Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

“Wish I’d known that years ago,” Grant said.

“I know,” Birdie said. She pictured Grant on his cell phone, back in the day. He called from the edge of the bluff, and he would just have gotten his secretary on the phone when he would lose the line. He would have to call back ten or twenty times to get through one conversation. “You remember Bigelow Point, right? I’m standing in the spot where we got the Scout stuck. Remember? When Chess was a baby?”

“Oh, God, yes,” Grant said, chuckling. “And I was pushing and the tide kept coming in, burying the back tires with wet sand. I thought that car was a goner.”

“Me, too,” Birdie said. She could picture what she’d been wearing-a daisy-print caftan over her white maternity bathing suit. She sat behind the wheel of the Scout with a howling Chess on her lap and she steered while Grant pushed. It was amazing to think that they were those very same people.

Grant cleared his throat. “How are the daughters?”

“Tate is fine, takes each day by the horns. Chess worries me. I’m not sure what to do for her.”

Grant said, “You don’t have to do anything, Bird. Just being there is enough.”

Birdie thought, You have no idea what you’re talking about. But she hadn’t called to be uncharitable. She said, “And India’s hanging in there better than I expected. She said she hasn’t gone a week without a cosmopolitan or take-out Indian food in fifteen years, but she’s doing fine. We’re both sitting for hours in the sun, just waiting for the cancer to come get us.”

Grant laughed. “I wish I was there.”

“Oh, heavens,” Birdie said. “You do not. You hate it here.”

“I don’t hate it there.”

“You do so. You never once enjoyed yourself.”

“That’s not true, Bird. That sounds like more of your revisionist history. Plus, back then, when we were going every summer, I was distracted with work. Now, it would be a different story. I’d be out surf casting at first light. I’d be gossiping with you and India on the beach.”

He was full of nonsense, but Birdie didn’t want to argue. She said, “What’s going on there?”

“Here?” Grant said. “It’s been only me here this week and a few ambitious associates. Everyone else is off on vacation. On the Fourth, I was here alone.”

“You worked on the Fourth?” Birdie said.

Grant coughed dryly as he had for the past thirty years whenever he was uncomfortable. “I had some things to finish up.”

He had nowhere else to go. Birdie felt a wave of empathy. She thought of Grant putting on a suit and tie and driving in to work on the nation’s birthday. She thought of him sitting behind his desk while the rest of the firm’s offices remained quiet and dark; everyone else was at picnics or barbecues, at the country club or the beach.

“Why on earth didn’t you play golf?” Birdie asked.

“I was going to, but my foursome fell apart. It’s hard to find people with as much free time as I have. The other guys have families to see and lawns to mow.”

Birdie nearly asked Grant if he was lonely, but she refrained. Clearly the answer was yes. Birdie felt sorry for him, then battled this feeling. She had spent thirty years feeling lonely. She had spent countless Fourths of July at the country club pool with the kids while Grant golfed or spent three hours on a conference call with Japan. Still, she could understand being lonely. Would she have called him if she weren’t lonely herself?

She said, “Would you like to come up here, Grant? Spend a few days? It would be easy. If you get yourself to Nantucket, Barrett will bring you over.”

“I thought it was women only. I thought that was the point.”

“The daughters would love to see you.”

Grant was silent, and Birdie panicked. What if he said yes? What if Birdie had just ruined the trip by inviting her ex-husband along? She wasn’t at all sure the girls would appreciate his presence, and India would most certainly protest. And where would Grant sleep? In the other twin bed in Birdie’s room? Good Lord. It was unthinkable.

Grant said, “Thanks for asking, Bird, but I’m going to let you gals do what you went there to do. Bang your drums and chant and share your secrets by moonlight. You don’t need me around.”

“Okay,” Birdie said. She was relieved!

“It was good talking to you, Bird.”

“You, too,” Birdie said.

“No, I mean really good,” Grant said. “You made my day.”

“I’m glad,” Birdie said. She filled with warmth. These were the words she wanted to hear. Hank hadn’t been able to say them, but Grant had. Life was endlessly perplexing. “We’ll talk soon,” she said, and she hung up. The water was halfway up her shins. She was okay to walk home now, and when she got to the house, she would make herself a Perrier with ice and lime. It wouldn’t be great, but it would be okay.

Prayer worked. Sometimes, when Tate was trying to fix a really bad problem in someone’s system, she closed her eyes and said a prayer. And more times than a rational person might imagine, the God that lived inside the computer responded. The screen would clear or jump to life, and she took over from there.

And so, she thought, why not call on the God that lived on Tuckernuck to help her with Barrett Lee? She said a little prayer every day and hoped for the best. Pick me, pick me, pick me, PICK ME!

She was trying to become Barrett’s friend. This was difficult because her mother and Aunt India were always around, so there wasn’t a good opportunity for a one-on-one chat.

The only time of day when Tate and Barrett got a few minutes alone was in the morning. Barrett normally arrived while Tate was doing her sit-ups in the tree, and the sight of her hanging from her knees was clearly too much to resist because he always stopped to tease her. He took to calling her Monkey Girl, not a flattering moniker by any means, but she would take what she could get. One day, she challenged him to try it. No, really, I’m serious. I bet you can’t do one! And Barrett, handsome goddamned devil, set his visor and his sunglasses on the picnic table, pulled himself up into the tree, and hung by his knees. His shirt fell, revealing a perfect abdomen. He did ten sit-ups with his hands behind his head, then he flipped down and said, Not bad, but I prefer the gym.

Yeah, well, I prefer the gym, too, Tate said, but look where I am.

I’ll give you one thing, Barrett said. You’re resourceful.

That was right, she was resourceful! The following morning, she left fifteen minutes later than usual for her run. And sure enough-she was finishing just as Barrett’s boat was puttering into their cove. Tate had her hands on her hips and she was panting. She chugged from the bottle of water she left on the beach stairs; then she stretched her hamstrings on the steps. Barrett anchored the boat. Tate sat on the bottom step, waiting for him. Her face was hot and red, she smelled like moldy cheese, but this was it-her chance!

He jumped off the side of the boat, then lifted out a bag of groceries and a ten-pound bag of ice. Tate waved to him; he smiled.

He said, “Good morning, Monkey Girl. Did you sleep in?”

She said, “I decided to run around the island twice.”

His eyes widened. “You are kidding me.”

She said, “I am kidding you.”

He got closer. She made no move to get up. He… looked like he was going to head past her up the stairs, but then he turned and sat on the step next to her. Tate didn’t know where to look, so she stared at her running watch. Eight fourteen, it said. The hour and the minute of her first real conversation with Barrett Lee. Tate fidgeted with the buttons of the watch; the face turned a ghostly blue. It was a man’s running watch and truly hideous, though Tate remembered ogling it at the sporting goods store in Charlotte-all the things it could do! Now, she wished she’d bought something more attractive, more ladylike. Sitting next to Barrett, she was self-conscious beyond belief.