Page 38 of Pick-Up
I explain. Work trip. Three nights. Turks and Caicos.
They have some questions and I supply answers: Yes, that’s a place with beaches. No, I cannot bring whole coconuts back. Yes, I can bring home coconut candy.
“Wait,” says Nettie. “So, we’re going to sleep over at Henry’s house for the whole time?”
I nod, holding my breath as I watch the information settle in her brain. Bart watches her too, to determine how he should react.
“Yes!” she celebrates, jumping up and dancing in a circle. She is getting older. All gangly arms and legs.
“Yes!” Bart mimics, also dancing around, his body still pillowy in places where hers is long.
“I’m so glad you guys are excited.” I really am. It alleviates some of the stress.
Nettie stops and looks at me like I’m being absurd. “Of course we are, Mom! We get to sleep at our best friend’s house. Right, Bart?”
“Right!”
“And anyway, Mom.” She walks over to where I’m sitting and places a hand on my arm. “You deserve this.”
I will never adjust to how she ping-pongs between forty-five and eight years old. Celeste calls her “our old soul.” I don’t know where she has learned this, but I look away as my eyes flood with tears.
“Fox,” says Bart, who has settled back down to play the game. “And… chipmunk! Damn you, chipmunk!” I’m pretty sure he has picked the chipmunk on purpose this time. But he’s achieved the desired effect. Both kids crack up again.
I spend the rest of the week, when they’re back in school, coordinating the video shoot. As the producer, I’ll be responsible for organizing all of the elements in advance—and arranging contingencies—and then, during the actual trip, guiding the crew asthey capture behind-the-scenes footage of both the property and the still photo shoot, as it’s happening. Very meta.
I’ve been in touch with the general manager of the property to organize the schedule, crew meals, transportation.
The hotel’s owner turns out to be Martin Bernard, a retired actor and hundred millionaire, who has brought in many notable celebrity and CEO investors. He will feature prominently in the story, of course. I am in touch with his publicist in advance since she won’t be on-site. She is deeply inscrutable, which is either for the sake of discretion or a symptom of being heavily medicated.
“Thank you so much for your help, Barbara,” I say. “Anything else I should know about Martin?”
There is a long pause.
“Hello?”
“Yes, that’s it, darling.” Everything out of her mouth sounds screen-siren breathy, like she’s lying in silk sheets from dawn till dusk.
I connect with Charlie, the photographer, and Peter, the cameraman. I try to nail down logistics with Stephanie, who has conceived this whole spread and will be writing the accompanying story, but mostly she wants to know whether I like Aperol spritzes and am open to powder drugs in the era of fentanyl. The answer is: a lot. And not at all.
I’m spending copious time in a giant Dropbox folder, scouring scouting images of the hotel itself. And it is spectacular. Escape porn at its best. The first time I look at them, I literally gasp, covering my mouth with my hand.I get to go here?
Infinity pools with sharp edges blink in the sunlight before collapsing into the ocean’s waiting arms. Rustic, yet immaculate, barn buildings radiate zen in a rainbow of muted neutrals. Who knew there were so many shades of sandstone? Organic vegetable gardens are laid out in perfect geometric lines. In communal spaces, handwoven pillows and blankets—created by a local women’s collective—offer pops of color, walking a fine line, but ultimately leaning chic. The spa building could double as a Goop store.
I’m excited and nervous. And Wednesday arrives too slow and too fast.
The kids have continued to celebrate their extended sleepover with Henry, creating a list on lined notebook paper about what they’re looking forward to most. Bart wants to play tag in their brownstone backyard; Nettie wants to compare Pokémon cards. Apparently, Jamie’s famous butter popcorn tops the list too—though Bart only refers to him as “Henry’s dad.” (The kids are crossing their fingers for a weekday movie night.)
But when I put Bart to bed on Tuesday night, his resolve wavers.
“Mommy,” he says. “Who will give us dinner?”
“Celeste and Jamie, Bonk.”
“How will they know what we like?”
“Well, I’ve told them. And you can tell them too. And, if you need, you know Nettie will help you.”
He considers this for a moment. “Who will give us breakfast?”
