Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

They all watched Barrett wading to shore holding a bag of groceries (Tate could see the newspaper and a carton of eggs peeking out from the top) and a massive bouquet of flowers. The flowers were grandiose, bordering on tacky; they were wrapped in plastic and tied up with a wide red and gold ribbon. The flowers weren’t going to work this time, Tate decided. She wasn’t a pushover like her mother. She wanted an apology and a good explanation for all of this. Although really, bringing Anita Fullin to Tuckernuck was unforgivable.

Birdie said, “Those are beautiful flowers.”

Barrett said, “They’re for you.”

“For me?” Birdie said.

For Birdie? Tate thought. She was glad she was wearing her sunglasses, so that no one would see her eyeballs turning to little molten balls of hellfire. Tate watched as Birdie carefully opened the cellophane and plucked out the card. She needed glasses to read and so she borrowed India’s glasses. Tate realized the flowers must be from the boyfriend, Hank, and she felt a second of pure, generous happiness for her mother before returning to self-pity. Nothing was fair.

Birdie said, “My law, they’re from Grant.”

“Dad?” Tate said.

“Grant?” India said.

“They’re from Grant,” Birdie said. She passed back India’s reading glasses, and her cheeks took on a flush. “Well, he shouldn’t have, but they’re beautiful.”

Barrett said, “I’ll carry them up for you and put them in water. Is it okay if I take Anita on a tour of the house?”

“Certainly,” Birdie said. “I’ll come along. Tate, will you come?”

“Chess is asleep up there, you know,” Tate said.

“I don’t want to disturb anyone,” Anita said.

“Don’t be silly,” Birdie said. “If Chess wakes up, she wakes up. She should wake up. She’s been sleeping far too much.”

“Well, that’s kind of the point,” Tate said. “I mean, she came here to rest.” The world had now completely flipped upside down: her father had sent her mother flowers and Tate was defending Chess. Since there was nothing left to lose, Tate followed her mother and Barrett and Anita Fullin up the stairs and across the bluff to the house.

Chess was awake. She sat bleary eyed at the picnic table with a glass of iced tea. Tate tried to see her as Anita Fullin would see her. Chess seemed smaller than she ever had before. She wasn’t wearing her blue crocheted cap and so her head, covered with blond stubble, was exposed. Despite all the time on the beach, she didn’t have any color. Her face was pinched and her lips were chapped. She was wearing her dirty Diplomatic Immunity T-shirt and army-surplus shorts. Tate shook her head. She found herself longing to brag about her sister-food editor at Glamorous Home, the youngest editor for any Diamond Group publication-but the picture Chess was presenting now was not impressive, and in fact, Anita Fullin didn’t even seem to notice Chess and might have walked right by her if Barrett hadn’t stopped and said, “And this is the other lady of the house, Chess Cousins.”

“Nice to meet you, Jess,” Anita said.

Chess didn’t bother correcting her, which either showed how little Anita Fullin mattered to Chess or how shocked she was to find this interloper here with Barrett.

She looked at Tate in alarm and confusion, and for the first time since they had climbed into their mother’s Mercedes nineteen days earlier, Tate felt a connection with her sister. She raised her eyebrows at Chess and thought, Oh, yeah, we’re going to talk about this.

Barrett said, “So this is the Tate house, built in 1935 by Birdie and India’s grandparents, Arthur and Emilie Tate.”

“Nineteen thirty-five?” Anita said. “My word! How did people get here in 1935?”

“By boat,” Barrett said, and Tate, despite herself, smiled. “Back in the day, Tuckernuck had a schoolhouse. The people who lived here year-round were fishermen, or farmers.”

“But not in our day,” Birdie said. “In our day, it was just like this: privately owned by summer residents.”

“You’re quite the historian, Barrett,” Tate said.

He looked at her for one quick second to see if she was being funny or mean, but she wasn’t sure herself.

“This is the kitchen,” he said. “There’s a generator that provides running water, cold only, and the ladies have a half fridge that doesn’t get very cold, I’m afraid. And a cooler of ice that I keep replenished. They cook on that camp stove there, or they grill.”

“A camp stove!” Anita Fullin said. She was wearing a white T-shirt and bright orange Lilly Pulitzer pedal pushers and white thong sandals. Her toenails were painted tangerine. Orange was now a color that Tate officially detested.

“This is the living room,” Barrett said.

“It’s so charming,” Anita said. “It’s so bare bones. ”

Barrett checked with Birdie. “Okay if I take Anita upstairs?”

“Oh, yes!” Birdie said, but she didn’t look up. She was too busy arranging her flowers. There were too many flowers to fit in one vase, or even two, so she was divvying them up among old mason jars. The whole first floor smelled like a hothouse.

Barrett and Anita marched up the stairs, and Tate followed. “Two bedrooms,” Barrett said. He swung the door open to Birdie’s bedroom: twin beds, tightly made up with the prim yellow sheets, and chenille bedspreads, suitable for a convent. “And one bathroom.”

“Does the toilet flush?” Anita asked. “Does the bathtub work?”

“Yes,” Tate and Barrett answered at the same time.

“Cold water only in the tub,” Barrett said.

Anita looked at Tate. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. I have this fantasy about building a house over here, but the truth is, I probably couldn’t handle it.”

Tate thought, You’re probably right.

Barrett swung open the door to India’s bedroom. The squishy mattress was sliding off the box spring like icing off a cake. The bedclothes were disheveled and the room smelled like black lung. If Barrett and Anita didn’t feel shameful at peering at India’s private chamber, Tate did. Birdie’s room was neat and tidy as a Holiday Inn, but viewing India’s lair was voyeuristic. Unfortunately, Anita’s gaze caught on Roger, who was manning his post by the bureau lamp.

“Look at that sculpture!” Anita said. “It is the most fabulous thing I have ever, ever seen. Who did it?”

Barrett was quiet. Tate hoped he was abashed at having brought Anita Fullin into their house and allowing her to observe them like they were a circus sideshow.

“My uncle,” Tate said. And then, because pride got the best of her, she said, “Bill Bishop.”

Anita Fullin gasped. “Bill Bishop is your uncle? ”

“He was,” Tate said. “He died.”

“Of course,” Anita said. “I know the story. I thought that looked like a Bishop, but then I thought, no way. It’s too small… but there’s something so distinctive about it.” She smiled at Tate. “I have to say, I’m a bit of a fan. There was a Bishop outside our first apartment building in New York. Of the woman walking the dog. But so abstract. So signature. I felt like it was my sculpture, it spoke to me, and then we moved to the West Side, and I hardly ever saw it again, but when I did, I used to call out to her. Like she was a friend of mine.”

Tate nodded. People felt that way about Uncle Bill’s work. It was big and industrial and civic, but it was personal.

Before Tate knew what was happening, Anita Fullin pulled out her iPhone and took a picture of Roger.

Tate said, “Oh…”

Barrett said, “Anita…”

Anita said, “I hope that’s okay. It’s just for me, so I can remember this little guy. What’s his name?”