Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

We drove to the club in a rental car from the city. Cy and Evelyn, Nick, and Dora were to meet us there.

I was, despite the genteel surroundings, a complete basket case. But deep in my heart, I was convinced Nick wouldn’t show. He had just toured the country for six months, playing in dive bars and underground clubs and seedy auditoriums; he wasn’t going to sit down for a martini and prime rib with his parents. He would cancel, and my expectations would be roadkill once again.

I occupied my mind with work. I was throwing around an idea for an article on country club lunches: variations on club sandwiches and Cobb salads and chilled soups that you could serve in your own backyard. I watched my feet walk down the flagstone path to the entrance; my arm was linked through Michael’s. We walked inside. The club smelled the same as country clubs across the country: french fries, pipe smoke, worn leather, polished brass.

“There they are,” Michael said.

I looked over. In the foyer were Cy and Evelyn, Dora, and Nick.

Michael reached his brother first, tested a handshake, which became a bear hug. Michael said, “Man, you look great.”

I kissed Cy automatically; then Evelyn, noting her perfume, which I loved; then Dora, who was home on spring break from Duke. I was moving toward Nick. I had to greet him, but I was afraid.

I said, “Hey, you.”

He said, “Hey, yourself.” And he kissed me like a proper brother-in-law. Side of the mouth. But he had my arm, too, which he squeezed so hard he might have left a bruise.

Evelyn said, “I can’t believe we have the whole family together. I think I’m going to cry.”

Cy said, “I think I’m going to order a cocktail.”

Nick said, “I think I’m going to join you.” His voice had a jovial expansiveness I had never heard before. “Lead the way.”

He sounded like Michael, I thought. The anger was gone, the bad-boy vibe held in check. And he looked like Michael. He had cut his hair and he was wearing pressed khakis and a navy blazer. And loafers. He looked polished and proper. What was this? I wondered. I lagged behind naturally; the Morgan family were all gifted with long strides and an aggressive get-there-first gait, especially when there were cocktails involved. Nick turned around and winked at me.

I said, “Nice jacket.”

“I wore it for you,” he said.

He sat next to me at dinner, which meant I sat between him and Michael. I thought, I can do this. And then I ordered a cosmopolitan instead of chardonnay. Cy gave a brief toast, welcoming Nick back; we all drank. There was a bread basket on the table with packets of crackers in plastic. Dora picked one packet out-two sesame bread-sticks-and said, “This is so retro, but I love it.”

Nick talked about his tour-Charleston and Houston were his two favorite cities, and he was never going back to Ohio again if he could help it (sorry, Ohio). I listened with rapt attention. He was here next to me, this was him talking, I could touch him, I did touch him, I handed him the shallow dish that held butter curls in an ice bath, and our fingers brushed. I thought, What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Nick had come to the country club, he had gotten a haircut and put on a blazer and loafers to show me something. To show me he could do it.

Michael said, “Well, our wedding plans are coming along.”

Evelyn said, “Oh, yes, they are! Tell Nick about the floating island, Chess!”

I said, “He doesn’t want to hear about the floating island.”

“Tell me about the floating island,” Nick said.

I excused myself for the ladies’ room.

The ladies’ room had an antechamber, a sitting room with satin-cushioned seats in front of a long mirror. Under the mirror was a ledge that held glass ashtrays. I sat down and imagined the married women of suburban New Jersey sitting here to smoke and reapply their lipstick and gossip. No doubt they had had terrible problems themselves and excruciating decisions to make. They were unhappily married and having an affair, their husband was in danger of losing his job or had a drinking problem or gambled. They were carrying an unwanted pregnancy or couldn’t seem to get pregnant.

I looked at myself in the mirror for a while, I don’t know how long. Too long.

I thought, I don’t want to get married.

There was a knock at the door. Michael, I thought, who had come looking for me. Evelyn would have just walked right in. I said, “Here I come!” And I opened the door.

Nick.

I looked around. A Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform was pushing a cordless sweeper over the dark red carpet.

I said, “I don’t want to get married.”

He said, “Then you’d better do something about it.”

I wanted to grab him and kiss him, pull him into the empty ballroom and touch him, but I couldn’t exactly do that in the middle of the Fairhills Country Club. We walked back to the table side by side, talking softly, like any regular soon-to-be in-laws.

I said, “You sent me those postcards.”

He said, “I did.”

I said, “You missed me?”

He said, “I did.”

I said, “How much?”

He stopped in his tracks. A grandfather clock sounded the hour. He said, “I pined.”

This made me smile.

He said, “You have a big job ahead of you.”

I said, “You’ll help me?”

“No. This is for you to do or undo. For your own reasons. This can’t have anything to do with me.”

I didn’t respond.

“Do you understand?”

I did understand, but I felt abandoned anyway.

He laughed, not kindly. “You’ll never do it.”

I sat back down at the table, incensed. I had been dared. I was determined to win. The next time I ate dinner with these people, I decided, I would be with Nick.

But once I was ensconced in the car with Michael, I feared Nick was right. I was happy with Michael, happy enough. We belonged together, a wedding was in the works, tens of thousands of dollars had been spent on my behalf. I wasn’t the kind of person to topple the apple cart. I wasn’t the kind of person to change the course of history, however narrowly.

Michael went to California. Despite the demanding nature of his work, he almost never traveled for business. Having him gone was an unexpected luxury. The whole city seemed different. I was free! I called Rhonda and we made a plan: start with drinks at Bar Seine, move on to Aureole, the Spotted Pig, Bungalow 8.

I was happy that night. I called and talked to Michael on my way from Aureole to the Spotted Pig. I was very drunk; talking to him didn’t seem real. He was in another time zone. He sounded serious and grumpy; he had not one but two candidates in the final three for a huge CEO position with a monster tech firm. I wished him luck. I hung up.

I was very drunk. I sent a text to Nick that said: Meet me at Bungalow 8. There was no way he would ever do it. He had never met me anywhere. But then again, I had never asked him. I wondered if he knew Michael was out of town. I checked the Diplomatic Immunity website religiously; I knew Nick was free.

No sooner had Rhonda unlocked our way into Bungalow 8 than I saw Nick. He had a drink; he was standing at the bar talking to a couple of young guys who seemed eager, like fans.