Elin Hilderbrand - The Castaways

Greg’s idea, she said.

Tell him no .

I think that would be aggressive, she said. It would send up red flags.

He’s trying to win you back, Addison said.

He can’t win me back, Tess said. I’m yours .

So then why are you going? Addison asked.

And Tess said, Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.

Meet me here on Sunday afternoon. Please-one last time before you go sailing. Addison went to the cottage every Sunday to change the sheets and do some basic housekeeping.

You know Sundays are impossible for me, she said.

The cottage was beautiful in the heart of the summer. The roof was draped with crimson climbing roses, like the back of the winning Kentucky Derby horse, and the woods beyond were full and lush. Paths between the trees were lined with hostas and jacks-in-the-pulpit. When Tess and Addison had been here the last time, the roses had not yet been in bloom.

In a few weeks, Addison had said, we can walk to the water and go for a swim. No one will see us. This cove is completely deserted.

I can’t wait, Tess had replied.

Addison let himself in. He expected the place to be stuffy, but someone-Florabel? the caretaker?-had left the windows open, and the breeze moved through the screens, and the white, filmy curtains floated like ghosts.

They had made love that final time-Addison angrily, Tess apologetically-and when it was over, they lay in uncharacteristic silence. They never spent time in silence; the hallmark of their relationship was that they talked. Addison told her every detail of his day and she did the same. She knew the status of every one of his deals, and he knew the names and life stories of each of her students. The two of them talked and talked and talked; God, it was a relief, a pleasure, to have someone to talk to. At home, Addison could talk and Phoebe would listen, but it was weird. Sometimes she was cogent and understood him and came out with canny responses, but sometimes it was like firing a tennis ball into outer space. And Tess could talk to Greg about the kids or school, but he gave her the distinct impression that he was weary of both topics. She was forbidden from broaching the subjects of money, the house, his job singing at the Begonia, and anything related to the High Priorities (like April Peck). So what did that leave, exactly? Discussing the segments of 60 Minutes? It would feel forced. Ditto conversations about books, painting, or sculpture. Tess could talk to Addison about these things, however, and never tire of it.

But Addison remembered that lying there, the final day in the cottage, he had struggled with the silence. He had had things to say, oh yes, things that would lead to other things.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t do it, but he did it anyway (as he knew he would when he made himself the promise). He lay down on the bed.

Could he have stopped her from going sailing? Because God knows, he’d wanted to stop her. But everything he’d wanted to say was flawed, nothing was effective enough. He had vetted his thoughts carefully; he had taken a breath to speak, and then shut himself up.

I DO NOT WANT YOU TO GO SAILING WITH YOUR HUSBAND.

He could have shouted it in anger or repeated it a hundred times in a whisper-stream like a lunatic, but even that would not have conveyed the ardor of his feelings.

It was nothing but a parlor game to conjure now what he might have said if he had been brave enough to open his mouth. It wouldn’t have mattered what he said, because she was going regardless.

Why?

Ah, the why. The why was the reason for their silence that final day; it was the reason for Addison’s anger and her apology.

Why?

Not to go would be to send up a bunch of red flags, she said. But this was just her making excuses. She could easily have begged off. She hated the water and always had, she hated to leave the kids overnight. The last year of the marriage, thanks to the heinous event of April Peck, had been a shambles, and not worth celebrating. She was in love with someone else.

She could have said any of these things, but didn’t. She was going sailing, therefore, because she wanted to. She wanted to celebrate the train wreck that had been their twelfth year of marriage, she wanted to hear the song Greg had written for her, she wanted to eat and drink and laugh and make love. She wanted to see the man try.

Right? Admit it!

Addison had not pressed her. He had strictly adhered to the tenet beloved of so many fourteen-year-old girls: If you love something, set it free. If it was meant to be, it will come back to you. But this, of course, was bullshit. If you loved something and let it go… it would (hello!) find something else to love.

It had never occurred to Addison to say, I don’t want you to go with Greg because what if something happens? What if you catch a gust the wrong way and the boat capsizes and you get caught underneath and you die? Or, What if your husband drugs you and throws you overboard?

To which Tess would have said, Oh, Addison, don’t be silly.

Addison moved to the window, where he could see the trees, the path, the ribbon of inviting blue water. They had made a pact to love each other the same amount, the maximum amount, an unimaginable, overflowing amount. He had loved her that much, but Tess had been misrepresenting herself. I’m afraid you won’t get it.

The cottage had sold. Another couple would live here, would make love in the bed, would gaze out the window, would shower together or separately, would listen to Mozart or Mötley Crüe, would cook croque-monsieurs or goat cheese omelets, would sleep soundly or fitfully. And they would never know.

Addison took the felt heart, now in three pieces, out of his pants pocket. He scattered the pieces across the bed like sad rose petals. But then, because he couldn’t stand to leave them, he shoved them back in his pocket, got up, and walked out the door.

Her time in the farm attic was coming to an end. The thought was hard to bear. She and Jeffrey had painstakingly detailed twenty of Tess’s thirty-five years on earth, and Jeffrey had suffered through stories from Tess and Andrea’s childhood in South Boston with the police department, the Mafia connections, the priests and nuns. Jeffrey had aired out a few stories of his own, stories Andrea had never heard (Jeffrey and Tess had discovered a mangy fox while hiking around Saranac Lake, and Tess had insisted that Jeffrey call a vet to try to save it. Did Andrea know that? No, she didn’t, and the story delighted her.)

They were down to the wire now, though. They had talked, circumspectly, about the April Peck incident. Andrea had been very tense during this session. She waited for Jeffrey to reveal details she had never heard before, but no, he had been fed the same story as the rest of them. They had talked about the trip to Stowe, their last group trip. This brought them to within six months. And it was the last six months that troubled Andrea, because for the last six months of Tess’s life, Tess had been different. She had been distant and unavailable; she had stopped going to mass with Andrea. She had told Andrea lies.

Lies! Andrea had not confronted Tess about the lies, because she had been baffled by them, embarrassed even. If Tess was lying to Andrea, then there must be something wrong with Andrea. Andrea was hesitant to discuss all this with Jeffrey, but maybe he could help her. This process they’d been through together had been painful and rough in places, but ultimately it was working. It was allowing Andrea to keep a tenuous grip on her sanity.