Coco, who has been visiting the English manor of Fox Corner in her mind—thank god for books!—opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Did you confirm at Proprietors?” Leslee asks. “I’d like a table for two tonight, not the bar, and not that communal table, please. Something tucked away.”
“Confirmed,” Coco says, though she feels a snarky satisfaction because she did confirm for two at the bar and she won’t change it. “Who’s joining you?” She holds out a filament of hope that it’s Benton Coe, though Benton hasn’t shown his face around Triple Eight since the Fourth of July sail.
“Who do you think?” Leslee says. She gazes back at Decadence, where Lamont is wiping down the upholstery.
My boyfriend, Coco thinks. You’re taking my boyfriend out for dinner.
Later, after she watches Lamont and Leslee drive away in the G-Wagon—Lamont in a striped button-down and jeans and his boat shoes, Leslee in a long lavender jersey dress that shows off her smoking body—Coco is tempted to text him: Bull is gone, so now you’re the husband? She wants to call him a gigolo. But then she thinks about his mother, how Glynnie has to feel her way from the kitchen to the living room, how she has to listen to books rather than read them, how Lamont makes her lunch. He needs this job, and Leslee is his boss; this is work, there’s nothing going on. Coco needs to take the high road, conduct herself with quiet dignity.
But the next morning at a quarter to five when Coco hears Lamont’s tapping, she doesn’t rise from bed. She hears him trying the knob; for the first time, she has locked the door.
He texts: You awake?
He texts: Coco?
Leslee and Lamont go out on Decadence every day; Leslee even skips her pickleball game. At night, they go to Languedoc, to Oran Mor, to the freaking Galley, where Leslee asked Coco to reserve them a table out in the sand. They go to the White Heron Theatre to see a production of The Bald Soprano.
A dozen roses are delivered to Triple Eight from Flowers on Chestnut. Coco assumes they’re from Bull for Leslee—but the name written on the envelope is Colleen Coyle. Coco blinks. For me? She reads the card, which says, I miss you. It’s unsigned.
Coco hasn’t texted Lamont or left her door unlocked all week, but as she carries the roses up to her apartment, she considers relenting. This is the first time a man has sent her flowers (Carnation Day in high school, she decides, does not count). The roses are the color of ripe apricots or, more relevantly, of the sunrises that normally accompany her and Lamont’s lovemaking.
But when Coco returns to the kitchen for a vase, she finds Lamont and Leslee preparing to go out on the boat—only this time, they both have overnight bags.
“Coco!” Leslee says. “We’ll need you to hold down the fort until tomorrow.”
High road, Coco thinks. Quiet dignity. Princess Diana, Grace Kelly, Sidney Poitier. “Are you taking a trip?”
“We’re sailing Hedonism over to the Vineyard,” Leslee says. “I’ve never been!”
“And you’re spending the night?” Coco asks. She feels her coffee threatening to come back up in a hot, stinky stream.
“Leslee is staying at the Charlotte Inn,” Lamont says. “I’ll stay on the boat.”
“I might stay on the boat too,” Leslee says.
“Are the boys going?” Coco asks. “Javier and Esteban?”
“They can’t get away overnight, unfortunately,” Leslee says. “They’re breakfast servers at Black-Eyed Susan’s and can’t miss a shift on short notice.”
Behind her, Lamont shakes his head. The expression on his face is one of abject misery, but Coco doesn’t care.
“You two have fun!” she says, then she marches out of Triple Eight and over to her apartment. She opens the window in the second bedroom, the one that looks down on the future circular garden but that is still just furrows of dug-up earth, hillocks of pea gravel, and pale slabs of granite awaiting placement. Coco holds the roses out the window, but she can’t bring herself to dump them.
She ducks back inside, closes the window, sets the roses in the sink, and texts Kacy: We’re going out tonight.
25. Single Ladies
After nearly three weeks of radio silence, Kacy receives a text from Isla: There’s something going on with Dave.
Dave is Rondo; Kacy sometimes forgets he has a first name.
Something going on? Kacy thinks. What does that mean? She realizes the text is being used as bait; Isla wants her to ask. Kacy clicks on Rondo’s Instagram—nothing new. His last post was on the Fourth of July, the picture of him and Isla and Dr. Dunne and the wife, Totally Tami, with her centerfold breasts and caterpillar eyebrows.
There’s something going on with Dave. Kacy considers the options: Rondo has gotten cold feet. Rondo is having professional trouble; he lost a patient; he has a staffing issue; he’s butting heads with the hospital administration. (Kacy can’t imagine Rondo butting heads with anybody; he’s not a butter.) Maybe Rondo is sick. Does he have terminal cancer? Although Kacy wants him to disappear, she doesn’t wish for this.
While Kacy’s deciding if she should text back—part of her wants to know; part of her doesn’t care; part of her wants to engage with Isla; part of her thinks it’s better to ignore Isla—a text comes in from Coco: We’re going out tonight.
Yes, Kacy thinks. Where do you want to go? she asks.
Everywhere, Coco says.
When Kacy pulls into the driveway at Triple Eight and sees Coco waiting, she whoops. Coco is wearing the white eyelet dress from the Lovely and a pair of sandals that lace up her slim calves. She’s grown her hair out to chin length and she tucks it behind her ears. She’s gotten some sun on her face, which makes her ice-blue eyes even more arresting.
“You’re a total smoke-show,” Kacy says when Coco climbs into the car.
“I’m so happy to be out of my uniform,” Coco says. She points ahead. “I know this is the most overused phrase of our generation but… let’s do this.”
Kacy doesn’t need to be told twice; she peels out of the Richardsons’ driveway so fast that white shells fly into the air like confetti.
Their first stop is the Oystercatcher for buck-a-shuck. This is, in Kacy’s opinion, the best way to spend the golden hour. They order two glasses of rosé and a dozen fifth points from their bartender Carson Quinboro (a legendary Nantucket badass), who directs them to two stools overlooking the scene on Jetties Beach—striped umbrellas and sandcastles, mothers chasing after little kids with bottles of sunscreen. A cover band called Cranberry Alarm Clock plays an acoustic version of “Single Ladies,” which is a little weird but also sort of charming. And, in their case, it’s appropriate. Kacy raises her glass. “To all the single ladies.”
After the first sip of her rosé, Coco explains her get-out-of-jail-free card: Bull is away on a business trip and Leslee and Lamont have sailed to Martha’s Vineyard overnight.
“Overnight?” Kacy says. She doctors an oyster with mignonette and tosses it back. “They’re sleeping together, right? There’s no way they aren’t.”
Behind her sunglasses, Coco squints in the direction of the lifeguard stand.
