Page 52 of The Identicals
Caylee posts news of the party on her Facebook page—when she announces that she has 1,100 “friends,” Harper gasps—and sends it to a Nantucket news and social website called Mahon About Town as well as to a super-hot blog called Nantucket BlACKbook.
When Harper expresses doubt—she feels like they should send out proper invitations or place an ad in the newspaper—Caylee laughs.
“Everything is social media these days,” she says. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
They do their best to transform the space. They dim the lights on the enormous crystal chandelier. Why Tabitha insists on bright light when it’s full sunshine outside is beyond Harper; possibly it’s a concession to Eleanor’s failing eyesight. They clear the sweaters from the pedestal table in the center of the room—the food will go there—and set up a bar over by the appraisal chairs.
“Spillage,” Meghan says. “There’s a reason why no decent store in America allows food or drink. People spill. They don’t mean to, but they do. Tabitha had this carpet replaced this spring. I happen to know it cost eighteen thousand dollars.”
Harper looks down at the carpet. It’s a dull silver, the color of nickels. It matches the oyster-colored walls in its understated solemnity, but the silver, pewter, and gray palette screamsold age.
“I don’t care,” Harper says.
The party is to be a happy hour from 4:00 to 5:30. Caylee, the bartender, makes a Foxy Roxie punch—vodka, champagne, mango nectar, and cranberry. (Cranberry,Harper thinks.Sure to leave a stain.)
Harper has prepared big bowls of truffled popcorn, a lavish crudités tray with three kinds of dip, and tiny avocado toasts like the ones from Lemon Press, only smaller. Harper wonders if they shouldn’t have more food, since they’re serving alcohol, but Caylee points out that no one wants to eat a lot before trying on clothes and that feeling a little buzzed always leads people to spend money.
Caylee and Ainsley’s playlist includes: Rihanna, Beyoncé, Adele, Norah Jones, Alison Krauss, Miranda Lambert, Diana Krall, Gwen Stefani—and, as the token male, Prince.
Harper plans to have Fish on a leash by the front door, hoping he will be the store’s best ambassador. There isn’t a human alive who doesn’t love a husky.
At quarter to four, Harper is so nervous that she feels dizzy, and she has to sit in the cool dark of the storeroom with her head between her knees. She hasn’t thrown a party in recent memory other than at Billy’s memorial reception—and that, of course, was an unmitigated disaster. Harper is positive no one will come. People will pass by on their way to more glamorous and fun venues, only peeking in to see Harper (wearing the Roxie because she feels obliged to, although she chose the cherry-bomb red version, which has far more sex appeal than the others), Ainsley (looking young and chaste in a white Nanette Lepore eyelet sundress), and Meghan (in a stretchy amethyst T-shirt dress that they don’t even sell at the store, but it’s now the only thing that fits her). The passersby will catch a whiff of desperation, of trying too hard, of a failing attempt to change the image of ERF, an image so indelible as to be chiseled in cold stone.
But… they will also see Caylee in white AG Stilts, a brightly patterned off-the-shoulder Rebecca Taylor blouse, and a great pair of wedge sandals, her long hair loose and flowing with one tiny braid off to the side for whimsy… and all of them will want to be just like her: beautiful, smiling, carefree.
Maybe Caylee can save them.
When Caylee hands Harper a cup of the punch, she takes a sip, but her stomach rears up in protest; it’s probably best she stay sober anyway. She joins Ainsley and Meghan in pouring herself a cup of sparkling water. At five minutes to four, Harper ties a navy bandanna around Fish’s neck and puts out the balloons. Caylee turns up the music.
Meghan drops her head into her hands with a groan, and Harper knows she’s thinking about what Tabitha would say if she were here.
But,Harper thinks as she sips her water,Tabitha isn’t here.
By quarter after four, there are twenty-five people in the store, half of them either trying on clothes or waiting for a dressing room. And people keep pouring in. Caylee is handing out punch left and right while Ainsley does the hand-selling.
“You want the sophistication of an LBD, but you’re a redhead, so you should try forest green,” Ainsley says. She holds up a silky slip dress that is actually an ERF style Eleanor designed right after her divorce. Meghan told Harper that she and Tabitha have nicknamed the dress the Midlife Crisis. It’s popular with newly single women and women who have just discovered a husband’s infidelity. (“Tabitha knows how to spot these women in an instant,” Meghan said. “I’m sure she does,” Harper said.)
Now Meghan is behind the cash register ringing up sales, and with each transaction she grows incrementally less morose. “This is working,” she says. “I can’t believe it.”
People keep coming. Some of them are friends of Caylee’s—they shriek when they see her, hug her, and announce how much they miss her at the Straight Wharf (“The new guy is such a dud. He needs more cowbell!”). They tell her how much they love her top, her pants, her shoes.
“We sell them all here,” Caylee says.
The crowd begets a bigger crowd; everyone wants to be where the action is. Fish gamely accepts pats on his head and rubs on his back. His tail, curled up and over his hindquarters like a plume, wags for every new customer. He loves the spotlight. Someone feeds him a handful of popcorn; someone else slips him an avocado toast. He’ll be sick later, of this Harper is certain, but his appeal is undeniable. Joan Osborne sings “Midnight Train to Georgia,” and some of the women sing along.
“Great party!” a man’s voice says. Harper spins around; it’s Ramsay. He’s dressed like a Kennedy cousin, as always: blue striped shirt turned back neatly at the cuffs; navy tie printed with beach balls; khakis; Gucci loafers without socks. He grins. “I’ve never seen the store this crowded. Ever. Not even close.” He looks over Harper’s shoulder at Meghan. “What do you say, Meg? Maximum number of shoppers at one time before today: five?”
“Four,” Meghan says. “And even those instances I can count on one hand.”
“Well, it’s all thanks to Caylee,” Harper says. “Thank you for suggesting her. This party was her idea, and as you can see she’s the belle of the ball.” Together Harper and Ramsay look upon the cluster of beautiful young ladies surrounding Caylee in obvious worship. Harper feels a twinge of jealousy—not for herself but for Tabitha. Even if Tabitha was the one who broke up with Ramsay, it couldn’t have been easy to see him start dating someone as young and magnetic as Caylee.
“Caylee is a good kid,” Ramsay says. Both his tone of voice and his gaze are avuncular. “I thought it would be a playboy fantasy, dating someone who’s twenty-two. Plus, I wanted to piss off your sister…”
“Yeah,” Harper says.
“But it was more like babysitting. She cries when she’s drunk.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Harper says.
