The Island (38 page)

Yes, I do, too,
I thought.

And then, in April, Nick came back to New York.

If Chess couldn’t stand Tate when Tate was happy, she really couldn’t stand Tate when Tate was upset. Tate upset was a running monologue that Chess couldn’t endure. Barrett hadn’t wanted Tate to come to Nantucket overnight.
Even though he begged me to come practically every other day and I turned him down because that’s not why I’m here, and then the one time I’m waiting on the beach with my overnight bag, he says he has other plans. “What kind of plans?” I ask him. And he won’t tell me. They’re “secret” plans. He says, “Boy, you sure are full of questions today.”

Chess could only nod in response. This, to her, was not a real problem. Tate, to her knowledge, had never had a real problem.

Tate said, “I think he’s having an affair with Anita Fullin.”

Chess said, “What makes you say that?”

Tate said, “All kinds of things.”

Chess thought about the word “affair.” She thought about infidelity. Had the word applied to her? She had kissed Nick on three occasions, twice quite passionately, but they had not been having an affair. She hadn’t slept with Nick except in her mind. She hadn’t been “unfaithful” to Michael in the traditional sense. At least she had that.

Tate said, “Anita Fullin loves Barrett. She was all over him at the party. They danced together while I danced with Roman Fullin like some kind of hired escort. She kept calling Barrett ‘gorgeous.’ She’s jealous of us because he comes to Tuckernuck twice a day. She said she hates us.”

“Hates us?”

“She said it like she was kidding, but she wasn’t kidding.”

“Mmmm,” Chess said. She had met Anita Fullin and had to agree the woman was beautiful in an older, sleeker, more “done up” kind of way; the hair and clothes and makeup formed a shiny enamel shell. “So you feel threatened?”

“Threatened?” Tate said. “No. Yes.”

They were lying side by side on the shore of East Pond, just the two of them. East Pond wasn’t as picturesque as North Pond—the sand was grainier, there were some flies, and the water had a marshy smell and moved with suspicious ripples that Chess thought were snapping turtles—but it was closer to the house than North Pond and they had yet to hang out here, which they always did at least once a summer in the name of tradition. The sun was warm and Chess felt herself melting into the sand. That morning, she had woken up with a tug at her heart. Only twelve days left before they would go home. When they had first arrived, the thirty days had seemed like a life sentence. Each of those first days had been so raw and painful, they had dragged—each minute an hour, each hour a day. But now every moment was sacred and fleeting; the sand was slipping through the hourglass way too fast. Tuckernuck had worked its balm into Chess’s shoulders. She was able, if not to actually enjoy, then to relax. She hadn’t confided a word to anyone, and it hadn’t mattered. The house—with its bare sheltering walls, sloping floors, splintery beams, and familiar old furniture—was the haven Chess needed. The simplicity, which had frightened her at first, was now a way of life. Chess didn’t have to worry about her cell phone or e-mails or neighbors or taxis or Shakespeare in the Park or where to go and what to do on the weekend. There were no taxes, no dentist, no shops, no dry cleaning, no errands, no obligations. There was nothing but the landscape, the ocean, and the sky. Her sister, her mother, her aunt.

What would happen when she went back? The only thing on the mainland that she wanted was Nick, and he wouldn’t have her.

Tate said, “I’ll ask him this afternoon if he’s having an affair with Anita.”

“I wouldn’t,” Chess said.

“You wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I can’t believe he brought Anita here without asking,” Tate said. “That was a professional breach.”

“So what,” Chess said. “Should we fire him?”

“She probably bugged him until he couldn’t stand it anymore,” Tate said. “You know she calls him to change the paper towel roll?”

“She does not,” Chess said.

“Practically,” Tate said.

A fly crept up Chess’s thigh; she swatted, then tented her knees. An airplane flew low overhead, the eight-seater Cessna, owned by a Tuckernuck resident, coming in for a landing. What would happen when she went back? Television, fast food, air-conditioning. She shuddered.

“Where do you think he
went
last night?” Tate asked. “Honestly. Do you think he went out with Anita?”

“Tate!” Chess said. Her voice was loud and aggressive. “Stop it! You have to stop!”

She thought Tate might be apologetic, or even angry, but Tate responded in a flat, calm voice. “I can’t stop,” Tate said. “This is what I do. I obsess.”

Maybe she could stay another month. Maybe she could stay until Labor Day. Of course, she would be staying alone. Would that be okay? She would have to keep Barrett on; she had money in the bank, she could pay him.

“What are you going to do about Barrett when you leave?” Chess asked.

Tate groaned. “One thing at a time, Sister, please.”

“Okay, sorry,” Chess said.

Tate said, “What am I going to do about Barrett when I
leave?
”

BIRDIE

T
he flowers Grant had sent were extravagant. There were, in the mix, two dozen long-stemmed roses, a handful of Asiatic lilies, four Dutch blue hydrangeas, a dozen irises, ten fuchsia gerbera daisies, six calla lilies, and sixteen tall snapdragons in four colors. By Birdie’s estimation, the bouquet had cost him two hundred dollars, a mere sniffle for Grant, and because of the breadth of variety, Birdie suspected that Grant had called the flower shop on Nantucket and asked for “a little bit of everything.” This was business as usual. What was different this time was the message on the card. Grant had sent Birdie flowers dozens of times over the course of their marriage, and the card, written in the florist’s assistant’s hand, had always said something perfunctory and unimaginative:
Happy 48th birthday!
Or,
With love on our anniversary.
This time there was no occasion for the flowers. This time, the card had said,
I’m thinking about you. Love, Grant.

I’m thinking about you.
It was oddly intimate, more intimate, Birdie decided, than the abbreviated
Thinking of you.
It made Birdie believe that Grant was in fact thinking about her. But what was he thinking? Was he thinking romantic thoughts? (And what, for Grant, would be romantic? Birdie across the table from him at La Grenouille? Birdie coming off the eleventh green in her short golf skirt and visor, lightly perspiring, to join Grant for a Mount Gay and tonic?) Was Grant thinking sexual thoughts? (It was almost too mortifying to imagine, though at one time their sex life had been steady, if not particularly fulfilling.) Were the flowers a condolence, because of what had happened with Hank? Did Grant feel
sorry
for her? Or… was Grant lonely? Yes, Birdie deduced, that was it: Grant was lonely. It had been bound to happen. Work wasn’t providing the same kind of visceral, macho thrill, and likewise, golf wasn’t as good as it had been in the past. He was getting older and slower, his handicap was climbing. The waitresses at Gallagher’s, who at one time had been like his concubines, were either older, lined, and cranky or else too young to realize that scotch was whiskey.

Birdie had come up from the beach early, leaving India asleep in her chair. The girls had headed out to East Pond, and she missed them. She missed, too, the sense of purpose her afternoons had taken on when she’d been phoning Hank. It had been nice to have her own personal mission. She grabbed her cell phone from her bedroom. She decided she would call Grant to thank him for the flowers. He might be wondering if they’d even arrived.

The walk to Bigelow Point was invigorating, and she noted that she felt less morose and heart-sore than she had when she’d last spoken to Hank.
Hank was a jerk!
This was her battle cry, although she knew it wasn’t true. Now that a few days had passed, she was able to look at things more generously. Hank had loved his wife, though he hadn’t always been true to her; now that she was dead, guilt haunted him. Birdie could understand that. Losing a spouse under any circumstances was painful and all-consuming, and Hank, perhaps, didn’t have the energy to deal with his grief and with his burgeoning feelings for Birdie. They had been a couple for only three months. Birdie would recover. She would meet someone else.

She didn’t like to think of Grant lonely. She was protective of him. She marveled at how a spouse became so many things—a parent, a child, a lover, a friend. Grant hadn’t been much of a friend to Birdie over the years; he had been too busy with work. Plus, he bonded more easily with men; even he would admit this. Birdie held out hope, however, that she and Grant could be friends in the future. He had been a friend to her since she’d been here on Tuckernuck, that was for sure, fielding her dejected phone calls after she’d called Hank.

When she reached Bigelow Point, she had to decide where to call Grant. At the office? On his cell phone? At the loft? She had no idea what day it was. Her phone said July 19, but was it a weekend? She couldn’t remember. Tuckernuck gave no calendrical landmarks. She called Grant’s cell phone.

“Hello?” he said. He’d picked up on the first ring. After all the nonsense with Hank, this was gratifying.

“Grant? It’s Birdie.”

“Hi, Bird,” he said. “Did you get the flowers?”

“I did,” Birdie said. “And I’m calling to thank you for them. They are beautiful. So lavish! Really, Grant, you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to,” he said. “I’m glad you like them.”

“The rickety old house smells like a
parfumerie,
” she said.

“How are things going?” Grant asked.

“Oh, you know,” Birdie said. “Chess is the same. She’s very quiet. She writes in her journal. She stares into space. And Tate has a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Barrett Lee. She’s dating Barrett Lee.”

“Really?” Grant said. “How about that!” He sounded surprised but pleased. Birdie hadn’t expected him to sound pleased. “I always liked Barrett.”

“That’s right,” Birdie said. “You did. Of course, it’s just a summer thing. I don’t see that it has a future…”

“They’re adults,” Grant said. “They’ll work it out.”

“I suppose,” Birdie said. “But you know how Tate is. She’s so…
enthusiastic.
She’s madly in love with Barrett and she’s become attached to his children…”

“He has children?”

“Two boys, three and five. The wife died two years ago.”

“Jesus,” Grant said.

“Meanwhile, he and Tate have been dating less than two weeks, and we have less than two weeks left…”

“Birdie,” Grant said, “don’t get involved.”

“Oh, I know, but—”

“Birdie.”

“I know,” she said.

“Tell me about you,” Grant said.

“Me? What about me?”

“How are you doing? Have you talked to that bozo Hank?”

“No,” Birdie said. “Hank is out of the picture.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, good,” Grant said.

“How about you?” Birdie asked. “Are you dating anyone?”

“Hell, no,” Grant said. “Women are nothing but trouble.”

“Right,” Birdie said.

“Except for you,” Grant said. “I don’t mean you.”

Birdie felt the sun on her face. What was happening here? She said, “So the card, with the flowers… you composed that yourself?”

“Composed?” he said.

“I mean, those were your words on the card. The girl at the shop didn’t help you write it?”

“No, the girl at the shop did not help me write it,” Grant said, sounding quasi-offended. “I wrote it myself. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Birdie pressed her lips together. She felt a flash of pleasure and she had to remind herself that it was
Grant
on the other end of the phone, Grant Cousins, the man she shared a bed with and served dinner to for thirty years. The man who had kept her emotionally at bay, who had thwarted her chance at a career and personal fulfillment, the man who made her become just like every other housewife in New Canaan, Connecticut: frustrated and lonely and overly devoted to her children.

Against the tide of these thoughts, she said, “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

He said, “Will you call me again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said.

INDIA

S
he was alone on the beach when Barrett’s boat pulled in. She had been asleep in her upright beach chair, her head lolling around on her left shoulder. She had heard herself snoring at the same moment that she heard the boat’s motor, and she snapped awake and wiped the drool from her chin. There was nothing attractive about a woman of a certain age taking a nap. Her book,
The Red Tent
—she was only now reading the things that other women had read ten years ago—had fallen off her lap into the sand. She was wearing her sunglasses, and Bill’s reading glasses were resting against her bosom.

She waved at Barrett, hoping he hadn’t seen the grotesque spectacle of her asleep. He nodded at her; his hands were full. Groceries, ice. The poor kid. He was their slave. Then India remembered that she had something for Barrett: the letter for Lula and twenty dollars to ensure that it was FedExed to her. She was glad she was alone at the beach.

Barrett sloshed to shore. Normally, he headed right up to the house with the provisions, but today he trudged over to India. She dug madly through her bag for the envelope, addressed to Lula’s apartment in Philadelphia.

She said, “I’m glad I caught you alone.” She handed the envelope to Barrett; he set the ice down on Birdie’s empty beach chair and accepted the letter and the twenty-dollar bill. “Will you mail this for me? Overnight it.”

He nodded. He set the bag of groceries down in the sand and slid the letter into his front shorts pocket. He said, “I’m glad I caught you alone as well.”