the girls’ gazes continued to flick in Glory’s direction, their cupped hands concealing whispers.
Louise took a small sip of ice water. “It must be so strange.”
“What’s that?”
“Everywhere you go. Being recognized. Being stared at. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“Never.”
Louise studied Glory, unconvinced. “But surely some days it must wear on you? Always having to act happy to sign an autograph, or pose for a picture?”
“I’m not acting happy—I genuinely love it,” Glory said, taking up her glass. “The truth is signing autographs is one of the few times I don’t have to act happy.”
Louise sat back, considering the claim as Glory swirled her straw. Surely she didn’t mean she was just acting happy for all other times in her life?
“Well, I couldn’t do it,” Louise said. “But then, I’m not an actress.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Glory slid her a teasing look. “All women are actresses at some point. We have to be.”
“Do you really think so?”
She pressed her hands on either side of her setting and leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “You can’t think of one time that you pretended to feel a certain way to make someone happy?”
The memory arrived in an instant. “There was this very unflattering sweater that Russ bought me for Christmas two years ago…,” Louise admitted quietly, looking up to find Glory smiling sympathetically.
“And you didn’t want to hurt his feelings, right?”
“Of course not.”
“See? We’ve all earned Oscars at one point or another.”
Louise laughed.
“I know I was acting long before I got to Hollywood at fifteen,” Glory said.
Louise blinked at her. “They hired you at fifteen?”
“I told them I was eighteen. But trust me, if I’d waited three more years to get out of my stepfather’s house, one of us wouldn’t have made it out alive.”
Despite Glory’s attempt at humor, Louise felt a chill at the confession.
She shook open her napkin and laid it across her lap. “I read that you were discovered at a modeling agency.”
“That was just for the magazines,” said Glory. “Every new girl gets a story spun. It’s all make-believe. Even the part that’s not supposed to be.” She made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Especially the part that’s not supposed to be.”
Their waitress returned with their food. Louise held her breath while the girl set down her bowl of minestrone, the surface shuddering.
“Speaking of acting…,” Glory said as she freed the toothpick from her turkey club and carefully inspected the contents. “As of this morning, Operation Betty Crocker is officially underway. I promised Mitch I’d make him these crab ball things he loves so much and I haven’t the foggiest idea how to even begin. Any advice?”
Louise sank her spoon into her soup. “I have some frozen I could give you,” she said, feeling a short flutter of chagrin recalling how quickly she’d dismissed making some fresh for Mitch just a few days earlier. Yet now the offer seemed natural—urgent, even. “They thaw quite nicely. He’d never have to know you didn’t make them.”
Glory leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “You’ll be like my stunt double.”
“I thought they only hired those for dangerous action scenes.”
“My point exactly—I nearly burned the house down yesterday roasting a chicken!”
They laughed, loud enough that the waitresses glanced over.
Glory loosened a tomato slice from her sandwich and cut it into quarters with her fork and knife. “You should know, I don’t have them either.”
Louise looked up, confused.
“Girlfriends,” she said. “I never really had the chance to—and it wasn’t as if I dared to tell anyone about what went on in my house, with my stepfather’s drinking and my mother letting him take everything out on her and me.”
Louise swept her spoon through her soup, letting Glory’s confession sit a moment in silence.
“I’m sure it’s hard to make real friends in Hollywood. To know who to trust.”
“I think it’s hard anywhere,” said Glory, removing the top slice of bread and picking delicately at the stack of turkey slices with her fork. “Especially if you’re a successful person.” She hitched her chin at Louise. “You know all about that, I’m sure.”
Louise shrugged. “Russ doesn’t have many close friends here.”
Glory lowered her fork. “I was talking about you.”
“Me?”
“Well, of course you. Look at how quickly those girls behind the counter stopped their conversation when they saw you come in.”
Louise waved her hand. “Don’t be ridiculous—they did that because they saw you.”
But Glory continued to study Louise’s face, clearly refusing to give up her point, even as she abandoned her sandwich entirely and moved the plate to the side, still considering her as she sipped her ice water.
“You have confidence, Louise. It’s quiet but it’s clear. I sensed it in you from the minute I met you.”
Louise felt the warmth of the compliment heat her cheeks, hiding the color as she leaned over for a spoonful of soup.
“A toast.” Glory raised her glass. “To girlfriends,” she said. “And a place of our own to tell secrets.”
Later that night, when she and Russ had both shut off their reading lamps, plunging their bedroom into inky blue, Louise asked him: “Did you know Glory ran away from home at fifteen?”
Russ reached back to shift his pillow. “Mitch had said something about a tough childhood. That she’s been through quite a lot. She’s had several episodes of severe depression over the years.”
“Do you suppose she takes medication?”
“It’s possible. I didn’t want to pry. I just said I could recommend some therapists if she ever needed to see someone.”
Louise nodded, letting the room fall into a warm hush.
She stared up at the ribbons of moonlight shuddering across the ceiling, a second confession desperate to spill out.
She smiled. “Glory Cartwright thinks I’m confident.”
In the dark, the bed shifted and groaned as Russ rolled over to face her. Louise could feel his gaze traveling over her profile.
“And why shouldn’t she?” he asked.
Louise felt the warmth of his hand graze her thigh, and she closed her fingers over his.
Why, indeed.