Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

“Are we or are we not paying for a regular dance floor?”

“We are,” Birdie said. “This is a special thing, for the first dances. Chess dancing with Michael, Chess dancing with you, you dancing with me.”

“Me dancing with you?”

Birdie cleared her throat. “Emily Post says that if neither of the divorced spouses is remarried, then… yes, Grant, you’re going to have to dance with me. Sorry about that.”

“Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money, Bird.”

It took a phone call from Chess to convince him. God only knows what she said, but Grant wrote the check.

At the end of April, Birdie went on her first date since the divorce. The date had been set up by Birdie’s sister, India, who was a curator at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Center City, Philadelphia. India had been married to the sculptor Bill Bishop and had raised three sons while Bill traveled the globe, gaining notoriety. In 1995, Bill shot himself in the head in a hotel in Bangkok, and the suicide had devastated India. For a while there, Birdie had feared India wouldn’t recover. She would end up as a bag lady in Rittenhouse Square, or as a recluse, keeping cats and polishing Bill’s portrait in its frame. But India had somehow risen from the ashes, putting her master’s degree in art history to use and becoming a curator. Unlike Birdie, India was cutting edge and chic. She wore Catherine Malandrino dresses, four-inch heels, and Bill Bishop’s reading glasses on a chain around her neck. India dated all kinds of men-older men, younger men, married men-and the man she set Birdie up with was one of her castoffs. He was too old. How old was too old? Sixty-five, which was Grant’s age.

His name was Hank Dunlap. Hank was the retired headmaster of an elite private school in Manhattan. His wife, Caroline, was independently wealthy. The wife sat on the board of trustees at the Guggenheim Museum; India had met Hank and Caroline at a Guggenheim benefit years earlier.

“What happened to Caroline?” Birdie asked. “Did they get divorced? Did she die?”

“Neither,” India said. “She has Alzheimer’s. She’s in a facility upstate.”

“So the wife is still alive, they’re still married, and you dated him? And now you want me to date him?”

“Get over yourself, Bird,” India said. “His wife is in another world and won’t be coming back. He wants companionship. He is exactly your type.”

“He is?” Birdie said. What was her “type”? Someone like Grant? Grant was the devil’s attorney. He was all about single-malt whiskey and expensive cars with leather interiors. He was not the kindly headmaster type, content with a salary in the low six figures. “Does he golf?”

“No.”

“Ah, then he is my type.” Birdie swore she would never again be romantically involved with a golfer.

“He’s cute,” India said, like they were talking about some sixteen-year-old. “You’ll like him.”

Surprise! Birdie liked him. She had decided to forgo all of the “I can’t believe I’m dating again at my age” worrywart nonsense and just be a realist. She was dating again at her age, but instead of fretting, she got showered and dressed and made up as she would have if she and Grant were going to the theater or to the country club with the Campbells. She wore a simple wrap dress and heels and some good jewelry, including her diamond engagement ring (it had been her grandmother’s and would someday go to one of her grandchildren). Birdie sat on her garden bench in the mild spring evening with a glass of Sancerre and Mozart playing on the outdoor speakers as she waited for old Hank to show up.

Her heartbeat seemed regular.

She heard a car in the driveway and proceeded inside, where she rinsed her wineglass, checked her lipstick in the mirror, and fetched her spring coat. With a deep breath, she opened the door. And there stood old Hank, holding a bouquet of fragrant purple hyacinths. He had salt-and-pepper hair and wore rimless glasses. He was, as India had promised, cute. Very cute. When he saw Birdie, he smiled widely. He grinned. He was darling.

“You’re even prettier than your sister!” he said.

Birdie swooned. “God,” she said. “I love you already.”

And they laughed.

The evening had gone from good to better. Hank Dunlap was smart and informed, funny and engaging. He picked a new restaurant on a trendy street in South Norwalk, among the art galleries and upscale boutiques. This faux Soho (they called it SoNo) was where Grant now lived. Birdie wondered if he hung out on this trendy street (she had a hard time imagining it); she wondered if she would see him, or if he would see her out on a date with cute, erudite Hank. It was warm enough to sit outside, and Birdie jumped at the chance.

The food at the new restaurant was extraordinary. Birdie loved good food and good wine, and as it turned out, so did Hank. They tasted each other’s meals and decided to share a dessert. Birdie didn’t think, I can’t believe I’m dating again at my age. What she thought was that she was having fun, this was easy; it was easier, perhaps, to have dinner with this man she barely knew than it had ever been to have dinner with Grant. (Beyond his penchant for aged beef, Grant didn’t care what he ate. He ate only to stay alive.) In the last few years of their marriage, Birdie and Grant had barely spoken to each other when they went to dinner. Or rather, Birdie had chirped away about the things that interested her, and Grant had nodded distractedly as he watched the Yankees game over her shoulder or checked his BlackBerry for stock reports. As Birdie ate with Hank, she marveled at how nice it was to spend time with someone who not only interested her but found her interesting. Who not only talked but listened.

Birdie said, “I would run away and marry you tonight, but I understand you’re already married.”

Hank nodded and smiled sadly. “My wife, Caroline, is in a facility in Brewster. She doesn’t recognize me or the kids anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Birdie said.

“We had a good life together,” Hank said. “I’m sorry it’s going to end for her away from home, but I couldn’t take care of her by myself. She’s better off where she is. I go to see her Thursday afternoons and every Sunday. I bring her chocolate-covered caramels, and every week she thanks me like I’m a kind stranger, which I guess, to her, I am. But she loves them.”

Birdie felt tears rise. The waiter delivered their dessert-a passion fruit and coconut cream parfait. Hank dug in; Birdie dabbed at her eyes. Her marriage had ended badly, though not as badly as some, and Hank’s marriage was also ending badly, though not as badly as some. His wife no longer recognized him, but he brought her chocolate-covered caramels. This was the kindest gesture Birdie could imagine. Had Grant ever done anything that kind for her? She couldn’t think of a thing.

Hank kissed Birdie good night at her front door, and that was the best part of the evening. The kiss was soft and deep, and something long forgotten stirred inside Birdie. Desire. She and Grant had had sex right up to the bitter end with the help of a pill-but desire for her husband’s body had evaporated by the time Tate went to grammar school.

“I’ll call you tomorrow at noon,” Hank said.

Birdie nodded. She was speechless. She stumbled inside and wandered around her kitchen, looking at it with new eyes. What would Hank think of this kitchen? She was a big believer in small details: always fresh fruit, always fresh flowers, always fresh-brewed coffee, real cream, fresh-squeezed juice, the morning newspaper delivered to the doorstep, classical music. Always wine of a good vintage. Would Hank appreciate these things the way Birdie did?