India said, “Bill used to love the nights we had bonfires.”
Yes, Chess remembered. Uncle Bill had been the fire man, the marshmallow man. All the kids would roast their marshmallows and then present them to Uncle Bill for inspection. The Bishop boys always stuck theirs right into the flame, where they would catch fire like a torch and then turn gray and ashy. Chess was careful with her marshmallows; she kept her stick inches from the low burn. She took her time achieving a golden brown skin that caramelized over the gooey white middle.
Now
that’s
a perfectly roasted marshmallow,
Uncle Bill would say. Chess remembered him smiling at her.
You know how to wait. You, my dear, are a master craftsperson.
Chess had been embarrassed and delighted by this praise. When Uncle Bill said those things, they seemed important and true.
* * *
The boat pulled in, and Chess saw them: two strawberry blond, freckled little boys who were so cute it was like they had been ordered from a catalog. Chess didn’t know anything about kids beyond having been one herself. She hadn’t babysat growing up; she had never been a camp counselor or a youth-group leader. When Michael talked about getting married and “having kids,” Chess nodded blithely along, although the phrase “having kids” meant nothing to her. When she saw Tate, however, she felt bizarrely jealous, like Tate had gone away for an hour and returned with an instant family. The boys were nearly identical, one a smaller version of the other. They were wearing orange life preservers, the same kind that Chess and Tate used to wear. Chess stood up. For the first time all day, she felt interested in what was going on.
Barrett carried the older boy, and Tate carried the younger. Tate was a natural, which was surprising, because as far as Chess knew, Tate didn’t have any more experience with kids than she did. But the little boy clung to her neck, and she looked at ease.
“Hi!” Chess said. Her voice, to her surprise, sounded almost friendly.
They all waded in, and Barrett and Tate set the boys down onshore.
“This is Cameron,” Barrett said. “And this is Tucker.”
They were struggling to get the life preservers
off,
and Chess remembered the feel of the cumbersome, restrictive weight around her neck. She helped Cameron unbuckle his.
“Welcome to Tuckernuck,” she said.
He said, “What happened to your hair?”
Chess touched her head. She was wearing the blue crocheted cap even though her hair had started growing in. But to the kids, she would still look bald.
“Cameron,” Barrett said sternly.
“I cut it,” Chess said.
“Oh,” he said. “How come?”
“Cameron, stop,” Barrett said. “This is Tate’s sister, Chess.”
“Because I felt like it,” Chess said.
This answer worked—of course it worked, it was a five-year-old’s answer for a five-year-old. Cameron nodded and stuck out his hand. Chess shook it.
Barrett said, “And this is Miss Birdie and Miss India.”
Birdie and India bowed to Cameron like he was a little prince. Chess smiled. He embodied the royalty of youth, which had been missing from the Tuckernuck compound for nearly two decades. Cameron stared at the two older ladies and decided that they weren’t harboring anything that interested him (they didn’t have candy or money), so he wandered off down the beach. Tucker, meanwhile, darted into the water.
“Whoa, little dude!” Tate called out. “You’ve got to put your suit on!” She looked at Barrett. “Where’s his suit?”
“In the canvas bag,” Barrett said.
“The children are darling!” Birdie said. She looked happier than she had in days. “They look just like you.”
“They look like their mother,” Barrett said. “The hair, the freckles.”
“Take some of the credit,” Birdie said. “They are absolute angels.”
“They are
not
angels, I assure you,” Barrett said. “Cameron!” he called out. “Don’t go too far, okay, buddy?”
“Okay,” Cameron echoed. Already he was down the beach, putting shells in a bucket. Tate was expertly changing Tucker into his bathing suit. Chess was blown away. It looked like Tate had done an internship at a day care, she was so practiced and efficient.
The kids made things better, lighter, happier. It was weird, the way they stole the spotlight and alleviated tension. There was no time to worry about yourself when you had to worry about the children: Were they safe in the water? Was their corn buttered?
Be careful not to spill your drink!
Chess pitched in, helping to assemble plates of food and pour wine; she pulled the meat out of Tate’s lobster because Tate had Tucker on her lap. Once the sun set, Barrett lit the fire. Cameron and Chess had a rock-throwing contest. Chess would throw a rock, and Cameron would try to throw a rock farther. Or he would throw a bigger, heavier rock. Or a smoother, shinier rock. Chess felt touched that he had joined in her private game (
Get rid of the heavy stuff
); she was keenly aware that he had no mother, and so any woman in the right age range might do. She tried to appreciate the wonder he felt about something as simple as an egg-shaped marble white rock with an orange spot on it..
Yes,
she said.
That one will go far.
Cameron threw it with a grunt. Chess smiled.
India took pictures with her disposable camera. She took the boys individually and together, and she took a picture of Barrett with the boys and she took a picture of Barrett, Tate, and the boys.
“Now there’s one for the Christmas card!” India said.
Tate said, “Whoa, you’re moving a little fast,” but Chess could tell she liked the idea of it.
India tried to take a picture of Chess with Cameron, but Chess held her hand out in front of the lens like she was fending off the paparazzi. “Please don’t,” she said. “The camera will break.”
“Why?” Cameron said.
“Because I’m ugly.”
India lowered the camera and gave Chess an admonishing look. Cameron said, “You’re not ugly. You’re just bald, like Grandpa Chuck.”
India barked out a laugh. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
The fire raged, hot and elemental in the dark night. India and Birdie collapsed into beach chairs and swaddled their bare legs with beach towels. Their faces were warm and orange with the flames. India looked contented and Birdie looked wistful, which was the exact combination of how Chess was feeling.
No one had touched the marshmallows. Chess pulled the sticks out and offered one to Cameron. She said, “It’s a stick. For roasting marshmallows.”
He said, “No, thank you.” He was busy lining up the rocks he’d found along the edge of the blanket.
Tate and Barrett were huddled together with Tucker lying across their laps. Chess said, “Marshmallow stick?”
Barrett shook his head and Tate put a finger to her lips. Tucker was almost asleep.
Chess said, “All right. I guess I’ll make one.”
She impaled a marshmallow on a stick and settled on the blanket next to Cameron and held the marshmallow inches away from the low, glowing embers. India started singing “Songbird” by Fleetwood Mac, the favorite campfire song of their youth—and Chess shivered. She hadn’t heard “Songbird” in years and years, perhaps not since the last time she had roasted a marshmallow on this beach. India’s voice was thin and smooth; she couldn’t sing an aria, but she could sing a lullaby.
The fire crackled. Tucker’s eyes drifted closed. Chess checked her marshmallow. It was a light caramel color. She let it cool for a few seconds. She felt the buoyancy of childhood, the lightness, the freedom from the weight she carried around. Just for a second.
Chess showed Cameron the marshmallow.
“Want a bite?” she asked.
He nodded. She let him taste. It was perfect—crisp and gooey.
He said, “It’s good.”
India sang, “
And I love you, I love you, I love you, like never before.
”
It was a major production carrying everything back up to the house, including two sleeping kids, but they got it done, finally—they extinguished the fire, they folded the blankets, they put the leftover potato salad in the fridge. Chess was sleeping in the other twin bed in Birdie’s room so that Barrett and Tate and the kids could have the attic. Out of habit, however, Chess and Tate used the bathroom together. They brushed their teeth together and peed in front of each other, saving the poor toilet a flush. Before they finished up, Chess caught Tate’s eye in the grainy mirror.
“You’re really lucky,” Chess said.
T
ate was in love for the first time ever. Birdie wanted to be happy for her, but she found herself thinking like a cynic and a realist. Tate and Barrett were very public with their displays of affection, which Birdie found disquieting, not because it offended her sensibilities (although it did, to a degree; she had always been a little conservative that way), but because she was envious.
Hank!
It was difficult for Birdie to be around Barrett and Tate and their delirious happiness, which now included Barrett’s children, Cameron and Tucker, who were the cutest, sweetest boys on earth (the freckles, the chubby hands, the practiced manners), because Birdie’s own heart was bleeding.
She had moments of clarity, like the sun breaking through the clouds. She had known Hank less than six months, she wouldn’t let herself pine for him another second, she wouldn’t let herself wonder what he was doing or why he didn’t answer her afternoon phone calls; she tried not to wonder why he hadn’t answered her calls in the middle of the night. Where had he been? What had he been doing? It didn’t matter, it was none of her business, he owed her nothing, they had taken no vows and made no promises. She wouldn’t allow his silence to ruin her vacation.
But then something would remind her of him, something as simple as the climbing ‘New Dawn’ roses on the Constable house or a glass of Sancerre, and she would be angry again, and hurt. Theirs could have been the romantic story here: the love she had found after a difficult and ultimately unsatisfying thirty-year marriage. It could have been Hank and Birdie that everyone watched with envy: the two of them holding hands and kissing and feeding each other bites of butter-soaked lobster meat, the two of them taking trips to Iceland and Rio de Janeiro, hosting gatherings of their blended families, children, grandchildren, the two of them with their mature IRAs, their matched set of interests, going to the Chagall exhibit on Tuesday, puttering in the garden on Thursday, commingling their soprano and baritone for the hymns on Sunday. Why couldn’t it be them?
Morning arrived, and after one night of Tate being away on Nantucket with Barrett and another night of hosting Barrett and his children here, things were back to normal. Tate had slept in the attic and had gotten up to go for her run. Birdie had made the coffee and she was cutting up strawberries and kiwi for the fruit salad. Tate kissed her mother on the cheek as she always did. Tate had always been very generous with her affections, very appreciative of Birdie and her efforts.
Tate took her coffee out to the picnic table and started stretching her hamstrings. She had a beautiful figure, and she was very tan from the sun. It was possible she had never looked better. Birdie put down her paring knife, abandoned the fruit salad, and stood outside in the sun, watching Tate.
An hour or so later, India descended the stairs wearing her kimono.
“Sleep okay?” Birdie asked.
“Slept great,” India said. She accepted a cup of coffee from Birdie, and a dish of strawberries and kiwi fruit. “Kiwi,” she said. “Can you imagine what Mother would say if she saw us eating kiwi on Tuckernuck?”
Birdie bleated out a laugh.
“Remember how she used to read our grocery list over the CB radio to Chuck?” India said. “Remember the dog Chuck used to have when we were little girls? The one who used to ride on the bow of the boat? God, what was that dog’s name?”
“Queenie,” Birdie said.
“Queenie!” India said. She looked at Birdie. “Where is the delight in unearthing a golden nugget from our shared childhood? Is something wrong?”
Birdie dropped four circles of batter on the heated skillet. She had considered telling India about her troubles with Hank, but India knew Hank, India had
dated
Hank, and thus it wasn’t a topic she wanted to get into.
Instead, she said, “I’m worried about Tate and Barrett.”
“Worried?” India said. “What is there to be worried about? Those two are positively beautiful together. They’re like movie stars.”
Birdie flipped the pancakes. The tops were smooth and golden brown.
“Their relationship is moving awfully fast, it seems. And, well, you know, it’s a little bit make-believe. We’re leaving in two weeks. Tate will go back to her life and Barrett will go back to his. What’s happening now is a fantasy.”
“I’ll tell you what,” India said. “Barrett Lee is one hell of a fantasy.”
“And you know how Tate is,” Birdie said. “She’s as naive as a child. She doesn’t see that this thing with Barrett is just a summer romance. It’s not meant to last.”
This sounded harsh, even to Birdie’s own ears, but she meant it. Nothing lasted. The giddy, head-over-heels infatuation faded; it mellowed into something else. You got married, then divorced. Or your husband killed himself. Or your brain synapses became encased in gooey plaque and you started putting the frying pan in the icebox instead of in the cabinet where it belonged. “I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt,” Birdie said. “She has no idea what she’s doing.”
At that moment, Tate walked into the kitchen. Her face was red and sweaty from the exertion of the run, but then Birdie noticed her eyes were watering.
“Thanks a lot, Mom,” she said.
“Oh, honey, I…,” Birdie said. She scrambled mentally backward, wondering how much Tate had overheard. The pancakes started to smoke.
Tate said, “You’re just like Chess.”
Now it was Birdie’s turn to be astonished. She had never been likened to Chess, ever. “What?” she said.
“You don’t want me to be happy,” Tate said, and she bounded up the stairs.