Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

They sat around the picnic table writing up a grocery list for Barrett Lee. Barrett Lee was as ruggedly handsome as his father had been at that age. India looked between Chess and Tate; one of them would snag him. Which one?

“Bread,” Birdie said. “Milk. Special K. Sugar. Blueberries, American cheese, saltines.” She was dictating for Tate, who was writing everything down.

“American cheese?” India said. “Saltines? Let’s think like grown women here. When the kids were small, we bought American cheese and saltines, but now we can get camembert and a baguette. And a stick of good Italian salami. That, and some nice, ripe apricots and a pint of raspberries and half a dozen green figs.”

Birdie looked at India. India thought, Five days from now is Wednesday. Can I make it to Wednesday? She had not had a cigarette since leaving Philadelphia, and her body was craving nicotine at red-alert levels. She had a carton of Benson and Hedges upstairs in her suitcase. As soon as possible, she would sneak one.

“You’re right,” Birdie said. “We can eat figs and cheese if we want to. And we should get some wine.”

“God, yes,” India said.

“Chess?” Birdie said. “Is there anything you want?”

Chess shrugged. India recognized the slump to her shoulders, the far-off expression. Here they were, wrapped up in the Camp Fire girl task of making a list of provisions, and Chess couldn’t have cared less. India knew all too well how Chess felt. India hadn’t shaved her head after Bill died, but she had done other self-destructive things: She had subsisted on Diet Coke and toast for months, until she fainted behind the wheel of her car (thankfully, she was in her driveway). She had refused to return the lawyer’s calls until her bank account was overdrawn and a check for Ethan’s high school football uniform bounced. She and Chess would have a long, frank talk before India escaped this barren hell, and India would tell her… what? You will survive. This will pass, like absolutely everything else.

But right now, all India wanted was a smoke. She was a bad girl.

“Bluefish pâté,” Birdie said. “A bag of those Tuscan rosemary crackers. Lobster salad, butter lettuce, corn on the cob, aluminum foil.”

India removed her reading glasses. They had been Bill’s and were, without exception, her most valued personal possession. She regarded their Brad Pitt boy Friday. “Barrett,” she said, “are you married?”

Birdie stopped her litany. Tate’s cheeks flared an attractive pink.

“Um, no. Not anymore.”

“Divorced?” India said.

“No,” Barrett said. “See… uh, it’s tough. My wife, Stephanie? She died. She had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” The way he said it made it sound like a question. India nodded, and thought, Ooooh, Lou Gehrig’s disease. The worst way to go. “She died two years ago. A little more than two years.”

Everyone at the table was silent. India felt like an ass for asking. This was further proof that she didn’t belong here. She never put her foot in her mouth; she never made other people uncomfortable. Now, she wanted to hide under the table. Here she had just crowned herself Queen of the Widows, with a deep emotional reservoir for those who had lost a loved one, and she had managed to fry Barrett like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said. “Do you have children?”

“Two boys, five and three.”

“Names?”

“Cameron and Tucker. Tucker after Tuckernuck.”

“Wonderful,” India said. “I have a particular fondness for little boys! You’ll bring them sometime? So we can meet them?”

“Maybe,” he said. “They’re with my mom during the day and Stephanie’s parents in Chatham every other weekend.” He was quiet for a second, looking off at the water. “Yeah, I’ll bring them over sometime.”

There was silence then; it was either respectful or awkward, India couldn’t quite tell. The girls were no help. Chess was picking at a knothole in the picnic table, and Tate stared at Barrett the only way one could stare at him-with sympathy and wonder.

“Are we done with the list, Birdie?” India said. “There’s so much stuff here, Barrett’s boat is going to sink.”

“No worries,” Barrett said. “Finish the list. I’ll have everything back here later this afternoon.”

India let out a breath. Having Barrett Lee around would make things bearable. He would be their romantic hero this summer the way Chuck Lee had been her and Birdie’s romantic hero in the late sixties. Chuck Lee had been India’s initiation to a certain kind of man; he had a crew cut and a tattoo and a thick New England accent. India had desired him before she even knew what desire was. Now here was his son: handsome and helpful and tragically widowed. Barrett Lee and his surprising revelation energized her.

As he walked toward the bluff, India let out a sharp wolf whistle. The others sucked in their breath, scandalized.

“India,” Birdie scolded. “Really!”

Barrett turned around and waved.

“He better get used to it,” India said.

D ay one.

Here is my confession.

I met Michael and Nick on the same night, the first Friday in October, less than two years ago. I had just put the Thanksgiving issue to bed-a very big deal in the world of food magazines-and I was out to celebrate with my best friend from the city, Rhonda, who was a perpetual student and lived on the floor below mine in an apartment that was subsidized by her influential father. I invited Rhonda up to my apartment for martinis. We played Death Cab for Cutie, we drank, we put on makeup and fixed our hair and checked our outfits. It was finally autumn weather after a hot and breezeless summer. We were ready to go.

We went to the Bowery Ballroom to see a band called Diplomatic Immunity. There was a line around the block, but Rhonda’s father was a hotshot at the United Nations, a recipient of some kind of diplomatic immunity himself. He knew someone everywhere in the city, it seemed, including at the Ballroom, and we strolled right in. Plus, Rhonda was gorgeous. She had been naturally gorgeous, and then she got her boobs done, after which we could cut any velvet rope in Manhattan and beyond.

Michael was standing at the bar. He was six foot six, impossible to miss, a head taller than everyone else. He was handsome in the way that I liked-clean cut, smart, bright eyed-and I smiled at him.

He said, “You look happy to be here.”

I said, “God, yes, I am. I am so happy!”

His face lit up. Happy begat happy. “Let me buy you a drink, happy girl.”

“Okay,” I said. It had taken five seconds, and I was his.

The band had yet to begin, so we talked. He told me Princeton, Upper East Side (renting), started his own business (head hunting, not as violent as it sounded, he promised). He said Bergen County, New Jersey, parents still married, one brother, one sister. He said jogging in the park, food and wine, New York Times crossword puzzle, poker on Wednesdays.

I told him Colchester, food editor at Glamorous Home, West Sixty-third Street (renting). I said New Canaan, Connecticut, parents just announced they were splitting after thirty years, one sister. I said jogging in the park, food and wine, reading, shopping, skiing, and the beach.

He said R.E.M., Coldplay. He said Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, GoodFellas. He said Hemingway, Ethan Canin, Philip Roth.

I said Death Cab for Cutie, Natalie Merchant, Coldplay. I said The English Patient, Ghost, American Beauty. I said Toni Morrison, Jane Smiley, Susan Minot.