Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

A fly crept up Chess’s thigh; she swatted, then tented her knees. An airplane flew low overhead, the eight-seater Cessna, owned by a Tuckernuck resident, coming in for a landing. What would happen when she went back? Television, fast food, air-conditioning. She shuddered.

“Where do you think he went last night?” Tate asked. “Honestly. Do you think he went out with Anita?”

“Tate!” Chess said. Her voice was loud and aggressive. “Stop it! You have to stop!”

She thought Tate might be apologetic, or even angry, but Tate responded in a flat, calm voice. “I can’t stop,” Tate said. “This is what I do. I obsess.”

Maybe she could stay another month. Maybe she could stay until Labor Day. Of course, she would be staying alone. Would that be okay? She would have to keep Barrett on; she had money in the bank, she could pay him.

“What are you going to do about Barrett when you leave?” Chess asked.

Tate groaned. “One thing at a time, Sister, please.”

“Okay, sorry,” Chess said.

Tate said, “What am I going to do about Barrett when I leave? ”

The flowers Grant had sent were extravagant. There were, in the mix, two dozen long-stemmed roses, a handful of Asiatic lilies, four Dutch blue hydrangeas, a dozen irises, ten fuchsia gerbera daisies, six calla lilies, and sixteen tall snapdragons in four colors. By Birdie’s estimation, the bouquet had cost him two hundred dollars, a mere sniffle for Grant, and because of the breadth of variety, Birdie suspected that Grant had called the flower shop on Nantucket and asked for “a little bit of everything.” This was business as usual. What was different this time was the message on the card. Grant had sent Birdie flowers dozens of times over the course of their marriage, and the card, written in the florist’s assistant’s hand, had always said something perfunctory and unimaginative: Happy 48th birthday! Or, With love on our anniversary. This time there was no occasion for the flowers. This time, the card had said, I’m thinking about you. Love, Grant.

I’m thinking about you. It was oddly intimate, more intimate, Birdie decided, than the abbreviated Thinking of you. It made Birdie believe that Grant was in fact thinking about her. But what was he thinking? Was he thinking romantic thoughts? (And what, for Grant, would be romantic? Birdie across the table from him at La Grenouille? Birdie coming off the eleventh green in her short golf skirt and visor, lightly perspiring, to join Grant for a Mount Gay and tonic?) Was Grant thinking sexual thoughts? (It was almost too mortifying to imagine, though at one time their sex life had been steady, if not particularly fulfilling.) Were the flowers a condolence, because of what had happened with Hank? Did Grant feel sorry for her? Or… was Grant lonely? Yes, Birdie deduced, that was it: Grant was lonely. It had been bound to happen. Work wasn’t providing the same kind of visceral, macho thrill, and likewise, golf wasn’t as good as it had been in the past. He was getting older and slower, his handicap was climbing. The waitresses at Gallagher’s, who at one time had been like his concubines, were either older, lined, and cranky or else too young to realize that scotch was whiskey.

Birdie had come up from the beach early, leaving India asleep in her chair. The girls had headed out to East Pond, and she missed them. She missed, too, the sense of purpose her afternoons had taken on when she’d been phoning Hank. It had been nice to have her own personal mission. She grabbed her cell phone from her bedroom. She decided she would call Grant to thank him for the flowers. He might be wondering if they’d even arrived.

The walk to Bigelow Point was invigorating, and she noted that she felt less morose and heart-sore than she had when she’d last spoken to Hank. Hank was a jerk! This was her battle cry, although she knew it wasn’t true. Now that a few days had passed, she was able to look at things more generously. Hank had loved his wife, though he hadn’t always been true to her; now that she was dead, guilt haunted him. Birdie could understand that. Losing a spouse under any circumstances was painful and all-consuming, and Hank, perhaps, didn’t have the energy to deal with his grief and with his burgeoning feelings for Birdie. They had been a couple for only three months. Birdie would recover. She would meet someone else.

She didn’t like to think of Grant lonely. She was protective of him. She marveled at how a spouse became so many things-a parent, a child, a lover, a friend. Grant hadn’t been much of a friend to Birdie over the years; he had been too busy with work. Plus, he bonded more easily with men; even he would admit this. Birdie held out hope, however, that she and Grant could be friends in the future. He had been a friend to her since she’d been here on Tuckernuck, that was for sure, fielding her dejected phone calls after she’d called Hank.

When she reached Bigelow Point, she had to decide where to call Grant. At the office? On his cell phone? At the loft? She had no idea what day it was. Her phone said July 19, but was it a weekend? She couldn’t remember. Tuckernuck gave no calendrical landmarks. She called Grant’s cell phone.

“Hello?” he said. He’d picked up on the first ring. After all the nonsense with Hank, this was gratifying.

“Grant? It’s Birdie.”

“Hi, Bird,” he said. “Did you get the flowers?”

“I did,” Birdie said. “And I’m calling to thank you for them. They are beautiful. So lavish! Really, Grant, you shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to,” he said. “I’m glad you like them.”

“The rickety old house smells like a parfumerie, ” she said.

“How are things going?” Grant asked.

“Oh, you know,” Birdie said. “Chess is the same. She’s very quiet. She writes in her journal. She stares into space. And Tate has a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Barrett Lee. She’s dating Barrett Lee.”

“Really?” Grant said. “How about that!” He sounded surprised but pleased. Birdie hadn’t expected him to sound pleased. “I always liked Barrett.”

“That’s right,” Birdie said. “You did. Of course, it’s just a summer thing. I don’t see that it has a future…”

“They’re adults,” Grant said. “They’ll work it out.”

“I suppose,” Birdie said. “But you know how Tate is. She’s so… enthusiastic. She’s madly in love with Barrett and she’s become attached to his children…”

“He has children?”

“Two boys, three and five. The wife died two years ago.”

“Jesus,” Grant said.

“Meanwhile, he and Tate have been dating less than two weeks, and we have less than two weeks left…”

“Birdie,” Grant said, “don’t get involved.”

“Oh, I know, but-”

“Birdie.”

“I know,” she said.

“Tell me about you,” Grant said.

“Me? What about me?”

“How are you doing? Have you talked to that bozo Hank?”

“No,” Birdie said. “Hank is out of the picture.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, good,” Grant said.

“How about you?” Birdie asked. “Are you dating anyone?”

“Hell, no,” Grant said. “Women are nothing but trouble.”

“Right,” Birdie said.

“Except for you,” Grant said. “I don’t mean you.”

Birdie felt the sun on her face. What was happening here? She said, “So the card, with the flowers… you composed that yourself?”

“Composed?” he said.

“I mean, those were your words on the card. The girl at the shop didn’t help you write it?”