The Island (5 page)

Birdie said, “The reason for the switch is that Chess’s engagement was canceled. The wedding is off.”

“Ouch,” Barrett said.

“It was Chess’s doing,” Birdie said. “She wasn’t ready.”

“She’s still really young,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Cousins? I sent you a bill. It’s for twenty-four thousand dollars.”

“You got the check I sent you? For ten?” The ten thousand had come out of Birdie’s personal savings account. She had not wanted to ask Grant for the money until she knew what the total would be.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. This bill is for twenty-four beyond that. The house needed a lot of work, the generator alone was eight grand, and I hate to say this, but I think it’s going to be ten to twelve grand more, at least.”

Birdie calculated. Fifty thousand dollars fixing up the Tuckernuck house. Birdie tried not to panic. Tuckernuck was her ancestral summer home; it had been left to her by her parents and someday would go to her children. But Grant, most certainly, would never set foot on Tuckernuck again. So why would he shell out fifty grand for upkeep and improvements? Would the kids’ interest be enough for him? Birdie would have to grovel for it. It wasn’t fair: Thirty years Birdie had supported Grant, and hence, the divorce lawyer reminded her, she was entitled to half of what Grant had earned during that period. Grant had earned millions. Fifty thousand dollars was negligible. It was a sneeze.

Furthermore, in the past two weeks, Birdie had recouped 75 percent of Grant’s deposits from the wedding. She had pleaded and begged, negotiated—and, in one instance, cried—on behalf of Grant’s money. She would remind him of this.

“Fine, Barrett, no problem,” Birdie said. “The house needs a roof, it needs walls, it needs electricity. Thank you for all your hard work.”

“My pleasure,” Barrett said. “And hey, I’m sorry about Chess’s wedding falling through.”

“It’s for the best,” Birdie said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

The last conversation, one Birdie was dreading and had practically talked herself into believing was unnecessary, was with Evelyn Morgan, Michael’s mother. Birdie had never met Evelyn Morgan, half of the aggressively branded couple Cy and Evelyn Morgan, but Birdie knew through Chess that Evelyn was a hurricane. She was not only the managing partner of a behemoth Madison Avenue advertising agency, but she was also on the board of directors at Bergen Hospice, an elder at the Presbyterian church, and president of the Fairhills Country Club. She was a tireless power walker and she read six newspapers a day. She had two sons—Michael and his younger brother, Nick—and a daughter, Dora. Evelyn Morgan was perpetually moving at amphetamine-rocket speed—wheeling, dealing, exercising, overseeing, singing, and dancing.

Birdie had sensed this from Evelyn’s manic and overdetailed e-mails regarding the rehearsal dinner, which was to have been held at Zo, the hottest new restaurant in the Flatiron District. It was to be caipirinhas and Brazilian tapas for all out-of-town guests; Evelyn had hired a samba band with a transsexual lead singer.
We could have had the dinner at our country club,
Evelyn wrote.
But really, how dull—sauced tenderloin, martinis, sprinklers dousing the eighth green in the sunset. Certainly the kids would rather be in the city!

All plans in the city were now off; the rehearsal dinner had been thrown in the recycling bin along with everything else. Chess and Evelyn had gotten along famously; they were better friends, Birdie had to admit, than Chess and Birdie were. They met for lunch on the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s, they walked in Central Park after work, they cruised art galleries downtown in search of paintings for the apartment that Chess and Michael would inhabit after the wedding. But Chess hadn’t spoken to Evelyn in person about the breakup. Calling Evelyn Morgan was one more thing that Chess should have done but refused to do. And so, it fell to Birdie.

Birdie wasn’t sure how she envisioned the one and only phone call between her and the woman who would not become Chess’s mother-in-law; she thought maybe she and Evelyn would commiserate a little, express regrets that they would not be grandmothering the same future children. But what niggled at Birdie was the thought that she might be expected to apologize to Evelyn. Her daughter had hurt Evelyn’s son. How was this call any different from the call Birdie had had to make to Helen Avery when Tate pushed Gwennie Avery from the top of the slide and Gwennie Avery broke her arm?

Birdie tackled the call at the civilized hour of ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Birdie had a hair appointment at eleven, followed by a manicure, a pedicure, and a massage. She had a date with Hank at six that evening. Her day would be so, so pleasant once she got this phone call over with.

She dialed the number at the kitchen counter and then stared into her fruit bowl at the pineapple, the lemons, the Granny Smith apples.

Evelyn picked up on the first ring. “I was wondering if you’d have the guts to call,” she said.

“Hello?” Birdie said.

“I’ve been wondering if you, Birdie Cousins, mother of Mary Francesca Cousins, would have the guts to call me, Evelyn Morgan, mother of the heartbroken, yet admittedly overprotected, Michael Kevin Morgan.”

Was the woman drunk? Her voice was loud and theatrical, as though she were speaking not only to Birdie but to an audience of people that Birdie couldn’t see.

“I have the guts,” Birdie confirmed. “I’m calling.”

“You are a better woman than I,” Evelyn sang out. “In a similar position, I would have found a way to talk myself out of calling.”

Birdie sighed. “I’m sorry, Evelyn.”

“You have no reason to be sorry,” Evelyn said. “
You
did nothing wrong.”

“Chess is sorry, too,” Birdie said.

“If she’s really sorry, she would call me herself and tell me so,” Evelyn said. “I’ve left the girl God knows how many messages. I even called her at work, and they told me she’s no longer accepting personal calls.”

“If it makes you feel any better, she won’t take my calls either,” Birdie said.

“I just don’t get it,” Evelyn said. “This came out of
nowhere.
I was there when Michael proposed. You’ve never
seen
a girl so happy. And that’s why I’d like to talk to her. I’d like to find out what happened.”

“I don’t think anything
happened,
” Birdie said. “She just changed her mind.”

There was a pause on Evelyn’s end, and Birdie wondered if her last comment had been too glib: Chess broke Michael’s heart because she changed her mind? Was Chess that flighty? That insensitive?

When Evelyn spoke again, her voice took on a normal timbre. “Chess feels how she feels, there is no right or wrong. We can’t make her marry him. She has to want it. I applaud her for being brave enough to speak up.”

“You do?”

“I do,” Evelyn said.

“How is Michael?”

“He’s devastated. He’s not eating, not taking care of himself. He works all the time because when he’s working, he doesn’t have time to think, and as I’m sure you know, it’s thinking that hurts. He does have a trip planned. He’s going rock climbing with his brother in Moab over Memorial Day.”

“That’ll be good for him.”

“He’ll survive,” Evelyn said. “But he’s lost something. All of the Morgans have. Chess is a wonderful girl. I love her like my own. We’re the ones missing out.”

“You’re sweet to say so,” Birdie said. She was shocked to find that she
liked
Evelyn Morgan. Birdie might have enjoyed a life tethered to this other woman, as they lived their lives on either side of the reflecting pond that was New York City.

“It was good of you to call,” Evelyn said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Birdie said. She didn’t want the conversation to end. She might never speak to this woman again. “I just thought—”

“You thought correctly,” Evelyn said. “And please encourage Chess to call me when she’s ready. I’d like to talk to her.”

“I will,” Birdie said. “Good-bye.”

On the twentieth of May, which happened to be Birdie and Grant’s ex-anniversary, Chess called to say she had quit her job at
Glamorous Home.
From the background noise of traffic and sirens, Birdie could tell Chess was calling from the street. Birdie was dumbfounded.

“So you
quit
quit?” Birdie said. “You walked out?”

“I walked out,” Chess said. “We just put the July issue to bed and I thought,
That’s that.
”

Birdie wondered what was going on here. Was the fact that her elder daughter had marched out on two major commitments in a row—seemingly without planning or forethought—a sign of encroaching mental illness?

“I can’t believe it,” Birdie said. “You’ve been there so long.”

“Eight years,” Chess said.

She had been at the magazine for eight years; she had been named food editor a month shy of her thirtieth birthday. Birdie had been so proud. Her daughter was a prodigy; she was the Yo-Yo Ma of food magazines. One day she would be the magazine’s creative director or editor in chief. But now a sideways move might not even be possible. If Birdie understood her, she had walked out without giving two weeks’ notice.

A prevalent worry of Birdie’s since the children were small was that her kids would suffer from their privilege rather than benefit from it. This worry surfaced now: Breaking her engagement and then quitting her job? What did Chess plan to do for money? Ask her father? (Internally, Birdie cringed. This was, of course, what
she
did when she needed money.)

Birdie longed to call Hank to ask his opinion. She had continued to see Hank every weekend, and often he spent the night. He was the warmest, kindest, most evolved man Birdie had ever met. He not only brought Birdie flowers but spent two hours on his knees in her garden helping her weed. He took her to see
Jersey Boys
and then they drank champagne and shared french fries from a paper cone at Bar Americain. Hank serenaded her all the way home, and then he carried her upstairs to bed like a bride. Another weekend they had wandered around Greenwich Village and he had encouraged Birdie to enter clothing boutiques meant for women twenty years younger and try on clothes. It had been something of an erotic fashion show, with Hank occasionally peeking at her over the top of the dressing room door. Birdie didn’t want to weigh down her relationship with Hank with her concerns about Chess. She didn’t want him to think Chess was a complete mess. Chess was her marquis, gold-standard daughter. She would leave her job at
Glamorous Home
only after securing a more fabulous job at
Bon Appétit
or
Food and Wine.
But she had called from the street.
Was
she a complete mess?

“What are you going to do?” Birdie asked Chess now. “Do you have anything lined up?”

“No,” Chess said. Her voice was so indifferent that Birdie wondered if this was really her daughter. Maybe this was some kind of prank? “I’m thinking of traveling.”

“Traveling?” Birdie said. “What does that mean?”

“I’m thinking about India,” Chess said. “Or maybe Nepal.”

“India?” Birdie said. She was trying not to become hysterical. “
Nepal?
”

“Listen, Bird, can we talk about all this when I get home?”

“Home?” Birdie said.

“I’ve sublet my apartment for the summer. I’m coming home to you next weekend.”

“Next weekend” was Memorial Day, and Birdie had plans to go to the North Fork of Long Island with Hank. Reluctantly, she canceled. She said to Hank, “Chess has quit her job and sublet her apartment, and she’s coming home. And I should be there for her. I’m her mother.”

Hank said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Birdie thought for a second. Hank had handled Chess’s broken engagement artfully, convincing Birdie that if Chess was no longer in love with Michael, then breaking the engagement was the only decent and humane thing to do. He might be able to make sense of these new developments. But Birdie held back. “No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, well then, we’ll go to the North Fork another weekend. I promise. Now go take care of your little girl.”

Birdie changed the sheets in Chess’s room and put roses in a vase by her bed. She made Tuscan lemon chicken, Chess’s favorite dinner, for Friday night. Birdie had half a mind to plan a barbecue for Sunday afternoon, inviting some of Chess’s high school friends, but thought better of it. And how wise! Chess, when she arrived, looked, not like a beautiful thirty-two-year-old newly liberated from fiancé and high-powered job, but wan and puffy eyed and painfully thin. Her long blond hair was greasy and tangled; her shoulders were hunched. She wore a ratty T-shirt featuring the logo of the band Diplomatic Immunity, and a pair of surplus army shorts. She hadn’t bothered with makeup or jewelry; the holes in her pierced ears were red and swollen. She looked like a homeless person.

Drugs,
Birdie thought.
Or a cult. India? Nepal?

Chess pulled her cell phone out of her incongruously elegant Coach purse and dropped it into Birdie’s kitchen trash. “I am done with phone calls,” she said. “I am done with e-mails and done with texting. I don’t want to talk to Michael or to anyone else about Michael. I don’t want to talk to anyone from work about why I left or where I’m going. I am all done talking. Okay?” She looked to Birdie as if for permission, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m just really confused, Bird. The way this has all played out… the things that have happened… honestly? I’m done with other people. I want to be a hermit and live in a cave.”

“What’s wrong?” Birdie asked. “What ‘things’ have happened?”

“Are you not listening?” Chess said. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Birdie, not knowing what else to do, poured Chess a glass of Sancerre and led her to the picnic table, which was set for two overlooking the garden. (Would it make Chess uncomfortable to gaze at the acreage where her wedding reception was to have taken place? Probably, but what could Birdie do? It was her backyard.) She plied Chess with Tuscan lemon chicken and a gratin of potatoes and fennel, and haricots verts sautéed with garlic, and rolls and butter. And a wedge of rhubarb pie for dessert. Under Birdie’s hawklike gaze, Chess ate four bites of chicken, one green bean, a bite of roll, and two bites of pie. She didn’t want to talk, and Birdie—despite four or five really important topics hovering over the table like hummingbirds—wouldn’t make her.