Elin Hilderbrand - The Castaways

But not ready for bed. Not yet! It wasn’t even midnight!

What to do? The Bellagio fountains-again? No. The white tigers at the Mirage? No. A drink at the Venetian? No. Slots? Maybe, just for a minute. Howie Mandel? No.

They decided to go to Circus Circus to ride the roller coaster. This was Tess’s idea, and since she was Cindy Brady, and since she never got to decide anything, that was what they did. They were all dressed up, but no matter. They filed two by two (couples only this time) into the roller-coaster cars, with Delilah and Jeffrey up front. Delilah leaned her head against Jeffrey’s shoulder; she squeezed the hell out of Jeffrey’s farmer hand, which was as wide and sturdy as a spade. No one would believe this, it would in fact surprise them, but Delilah was afraid of roller coasters. Terrified. And not just in the way that normal people were afraid of roller coasters. She was in full freak-out mode. Her heart was a crazed animal that had been zapped with high-voltage electricity; she thought she might cry, or insist on staying on the ground where it was safe, but this was a group thing, Tess had picked it, and Delilah would not be the spoiler.

She clung to Jeffrey. The man was a walking, talking security blanket. He was not going to let anything happen to Delilah. That, in the end, was why she had married him. She didn’t need excitement or trouble from a man; she created enough of that on her own.

“You’re the best person in the world to ride a roller coaster with,” she said to her husband.

It seemed he did not need this explained to him. He took it the way it was meant. As an apology.

“Thank you,” he said.

The roller coaster lurched forward. Delilah shrieked. They hadn’t even gone anywhere. Here we go! Eeeeeeeeeeeeee! The roller coaster jerked upward, it ticked ominously up the incline. Delilah had her back braced against the seat. Her heart wanted out. Oh my God. It would be thrilling, she thought, a thrill all the better because it was so damn scary. They crested, the car hesitating at the top. Delilah could not see the bottom of the chute but she could sense it. The air beneath her, the breath-stealing trajectory.

They plunged. Delilah’s stomach fell away; it was somewhere over her head. She screamed. They all screamed.

(They hadn’t known, then, what was coming. They didn’t know about September 11, Phoebe’s twin brother jumping from the hundred and first floor; they didn’t know about lost pregnancies; they didn’t know about the pharmaceutical cornucopia targeted at post-traumatic stress disorder; they didn’t know about the ways their marriages would fall apart and then be saved; they didn’t know about affairs or love realigning; they didn’t know about a girl named April Peck or the shitstorm she would create; they didn’t know they were going to leave and be left. They didn’t know they were going to die.)

They screamed. Back then, they had all been happy.

For maybe ten years now, Addison Wheeler had considered himself a rich man. He had a beautiful home, four cars, membership in two private clubs, a case of 1967 port in his wine cellar, and eight figures invested with his broker in New York. He had a sixteen-year-old daughter in the best private school in southern California, and an ex-wife who was so wealthy on her own that all she asked Addison for were special favors. (He had a client who could get him tickets to anything, anywhere-the Super Bowl, the Academy Awards.) But from now on, money would mean nothing. Money couldn’t help him. Money didn’t matter.

Tess was dead.

They gathered at the Drake house, because they always gathered at the Drake house. Greg and Tess’s house was too small, Andrea and the Chief’s house was too police-chiefy (there was a scanner in their house that squawked all the live-long day, and somewhere in the house, everyone knew, the Chief kept guns). Addison and Phoebe had the biggest house, with views over Sesachacha Pond. From their widow’s walk, you could see all three of Nantucket’s lighthouses. Addison and Phoebe had tried to host gatherings in the past, but these gatherings were never quite right. Phoebe raided the fancy Italian cheese store for hundreds of dollars’ worth of asiago and salumi, and Addison, hands down, had the best wine, not to mention the most sophisticated stereo and TV, but something was missing. Their house was too cold, too formal. They had no kids; that might have been the problem. And yet in their basement was a home theater with every DVD from The Breakfast Club to Bee Movie , as well as a pool table. They had beanbag chairs, a basketball hoop, and a swimming pool, half of which was only three feet deep. It was heaven for kids, so that wasn’t the problem. The problem was something else.

Or maybe this was just Addison’s insecurity talking (he was rich, yes, but not rich enough to quiet the voice in his head that constantly reminded him of his shortcomings). Maybe it wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Addison and Phoebe’s house; the Drake house was simply better. It was warmer. It was, in essence, a farmhouse, with a captivating mix of woods and woven rugs, bright fabrics, copper pots, a fire in the fireplace or the grill smoking on the deck. Delilah made everything from scratch rather than buying it prepared; she was an easy, natural hostess, pouring your drink before your coat was off. She made the most delicious cocktails, she had the funniest cocktail napkins, she cooked with cream and butter, herbs and just-picked produce. She had the best mixes on her iPod, and she was always, always ready to turn it up a notch. Addison loved it at the Drake house, and Phoebe would have put their own house on the market and moved in with the Drakes at the drop of a hat. There was just something about it. It was happy, balanced.

But not, of course, today.

Addison and Phoebe arrived at ten minutes to seven, though it felt much earlier. It was the longest day of the year. The Chief and Andrea had arrived, and instinctively Addison looked for Tess’s Kia. For the past six months, when he had pulled into this driveway, he had looked for Tess’s car. He had her license plate memorized: K22 M3E. He had waited, dozens of times over the past winter, for that car to pull into the driveway of the cottage in Quaise, an exclusive listing of his, where they used to meet.

Tess’s car wasn’t there. It was in the lot across from the town pier.

Next to him, Phoebe was as still and quiet as a statue in a garden. She had self-medicated, which was dangerous after an event like this, but Addison hadn’t had the wherewithal to check what she had put in her mouth. He tried to monitor what Dr. Field prescribed her, what she took, what she stashed away, what she gave to Delilah (Phoebe was a very generous woman, even with her pharmaceuticals)-but this had dropped off in recent months, partly because of Tess, and partly because the responsibility of being on constant watch with his wife was wearying. He had tried lecturing, he had tried an intervention (a mini-intervention, him and Dr. Field, explaining to Phoebe that she was becoming dependent on these drugs and she had to wean herself off them-the antidepressants, the pain meds, the sleep aides). Nothing worked. Phoebe popped pills, and rather than killing her, they seemed to be keeping her alive. So whereas Addison felt like he wanted to take a steak knife and eviscerate his insides, cut his heart out so it would stop hurting-Tess was dead!-Phoebe was as calm as a houseplant. She wasn’t a person so much as a topiary.

Addison turned off the car. He wasn’t sure that he could go into that house and pull off the acting job that was required.

“He killed her,” Addison said.

Phoebe turned to him. “What?” she said.