Elin Hilderbrand - Winter Stroll

What if he had stayed that course, never succumbing to Norah’s clear green eyes and that tiny gap between her front teeth? She would just have been Norah Vale, some troubled girl he’d graduated from high school with. He would have saved himself years and years of heartache.

After those first words in the breezeway, Norah had stalked him like a hunter. Later, she admitted it was because she’d heard he was from New York City where his mother was some hot-shot broadcaster. Norah had been born and raised on Nantucket; all she’d ever dreamed of was getting away.

Within six weeks of dating Norah, Kevin had both quit the trumpet and started smoking. He’d also shaved his red hair down to the scalp at Norah’s request; she thought it looked too wholesome long, she said. Margaret had cried when Kevin visited her with Norah in tow in New York.

“It’s your hair,” Norah had said. “It’s time to stop caring what your mother thinks.”

Kevin’s grades fell from good to completely mediocre. He got a weekend job at the Bar and as part of his “pay” received a six-pack after his Saturday night shift, which he and Norah would drink on the beach-always one beer for Kevin, and five for Norah. Things were out of whack like that.

He’d barely managed to apply to college, but he was accepted at the University of Michigan only because his mother, an alum, intervened. He married Norah two weeks after their high school graduation and Norah came with him to Ann Arbor. But as much as she claimed she wanted to get off the puny rock that was Nantucket, she didn’t like living in the married dorms in what she called “the piss-ant Midwest.”

He had lasted one year.

“I need you to leave me alone,” Kevin says, extracting her arm from his.

“Leave you alone?” Norah says. “I thought we were friends.”

“I’m not sure what gave you that idea,” Kevin says. “I’ve been quite happy without you in my life, and I intend to stay that way.”

“Well, I haven’t been happy,” Norah says. “Not at all.”

Kevin shrugs as if to say, Not my problem . Naturally, a part of him is gratified that Norah hasn’t been happy, and a part of him would like to hear this unhappiness detailed. Probably her relationships all failed and she got fired from a succession of crappy jobs. Probably her car had a faulty transmission or bad brakes and died in the middle of the Everglades. Probably she has been evicted from whatever squalid place she’s been living. Kevin has wished all the misfortune in the world on Norah Vale; he has stuck mental pins through her imaginary voodoo doll.

Before Kevin knows what is happening, Norah Vale has her hands on either side of his face and she is planting a juicy kiss on his lips. The kiss is so unexpected and so weirdly familiar that Kevin loses himself in it for a split second before he realizes what he’s doing. He puts his hands on Norah’s shoulders in order to get her off him without creating a scene or looking like he’s roughing her up. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Isabelle and Jennifer approaching and he thinks, No! Please, no! What is this going to look like to Isabelle?

Isabelle gives him a brief look of wide-eyed horror before she turns and disappears into the crowd. Jennifer claps a hand over her mouth.

Kevin says, “Go after her!”

Jennifer either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t understand.

Kevin turns on Norah. “Get away from me. Leave me alone. You ruin everything!”

The people milling around in Kevin and Norah’s vicinity back away. Norah gives Kevin a hideous gap-toothed grin, and then she disappears into the crowd. Jennifer grabs Kevin’s arm.

“That was Norah,” she says.

“I know it was Norah! She said she saw you yesterday! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I… honestly, Kev, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was her, and I didn’t want to upset you…”

“ Upset me?” Kevin says. “How about forewarned is forearmed? She just accosted me out of the blue.”

Jennifer gapes at him and Kevin feels badly for raising his voice, but his far larger problem is Isabelle.

“I’ve got to find Isabelle,” he says. “I’m sure she’s upset. What did it look like from where you were standing?”

“It looked like you and Norah were kissing,” Jennifer says. “It looked really bad.”

“ We weren’t kissing!” he says. “ She kissed me! ”

“Why did you let her?” Jennifer asks.

“I didn’t let her!” Kevin says.

“If I saw Patrick kissing someone like that, he’d be a dead man,” Jennifer says.

The words send Kevin into a tailspin. He sets his drink on a ledge and sweeps the crowd for signs of Isabelle. They have been there for twenty minutes and the night is over.

Mitzi asks him not to leave her side, and so they wend and weave their way through the crowd, much as they have in past years. Some people do a double take at the sight of them together, and some-those who are a year behind on their gossip-don’t react at all.

Mitzi can’t handle any questions about Bart, and so Kelley fields all the inquiries and well-wishes. We don’t have much information, held prisoner somewhere in Afghanistan, thank you for your concern, your prayers are appreciated.

Kelley tries to focus on the reason they came: admiring the trees, enjoying a couple glasses of wine, tasting the foie gras and the crab salad and Nantucket bay scallop seviche offered by the island’s restaurants. There are tiny pulled pork sandwiches on sweet potato rolls at Bartlett’s Farm; Kelley devours three.

Mitzi isn’t eating at all.

“No appetite,” she says.

He can tell this has been a problem for a while. Mitzi has always been slender but now she is dangerously thin. The purple gown leaves Mitzi’s back exposed, and Kelley can see the protruding knobs of her spine. Earlier that afternoon, when they were making love, he worried he would snap her in half.

“How about an oyster?” Kelley asks. “Do you think you can eat an oyster?”

Mitzi nods. “I think I can eat an oyster. Maybe even two.”

Kelley steers her toward the raw bar.

Walking around with Margaret inside the Nantucket Whaling Museum is slow business. Everyone stops to… well, for lack of a better word, Drake is going to say gawk . Women elbow their husbands in the ribs. Look, it’s Margaret Quinn! The men stand up straighter and try not to stare.

Some people feel it’s appropriate to stop Margaret and either profess their loyal fandom, or tell her how much they loved a particular segment she reported, or comment that she is even more beautiful in person than she is on TV! Margaret handles everyone with a smile and kind words of thanks. How does the woman do it? Drake wonders. In New York City, she is rarely approached. New Yorkers are too jaded; celebrities are everywhere. Once, while eating at Pearl & Ash in SoHo, Drake and Margaret saw Derek Jeter at the bar and Drake got so excited he asked Margaret if she could introduce him. Margaret said, “He’s eating, Drake.” Drake had thought, Right, he’s eating. Rude to interrupt. But not ten minutes later, Jeter came up to Margaret to say hello, and Drake had gotten his chance to shake number 2’s hand.

There are a few people Margaret actually knows-a newscaster from the Boston CBS affiliate, the personal assistant to the secretary of state-and she greets these individuals with joy and pulls on Drake’s arm as she introduces him.

“This is my boyfriend,” she says. “Dr. Drake Carroll.”