Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

But, also, I couldn’t help who I was. I wasn’t a rebel. I didn’t rock the boat.

I said nothing.

It killed Chess to watch Tate and Barrett. And yet they were on Tuckernuck; there was nothing to do but watch.

Barrett brought Tate flowers. He took her for rides in the boat. They went to the remote beaches of Tuckernuck, and they went to Muskeget. They made love either on the boat itself or on the beach. Chess didn’t ask about this and Tate didn’t tell, but Chess noticed the way that Tate glowed.

Barrett and Tate surf cast on the beach. There was a joke between them-an old joke about the time their father had paid Barrett to take Tate fishing ( He had to pay you to spend time with me alone! ) and she’d cast her line out all by herself ( She was a natural! ) and she caught the biggest fish he’d ever seen without a lick of help from him ( A forty-two-inch striper! ) Chess didn’t want to be party to the inside jokes of their past or their present. She buried her face in her arms and wished that their beach was just a little bit bigger.

Tate called over to Chess, “Come on! Do you want to try?”

“No,” Chess said.

After two or three dozen casts, Tate got a bite, and she reeled the line in. She had a bluefish; its steely scales glistened in the sun. The fish flopped and struggled, fighting to be free, and Tate said, “Look!”

When Chess looked at the fish, she saw herself.

Barrett took over, cutting the line, pulling the hook, carefully, from the fish’s mouth with pliers. The fish flailed desperately on the sand; Chess couldn’t stand to watch. She thought, Oh, God, please throw it back.

Barrett and Tate started kissing. She was thrilled at her accomplishment and he was proud of her, but really, it was just an excuse for them to be all over each other.

Birdie walked over to inspect the fish. “Do you want me to cook it tonight for dinner?”

Tate said, “No, I don’t think so.”

Barrett threw the fish back into the ocean. Chess closed her eyes.

Tate went to Nantucket to spend another night with Barrett. Barrett was taking Tate to the Company of the Cauldron for dinner; he had booked the private table in the back garden. Chess bristled at this kind of information. She was, childishly, writing down the phrases that bothered her in her journal. Private table in the back garden. Chess reminded herself that she had been romanced in this same way. Michael used to send Chess flowers at work. The delivery man would walk into the magazine’s offices with an armload of sunflowers or long-stemmed roses and everyone would say, “They’re for Chess.” Michael used to take her out for romantic dinners all the time, for the heck of it. Babbo because she’d put an issue to bed; Café des Artistes because it was a Wednesday and raining.

Tate didn’t get home until late the following afternoon. Again, Chess missed her keenly and found herself waiting around for Tate to return-but then, when Tate did return, Chess was sullen and resentful.

Tate said, “Tomorrow, the kids are coming.”

Birdie and India were over the moon about this prospect. Kids! Birdie asked Barrett to bring the fixings for a clambake. They would eat lobsters on the beach and have a bonfire-with marshmallows to roast for Cameron and Tucker. Birdie and India wanted to relive the days when they were young mothers. Tate wanted to be with Barrett. Chess wanted only to survive.

Barrett dug a hole in the sand, and Tate collected driftwood for the fire. Barrett brought sticks for the marshmallow roast, and fishing poles so that he and Tate and Cameron could surf cast. Birdie went crazy chilling wine, mixing up potato salad, melting butter over the camp stove. There was a sense of anticipation. It would be a party. Chess wanted to hole up in the attic and cry.

Tate left with Barrett to go get the kids. Chess got roped into helping India haul the coolers and the bags of food down to the beach. Chess laid down the blankets and stuffed wadded-up newspaper under the driftwood. This clambake-bonfire was taking an enormous amount of effort, Chess thought, from matches to trash bags to little dishes for the melted butter and silver claw crackers for the lobsters.

India said, “Bill used to love the nights we had bonfires.”

Yes, Chess remembered. Uncle Bill had been the fire man, the marshmallow man. All the kids would roast their marshmallows and then present them to Uncle Bill for inspection. The Bishop boys always stuck theirs right into the flame, where they would catch fire like a torch and then turn gray and ashy. Chess was careful with her marshmallows; she kept her stick inches from the low burn. She took her time achieving a golden brown skin that caramelized over the gooey white middle. Now that’s a perfectly roasted marshmallow, Uncle Bill would say. Chess remembered him smiling at her. You know how to wait. You, my dear, are a master craftsperson.

Chess had been embarrassed and delighted by this praise. When Uncle Bill said those things, they seemed important and true.

The boat pulled in, and Chess saw them: two strawberry blond, freckled little boys who were so cute it was like they had been ordered from a catalog. Chess didn’t know anything about kids beyond having been one herself. She hadn’t babysat growing up; she had never been a camp counselor or a youth-group leader. When Michael talked about getting married and “having kids,” Chess nodded blithely along, although the phrase “having kids” meant nothing to her. When she saw Tate, however, she felt bizarrely jealous, like Tate had gone away for an hour and returned with an instant family. The boys were nearly identical, one a smaller version of the other. They were wearing orange life preservers, the same kind that Chess and Tate used to wear. Chess stood up. For the first time all day, she felt interested in what was going on.

Barrett carried the older boy, and Tate carried the younger. Tate was a natural, which was surprising, because as far as Chess knew, Tate didn’t have any more experience with kids than she did. But the little boy clung to her neck, and she looked at ease.

“Hi!” Chess said. Her voice, to her surprise, sounded almost friendly.

They all waded in, and Barrett and Tate set the boys down onshore.

“This is Cameron,” Barrett said. “And this is Tucker.”

They were struggling to get the life preservers off, and Chess remembered the feel of the cumbersome, restrictive weight around her neck. She helped Cameron unbuckle his.

“Welcome to Tuckernuck,” she said.

He said, “What happened to your hair?”

Chess touched her head. She was wearing the blue crocheted cap even though her hair had started growing in. But to the kids, she would still look bald.

“Cameron,” Barrett said sternly.

“I cut it,” Chess said.

“Oh,” he said. “How come?”

“Cameron, stop,” Barrett said. “This is Tate’s sister, Chess.”

“Because I felt like it,” Chess said.

This answer worked-of course it worked, it was a five-year-old’s answer for a five-year-old. Cameron nodded and stuck out his hand. Chess shook it.

Barrett said, “And this is Miss Birdie and Miss India.”

Birdie and India bowed to Cameron like he was a little prince. Chess smiled. He embodied the royalty of youth, which had been missing from the Tuckernuck compound for nearly two decades. Cameron stared at the two older ladies and decided that they weren’t harboring anything that interested him (they didn’t have candy or money), so he wandered off down the beach. Tucker, meanwhile, darted into the water.

“Whoa, little dude!” Tate called out. “You’ve got to put your suit on!” She looked at Barrett. “Where’s his suit?”