Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

But it was not okay.

But it was as everyone expected it to be-Michael and I were getting married. That Michael had proposed in such a spectacularly out-of-character fashion baffled me. To put me on the spot in front of all those strangers? He said he wanted to surprise me. I always complained that he was predictable, that I could tell you the next words out of his mouth. He had thought of taking me to Per Se or Blue Hill alone and proposing with dessert, but that would have been what I expected, right?

Right.

Would my answer have been any different if we had been alone, if it had been just him and me and the truth floating somewhere around our heads? Would I have summoned the courage to tell the truth?

I didn’t see Nick for six months. Something had been brewing the night of the Strokes concert: Diplomatic Immunity had found a legitimate agent with the same company that represented the Strokes, Death Cab for Cutie, Kings of Leon, and the Fray. They were going to sign a record deal-the agent loved “Okay, Baby, Okay,” my song-but before they cut the album, they were going on tour for six months, opening in various B venues across the country for the Strokes and Kings of Leon.

Michael had been the one to accompany Nick to Port Authority. Nick had one duffel bag, Michael said, containing jeans, T-shirts, and his climbing gear. Michael had given Nick cash, five hundred dollars, and Nick said, “What are you, my father?” But he took it anyway.

Michael had said, “You’d better not fuck it up.”

Nick responded, “You’d better not fuck it up.”

I said, “What do you think Nick meant?”

Michael said, “Hell if I know.”

Michael stayed at the station until the bus pulled away; this image haunted me.

I said, “Was it sad?”

Michael said, “Sad?”

It was over. Nick was gone; I was getting married. I couldn’t seem to deal with the reality of getting married, however, so I asked Birdie to handle the details of the wedding. I was a little embarrassed about how honored she was to be asked to plan my wedding. I felt like all I had ever presented her with before were crumbs.

While Birdie planned the wedding, I worked hard and I played hard. I began to realize that my days of freedom were coming to an end. I spent more nights than ever in my own apartment; I couldn’t bear the thought of letting it go. I asked Michael if it was okay if we kept my apartment after we were married. He laughed at me. I rekindled my friendship with Rhonda, who was, conveniently, between boyfriends. We went out once a week, sometimes twice, sometimes on the weekends. We drank a lot; we barhopped and skipped dinner; we went to clubs and hailed taxis in the breaking dawn. Rhonda was impressed by my endurance and my fire. She said, “You party like a woman who just got divorced, not like one who’s about to get married.”

I received postcards in the mail. Sometimes they came to my apartment, sometimes to my office. They were from Vancouver, Minneapolis, Boulder. Most of the time the postcards were left blank except for my name and address, but one had a smiley face sticker on it (Santa Fe) and another a drawing of a stick person with a gold foil star where the heart should be (Daytona Beach). The final postcard (Athens, Georgia) said, Yes, I do, in what I knew to be Nick’s handwriting.

Yes, I do, too, I thought.

And then, in April, Nick came back to New York.

If Chess couldn’t stand Tate when Tate was happy, she really couldn’t stand Tate when Tate was upset. Tate upset was a running monologue that Chess couldn’t endure. Barrett hadn’t wanted Tate to come to Nantucket overnight. Even though he begged me to come practically every other day and I turned him down because that’s not why I’m here, and then the one time I’m waiting on the beach with my overnight bag, he says he has other plans. “What kind of plans?” I ask him. And he won’t tell me. They’re “secret” plans. He says, “Boy, you sure are full of questions today.”

Chess could only nod in response. This, to her, was not a real problem. Tate, to her knowledge, had never had a real problem.

Tate said, “I think he’s having an affair with Anita Fullin.”

Chess said, “What makes you say that?”

Tate said, “All kinds of things.”

Chess thought about the word “affair.” She thought about infidelity. Had the word applied to her? She had kissed Nick on three occasions, twice quite passionately, but they had not been having an affair. She hadn’t slept with Nick except in her mind. She hadn’t been “unfaithful” to Michael in the traditional sense. At least she had that.

Tate said, “Anita Fullin loves Barrett. She was all over him at the party. They danced together while I danced with Roman Fullin like some kind of hired escort. She kept calling Barrett ‘gorgeous.’ She’s jealous of us because he comes to Tuckernuck twice a day. She said she hates us.”

“Hates us?”

“She said it like she was kidding, but she wasn’t kidding.”

“Mmmm,” Chess said. She had met Anita Fullin and had to agree the woman was beautiful in an older, sleeker, more “done up” kind of way; the hair and clothes and makeup formed a shiny enamel shell. “So you feel threatened?”

“Threatened?” Tate said. “No. Yes.”

They were lying side by side on the shore of East Pond, just the two of them. East Pond wasn’t as picturesque as North Pond-the sand was grainier, there were some flies, and the water had a marshy smell and moved with suspicious ripples that Chess thought were snapping turtles-but it was closer to the house than North Pond and they had yet to hang out here, which they always did at least once a summer in the name of tradition. The sun was warm and Chess felt herself melting into the sand. That morning, she had woken up with a tug at her heart. Only twelve days left before they would go home. When they had first arrived, the thirty days had seemed like a life sentence. Each of those first days had been so raw and painful, they had dragged-each minute an hour, each hour a day. But now every moment was sacred and fleeting; the sand was slipping through the hourglass way too fast. Tuckernuck had worked its balm into Chess’s shoulders. She was able, if not to actually enjoy, then to relax. She hadn’t confided a word to anyone, and it hadn’t mattered. The house-with its bare sheltering walls, sloping floors, splintery beams, and familiar old furniture-was the haven Chess needed. The simplicity, which had frightened her at first, was now a way of life. Chess didn’t have to worry about her cell phone or e-mails or neighbors or taxis or Shakespeare in the Park or where to go and what to do on the weekend. There were no taxes, no dentist, no shops, no dry cleaning, no errands, no obligations. There was nothing but the landscape, the ocean, and the sky. Her sister, her mother, her aunt.

What would happen when she went back? The only thing on the mainland that she wanted was Nick, and he wouldn’t have her.

Tate said, “I’ll ask him this afternoon if he’s having an affair with Anita.”

“I wouldn’t,” Chess said.

“You wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I can’t believe he brought Anita here without asking,” Tate said. “That was a professional breach.”

“So what,” Chess said. “Should we fire him?”

“She probably bugged him until he couldn’t stand it anymore,” Tate said. “You know she calls him to change the paper towel roll?”

“She does not,” Chess said.

“Practically,” Tate said.