I could practically hear the arrogant, classist scoff in his script. Despite the fact that our family has long since lost any generational wealth, he still continues to hold on to this antiquated idea that our name means something. He wants to “restore the Elliots to their former glory,” and for sexist reasons, he assumed marriage was the path forward.
“There will be others,” he lied. It was only first love. It was only the beginning.
And who was I if not obedient back then? Who was Rose Elliot if not a good girl? A dutiful daughter.
Against all my better judgment, I listened. I’ve spent a lifetime paying for that mistake.
The summer I met Tommy, I was working at the Lobster Trap—an unassuming seafood grill where the only decorations also serve as fishing equipment—and much of our dates consisted of Tommy biking over to meet me at closing time. The two of us would eat leftover kitchen scraps on the employees-only back stairs of the restaurant, our hands slick with butter and grease. I remember the thrill I got from watching him get off his bike and walk to the stoop, the way his stride itself was like some sort of holy ritual, proof of all the goodness in the world. I loved his voice most of all: the cadence and rhythm of it, the deep bravado. I could have spent the rest of my life just watching him walk in circles and hearing him speak. It was my dearest wish.
I taught Tommy how to crack open the lobster shell and extract the meat from every crevice. He had never had lobster before, and he was disgusted by the tomalley, the soft green mush in the body cavity. I used to tease him by making the lobster dance, which he found inhumane. Everything was funny with Tommy. That’s what I remember most: laughing so hard my chest almost split open.
And that’s how I feel thinking about him now, split open.
I wish Tommy had just stayed gone.
Appearing here to taunt me after thirty years of no contact is cruel. I wish he would retreat back to his own picture-perfect life, rather than come here to gawk at my failure. I should have moved on by now, certainly. I had a child with another man, after all. Hispresence shouldn’t affect me like this, but some hearts only have it in them to break once before they’re spent.
William hands me the champagne. “And what are you like? What makes you and Lily so different?”
Tommy is a phantom now, as irretrievable as Lottie, but William is real. He is sitting in front of me, and he is offering a fresh start. I could be anyone to him still.
I take the champagne from his hand and tell him who I am.
Chapter TenLily
June 3
My back is killing me,” says the old woman next to me.
We are standing under a greenhouse in the perennials section on Friday. Beside us is a long auction table with various items to bid on. Some are potted plants, others paintings or experiences like a sunset cruise or a weeklong rental in Telluride. Josie has donated several bracelets and pearl necklaces at Rose’s behest. It is my job to encourage guests to make offers. Mom is somewhere in the back, making sure the hors d’oeuvres and drinks continue to flow. A tray of bacon-wrapped scallops keeps passing by, but I am always interrupted by a question before I can grab one.
“My bunions are killing me,” the woman’s friend says next.
Both of them are wearing pantsuits in different shades of pastel, like an elderly version of the Powerpuff Girls. They are fabulous.
“You know, my knees are really hurting me lately, too,” I chime in. I’m trying to bond with them, but they also do actually hurt. My knees have been hurting since the day I turned twenty-five, another symptom of my interior decomposition.
The ladies stare at me, their eyes narrowed in accusation. “What do you know about knees? What are you? Sixteen?” the first woman, the one in the blue suit, says.
The other laughs heartily.
They walk away without bidding on anything, and I’m left alone again, leaning against the table. I let out a blow of air, stroking the waxy leaf of a plant. The event is the same as it always is, except for some inexplicable reason they have decided to bring in a fortune teller. The lady sits in a little booth in the corner with a stack of tarot cards. A hand-painted sign above her reads “Ten dollars for palm reading, fifteen for tarot cards, and thirty for past-life regression.”
The psychic keeps winking at me, ushering me over with a curved finger. It makes me shiver with unease. I have to look away. The woman is wearing a red shawl that looks familiar, but I can’t place why.
Before I can worry too much, I spot someone else I recognize by the art section of the auction. She’s standing next to a large frame. Inside are three-dimensional cutouts of butterflies flying off the white canvas to create the shape of the island. The price tag reads “Bidding starts at $7,000.”
The money seems like an unfathomably large sum: my entire savings.
Her name is Marie Chen, and she’s the owner of one of the most popular galleries downtown, the one I tried to drop my résumé at the other day. I know this because I just recently read a profile of her inNantucketmagazine. Marie is wearing an elegant blazer dress with gold buttons down the bodice. I consider approaching, but my walk is interrupted by the sight of my mom, barreling through the crowd.
Josie quickly follows her, wearing small, pink kitten heels that make her have to take comically short steps.
“Come on, Rose.” Josie shuffles. “Don’t be like this.”
Rose keeps walking briskly, leaving Josie standing there, resigned. I shoot her an apologetic look and follow my mom, taking Josie’s place in the race. I catch up with her by the bar, angrily refilling a bag of ice. There’s a harsh noise as the pieces crunch together. Rose’s face looks flushed like she’s just been out for a long run, except my mom never runs and also never usually looks disheveled.
“What was that about?” I ask
