Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

Tate wanted to share her memories with Barrett, but Barrett was preoccupied with pulling in behind a long line of cars parked on the street. They had arrived. Barrett looked in the rearview mirror and straightened his tie. He smiled at Tate. She was still worried about her hair, especially after the boat ride.

I can look even better than this, she wanted to tell him. Really, I can.

He said, “You are so beautiful, Tate. Honestly, I could eat you.”

She inched toward him. She didn’t want to be pushy, she didn’t even want to be easy, but the man was a magnet. They started kissing again. Tate thought, Let’s forgo this party and go back to your house and eat each other up. But then she remembered herself and pulled away. She sensed this was what Chess would do.

“Please?” he said. “Don’t stop?”

Tate said, “Let’s go. We’re expected.”

The party, in Tate’s mind, was just something to be survived before she and Barrett could be alone. But as they approached the house, she rearranged her expectations. The house they were going to, Tate could see, was gargantuan, with massive windows and multilayered decks. Barrett led Tate through a white latticed archway dripping with ‘New Dawn’ roses (Birdie’s favorite; Tate would have to remember to tell her). There were people all over the lawn holding drinks, there were wait staff in white shirts and black vests offering things on silver trays, there was live music coming from somewhere. Tate scanned the property: a jazz trio played on one of the decks. Tate was dumbfounded. She felt like she was stepping onto a Broadway stage and didn’t know any of her lines. India could handle this kind of glittering social scene, and Chess in her former state could handle this, even Birdie could handle this-but Tate could not.

Her heels sunk into the grass. She had to unplug herself with every step. She looked around. Other women were wearing heels and they didn’t seem to be sinking. Was there something wrong with the way she was walking? Oh, probably. Tate was most comfortable in sneakers. To work, she wore loafers or ballet flats. She should have asked Chess for a heels tutorial.

“Hold on to me,” Barrett said, offering his arm. “I want to get a drink and then we’ll find Anita to say hello.”

Yes, thought Tate. What you needed when you attended a party like this was a plan, at least to start with. If left to her own devices, Tate would wander around, accept a tequila drink, eat something from a tray that she was allergic to, and trip in her heels, ending up on her knees in the flower bed.

Barrett handed her a glass of champagne. She guzzled it-straight down the hatch-and then quietly burped. This was exactly what she meant by too eager.

Barrett laughed. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he said.

“I’m not nervous,” she said.

She lassoed a server with more champagne and took a second glass, placing her first glass on the tray. All this without spilling or breaking anything.

“I’m going to sip this one,” she promised.

They weaved through the crowd. They had a mission: find the hostess. The rear of the house, Tate soon discovered, fronted Nantucket Harbor.

“Look at this view,” she said.

“It’s no better than the view from your house,” Barrett said.

This was true. The Tuckernuck house looked out over the water. Still, there was something breathtaking about the manicured lawn and the pale strip of private beach and the expanse of Nantucket Harbor with Brant Point Lighthouse, sailboats, the descending sun.

Barrett was stopped in his tracks by a middle-aged couple. The man had gray hair and broken capillaries across his cheeks. The woman had frosted hair in a bob; she was wearing Birdie’s perfume, Coco by Chanel. Tate tried to focus, look them in the eye, smile, sparkle. She loved Barrett; she wanted to do a good job for him.

“Tate Cousins,” Barrett said, “I’d like you to meet Eugene and Beatrice AuClaire. The AuClaires are clients of mine on Hinckley Lane.”

Mrs. AuClaire (Tate had already lost her first name. Beverly?) smiled at Tate with a certain look on her face. What was that look? “Lovely to meet you,” Mrs. AuClaire said. She and Tate shook hands. Tate’s grip was too firm; Mrs. AuClaire flinched and Tate thought, Oh, shit. She was gentler with Mr. AuClaire, but Mr. AuClaire wasn’t interested in Tate; he was interested in Barrett. He wanted to know where the fish were jumping. This left Tate to think of something to say to Mrs. AuClaire. Mrs. AuClaire smelled like Birdie; it was distracting. Mrs. AuClaire was examining her. Tate feared for her hair, she feared for her makeup; it felt like she had crumbs in her eyes. Mrs. AuClaire said, “You’re a friend of Barrett’s, then?” And Tate, all of a sudden, recognized the certain look. You’re not my mommy. Mrs. AuClaire must have known Barrett’s wife, Stephanie. For all Tate knew, Stephanie had been Mrs. AuClaire’s niece, or her daughter’s best friend.

“That’s right,” Tate said. “Barrett caretakes for my family as well.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. AuClaire said. This information seemed to take her by surprise. She had probably thought Barrett met Tate at a strip club on the Cape. “Where do you live?”

Tate took a breath. The glass of champagne she’d inhaled was taking its revenge; the gases were threatening to come out her nose. Her face was warm and she felt dizzy. She was unsteady in her shoes and Barrett had let go and she didn’t want to take his arm for fear of seeming clingy or seeming, to Mrs. AuClaire, like she was anything more than a client, just like them.

“We have a house on Tuckernuck,” Tate said.

Mrs. AuClaire’s eyes popped open-a facial expression her plastic surgeon had not anticipated. It looked like her face was going to break and fall to pieces in the grass. “Tuckernuck!” she said. “I love Tuckernuck! Oh, we adore it, but of course it’s private and you have to be invited. We used to take the kids to Whale Shoal on our boat when they were little because Whale Shoal is open to everyone, and they would collect those whelk shells. Oh, my darling girl, you don’t know how lucky you are. Eugene, this girl”-Mrs. AuClaire had clearly forgotten her name, too-“lives on Tuckernuck!”

The news was intriguing enough to tear Mr. AuClaire away from his discussion of striped bass off Sankaty Head. “You live there?” he said. “How does that work, exactly?”

“Well,” Tate said, “our house has a well and a generator. The generator runs the pump so we have running water-cold only, there’s no water heater-and we have electricity for a few small things. A half-size refrigerator, a few lamps. We cook on a grill and on a gas camp stove. And Barrett”-here, Tate did take his arm because her enthusiasm had set her teetering and she was afraid she would fall-“brings our groceries each day and bags of ice and my mother’s wine.” Mrs. AuClaire smiled. “He brings us the newspaper and takes away our trash and our laundry. We live very simply. We go to the beach, mostly. We read and play cards.” She paused. The AuClaires were looking at her eagerly. “And we talk. We tell each other things.”

“Marvelous,” Mrs. AuClaire whispered.

Barrett excused them from the AuClaires’ company in order to search out the Fullins. They found Mrs. Fullin standing on the edge of the lawn, surrounded by women friends. Mrs. Fullin had long, wavy black hair with a brightly colored scarf weaved through it. She was deeply, glamorously tanned, like a woman stepping off a yacht in the Mediterranean. She wore-Tate blinked-an orange halter dress with white polka dots. It was Chess’s rehearsal dinner dress, exactly. Mrs. Fullin was on fire in it. She had a curvy body and beautiful, slender legs; she wore very high orange patent leather sandals, which didn’t seem to be giving her one iota of trouble. When Mrs. Fullin saw Barrett, she let go a scream like teenage girls did for the Jonas Brothers.