Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

“I’m in Seattle,” Tate said.

“Microsoft has computer problems?” Birdie said.

“I’m at a conference,” Tate said.

“What did Chess tell you?” Birdie said.

“The same things she told you, I’m sure,” Tate said. “She changed her mind. She doesn’t want to marry Michael.” Tate paused. “And she said you were completely cool about it. Not a freakazoid at all.”

Birdie fought a sense of disquiet. She didn’t love the idea of Chess and Tate discussing her, though of course Birdie and her sister, India, had parsed and deconstructed their own mother from the time they were conversant, at ages three and five.

“Did she say if anything had happened?” Birdie said.

“Happened?”

“Did anything precipitate her decision? Or it all just came out of thin air?”

“Out of thin air, I guess,” Tate said.

“Okay,” Birdie said. “Because Michael thinks there’s something else going on. Something Chess might not be willing to tell him. Or her mother. Like maybe she’s met someone else?”

“She didn’t mention anyone else,” Tate said. “But we’re talking about Chess. I’m sure she has men hounding her day and night. I’m sure she has men following her home from the subway like stray dogs, trying to sniff up her skirt.”

Birdie sighed. “Really, Tate, must you be crude?”

“I must,” Tate said. She paused. “So… what about Tuckernuck?”

“Oh,” Birdie said. She had forgotten about Tuckernuck. “What about it?”

“Chess said that you two are going, and I want to come, too,” Tate said. “I want to stay two weeks like we used to. Can we? Chess said she would.”

Birdie was caught off-guard. Amazing, at the age of fifty-seven, that she could still feel so many surprising emotions at once. Both girls on Tuckernuck for two weeks? It was an embarrassment of riches; it was a lavish gift, one Birdie never would have dared wish for. And yet the motivating factor behind this trip had been for Birdie and Chess to spend quality time alone together. Now that Chess wasn’t marrying Michael Morgan, Birdie supposed the need for one-on-one time with her daughter was less pressing. And the trip to Tuckernuck would be more fun with Tate along. Birdie decided to let herself be happy. She would have both of her girls on Tuckernuck for two whole weeks!

“Can you swing it?” Birdie said. “What about work?”

“I am my own boss,” Tate said. “Two weeks is nothing. I could take the whole month off if I wanted to.”

“You’re sure you want to come?” Birdie knew that both her girls loved Tuckernuck as much as she did. But they were adults now, with responsibilities. There was no Internet on Tuckernuck, no TV, and very poor cell phone reception.

“God, yes!” Tate said. “Of course I want to come. The house is still a total dump, right? I think about it all the time. The cobwebs? The bats? The stars at night, bonfires on the beach. And the Scout? I love that vehicle.”

“I spoke to Barrett Lee,” Birdie said. “Do you remember Chuck’s son, Barrett? He’s taken over the caretaking business.”

“Do I remember Barrett Lee? Yes, I remember him. He was the object of my private fantasies until Clooney and Pitt did Ocean’s Eleven. ”

Birdie said, “Was it you, then, who went on a date with him? The lunch date, in the boat?”

“No, he took me fishing. He took Chess on the picnic. Good old Mary Francesca scored a date with my fantasy man, then proceeded to drink a six-pack of beer, get seasick, and upchuck her ham sandwich off the stern.”

“Really?” Birdie said. She knew there had been a date, but she’d had no clue what transpired.

“Classic Chess, right? The woman gets whatever she wants and then ruins it. That’s her modus operandi, present situation included.”

“Well, Barrett is fixing up the house. He’s reshingling it and repairing the roof. Buying a new generator. Refinishing the floors in the attic, and painting all the trim, I guess. I’ll buy new linens and towels. Perhaps a few pots and pans so we don’t get Alzheimer’s from the corroded aluminum…”

“Don’t bring too much,” Tate said. “The whole point-”

“I know the point,” Birdie said. “I invented the point.” This wasn’t exactly true; her grandparents had invented the point and her parents had refined it. The point was to live simply. “So we’ll go, then, the three of us, for two weeks?”

“I can’t wait,” Tate said.

Thus followed a second conversation with Barrett Lee.

“Chess and I will be coming for two weeks instead of one,” Birdie said. “And my other daughter, Tate, will be joining us.”

“Swell,” Barrett said. “It’ll be nice to see everybody again.”

Birdie said, “The reason for the switch is that Chess’s engagement was canceled. The wedding is off.”

“Ouch,” Barrett said.

“It was Chess’s doing,” Birdie said. “She wasn’t ready.”

“She’s still really young,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Cousins? I sent you a bill. It’s for twenty-four thousand dollars.”

“You got the check I sent you? For ten?” The ten thousand had come out of Birdie’s personal savings account. She had not wanted to ask Grant for the money until she knew what the total would be.

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. This bill is for twenty-four beyond that. The house needed a lot of work, the generator alone was eight grand, and I hate to say this, but I think it’s going to be ten to twelve grand more, at least.”

Birdie calculated. Fifty thousand dollars fixing up the Tuckernuck house. Birdie tried not to panic. Tuckernuck was her ancestral summer home; it had been left to her by her parents and someday would go to her children. But Grant, most certainly, would never set foot on Tuckernuck again. So why would he shell out fifty grand for upkeep and improvements? Would the kids’ interest be enough for him? Birdie would have to grovel for it. It wasn’t fair: Thirty years Birdie had supported Grant, and hence, the divorce lawyer reminded her, she was entitled to half of what Grant had earned during that period. Grant had earned millions. Fifty thousand dollars was negligible. It was a sneeze.

Furthermore, in the past two weeks, Birdie had recouped 75 percent of Grant’s deposits from the wedding. She had pleaded and begged, negotiated-and, in one instance, cried-on behalf of Grant’s money. She would remind him of this.

“Fine, Barrett, no problem,” Birdie said. “The house needs a roof, it needs walls, it needs electricity. Thank you for all your hard work.”

“My pleasure,” Barrett said. “And hey, I’m sorry about Chess’s wedding falling through.”

“It’s for the best,” Birdie said, for what felt like the thousandth time.

The last conversation, one Birdie was dreading and had practically talked herself into believing was unnecessary, was with Evelyn Morgan, Michael’s mother. Birdie had never met Evelyn Morgan, half of the aggressively branded couple Cy and Evelyn Morgan, but Birdie knew through Chess that Evelyn was a hurricane. She was not only the managing partner of a behemoth Madison Avenue advertising agency, but she was also on the board of directors at Bergen Hospice, an elder at the Presbyterian church, and president of the Fairhills Country Club. She was a tireless power walker and she read six newspapers a day. She had two sons-Michael and his younger brother, Nick-and a daughter, Dora. Evelyn Morgan was perpetually moving at amphetamine-rocket speed-wheeling, dealing, exercising, overseeing, singing, and dancing.

Birdie had sensed this from Evelyn’s manic and overdetailed e-mails regarding the rehearsal dinner, which was to have been held at Zo, the hottest new restaurant in the Flatiron District. It was to be caipirinhas and Brazilian tapas for all out-of-town guests; Evelyn had hired a samba band with a transsexual lead singer. We could have had the dinner at our country club, Evelyn wrote. But really, how dull-sauced tenderloin, martinis, sprinklers dousing the eighth green in the sunset. Certainly the kids would rather be in the city!