Hello, thank you for coming, so lovely to see you. Most of us have to introduce ourselves because we’ve never actually met the Richardsons.
Blond Sharon and Romeo are standing with Fast Eddie and his wife, Grace. Sharon’s heels are chewing into the Richardsons’ lawn and she regrets not wearing flats. Sharon knows every single person at this party except for the people throwing it. A moment ago, she shook Leslee’s hand and said, “I’m Sharon, thank you for having me.”
“Nice to meet you,” Leslee said. (Immediately, Sharon caught a waft of Leslee’s vanilla perfume. Delilah was right; Leslee smelled as delicious as a French bakery.) “I’ve been told to stay on your good side.”
Sharon laughed in the moment, although now she wonders if she has an intimidating reputation. (Would this be a good thing or a bad thing?) Well, Sharon won’t worry about it tonight. Leslee probably meant that Sharon knows everything about everyone and isn’t afraid to share.
Sharon soon discovers that Romeo has never met the Richardsons, and Eddie and Grace know them only slightly. Sharon’s antennae rise. The Richardsons don’t know, but they do know, she thinks as she scans the crowd. This is more than just a party to meet the neighbors. Everyone here is a Nantucket someone. How did the Richardsons figure out whom to invite? She watches Delilah Drake enter the party in a white halter and pink pants with pom-poms on the hems, and Sharon relaxes. If Delilah has given the Richardsons the benefit of the doubt, then Sharon will too.
Sean Lee segues into “Who Knew” by Pink. Okay, we get it, Sharon thinks with a bit of an eye roll. But she’s delighted when the food starts to appear. There will be no white bread or stale cashews here—Zoe Alistair is catering! Her servers pass immaculately constructed bites, from tiny chicken and waffles that Sharon dips in maple syrup to vodka-spiked cherry tomatoes rolled in basil salt.
Romeo sees that Sharon’s champagne flute is empty and procures her a full one, then they wander over to the raw bar. “Where’s your husband tonight?”
“Haven’t you heard?” Sharon says. “He left me for his physical therapist. We’re getting divorced.”
“What an idiot,” Romeo says. He has never understood men who leave their wives for younger women. Romeo believes women get funnier, wiser, and, yes, sexier as they get older. He would never ask Sharon how old she is but he’s guessing they’re within a couple of years of each other. He likes her smile and her energy. She engages in life. Romeo bets she’s dynamite in bed.
Sharon helps herself to an oyster with mignonette while Romeo chooses a cherrystone. When they both reach for a plump pink shrimp, their fingers brush.
“Allow me,” Romeo says. He dips the shrimp in cocktail sauce and feeds it to Sharon while holding a napkin under her chin.
Is everyone at the party watching? Sharon wonders. Oh, she hopes so.
The Chief is wary of big parties like this—so many things could go sideways. For starters, every single car lined up along that driveway will presumably be driven home tonight, and from the looks of things, designated drivers will be scarce. Where there is drinking, there are accidents; someone could fall off the octagonal balcony or drown in the harbor. Then there are dangers of the emotional sort—arguments, fistfights, hurt feelings, affairs. The Chief has seen it all.
But it’s a stunning evening, the most glorious of the year so far, and they’re in a spot that’s extraordinary even by Nantucket standards. In the car on the way here, Andrea praised the Chief for all the progress he’s made with his health. That morning, he jogged three miles and did ten full minutes of meditation. “You deserve a night out,” she said.
He does, he thinks. It’s his last summer on the job; they’ve narrowed the search for a new chief down to two people—a young guy from Brockton and a woman from Oak Bluffs—and the Chief feels the heavy mantle of responsibility he’s worn for the past thirty-five years lighten a bit. Enough for him to have a real drink, anyway. He chooses the pink lady.
Coco stays upstairs at Triple Eight, checking in with the catering staff and prepping all the surprises in the party room until the guests start to arrive, then she hurries outside. Kacy glides in under the flower arch with her brother, Eric, and his girlfriend, Avalon. (Coco had called Avalon earlier that day because Leslee wanted her to do an at-home massage—throwing the party stressed her out. Avalon said, “I don’t think Leslee and I are a good match, but here are a couple of other names.”)
Kacy comes over, glass of rosé champagne in hand, and gives Coco a hug. “This is un-freaking-believable.”
Well, yes, Coco thinks. Nothing in Rosebush, Arkansas, or the barefoot paradise of St. John has prepared her for this kind of glamour. There’s a lot more to come, though she’s been sworn to secrecy.
“You look pretty,” Coco says. Kacy is in a pink floral prairie dress, and Coco feels like a douche-noodle in her uniform. She wants to know why she has to wear it while Lamont, the only other Richardson employee, is allowed to wear his own clothes—a pink oxford and a pair of white duck pants.
“Thanks,” Kacy says. “Can you hang, or…”
“I’m on the clock,” Coco says.
“Maybe when the party ends, we can go into town?” Kacy says.
“If Leslee has her way, this party isn’t going to end,” Coco says. She eyes the champagne flute in Kacy’s hand with longing. She should have sneaked a glass while Leslee was in the bedroom curling her hair, but instead Coco was running through her checklist. She turned off the alarms—fire, flood, the chime announcing visitors—then set a reminder to turn the alarms back on in the morning. She was in charge of the tent guys, the caterers, the various musicians throughout the night. There had been no time for champagne.
Lamont approaches and gives Kacy a kiss on the cheek, but his eyes are fastened on Coco. “Do you need help with anything?” he asks her. “I feel like a squid out here schmoozing while you break your ass.”
“It’s fine,” Coco says. This is how Leslee wants it: Lamont schmoozing, Coco breaking her ass. At that moment, Coco’s phone buzzes. It’s a text from Leslee: ICE!!!! One of Coco’s duties is to replenish the ice at each of the bars and in the enormo wheelbarrow where they’re chilling the champagne. Leslee is obsessed with the temperature of the champagne. This is what she wants people to be talking about tomorrow, apparently: The champagne was so cold!
Coco hurries to the ice maker, which is in the laundry room, to transfer the ice to crystal buckets. The ice has to make its own stylish entrance to the party.
When Coco enters the laundry room, she gasps. There’s a man standing in front of the washing machine in his boxer shorts.
He turns around. “Hey, how ya goin’,” he says.
It’s Bull. Of course it’s Bull, this is his house, and yet Coco is surprised. Bull was in Indonesia on business and was due back yesterday, but his meeting in Jakarta ran long and he missed his flight to San Francisco and the connecting flight to Boston. Coco knows all this because Leslee had become completely unzipped about Bull missing the party. I’ve invited all these people! I need him here!
“You made it back,” Coco says now.
“A few minutes ago,” Bull says. “I’m not going to lie, all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for three days.”
“I bet.” Bull’s suitcase gapes open at his feet and the suit he must have been wearing is in a charcoal heap on the laundry-room floor. Coco immediately goes into concierge mode. “I’ll unpack your suitcase, separate laundry from dry cleaning, and put your toiletries away,” she says. “You should get dressed and join the party. Does Leslee know you’re here?”
“Not yet,” Bull says. “What am I supposed to wear to this thing?”
“Pink and white,” Coco says. She only now processes that Bull is nearly naked in front of her. He’s a big guy, so although he has a bit of a belly, he can pull it off; his shoulders are well defined, and he has just a shadow of silver hair across his chest. Ordinarily she might feel uncomfortable being so close to Bull when he’s undressed, but he looks so exhausted, she feels sorry for him.
“Would you please help me pick something out?” he says. “I’m color-blind.”
“Leslee left your clothes on the bed in case you got here on time,” Coco says.
He laughs. “Of course she did.” He gives Coco’s outfit an assessing eye. “I can’t believe she’s making you wear a uniform.”
“Oh.” Coco nearly says, She told me you were the one who insisted on the uniform. But it must have been Leslee’s idea; she just blamed it on Bull. “She thinks it looks more professional.”
He shakes his head. “Would you please get me a bourbon? There’s a Pappy thirty in the bar in the library.”
“Happy to,” Coco says. She didn’t notice a bar in the library before; all she remembers are the shelves of books, the seashell fireplace, the escritoire. But behind the desk, Coco finds a tall cabinet, and in the cabinet is a cache of really expensive bourbon: Gentleman Jack, Buffalo Trace, Pappy Van Winkle 13, Pappy 20, Pappy 30. Coco pours two fingers of the Pappy 30 into a crystal highball, then makes her way to the Richardsons’ bedroom. She finds Bull in the dressing room wearing Nantucket Reds and a white button-down. He’s combed his hair and applied an aftershave that smells peppery.
