Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

“Bill!” she shouted. Where was Bill? “Billy!”

Birdie had appeared out of nowhere. She had dashed into the water and scooped Billy up; he was sputtering water at first, then wailing. Birdie pounded Billy on the back, expelling the seawater, and then she was shushing him against her chest. India had hated Birdie in that moment, had hated that Birdie was the one to pull Billy out of the ocean, to save his life. And India had loved her, too. She had loved her with a depth and passion that she couldn’t explain. When no one else was there, Birdie was there.

The screaming continued. India went downstairs.

Birdie was pouring herself a glass of Sancerre when the screaming started. At first, she didn’t know what on earth… so she walked out to the edge of the bluff. It sounded like Chess and Tate. Could it be? She saw them at the bottom of the steps. She heard Tate say, I hate you!

Birdie turned and walked back to the house. With each step, her heart shrank. It was awful to hear her daughters speak to each other like that. It felt as bad as it must feel for a child to hear his parents fighting. At least she and Grant had never fought in front of the children. There wasn’t a lot they could be proud of, but they could be proud of that.

India was standing at the picnic table as Birdie approached. She reached out for Birdie. Wordlessly, they embraced. Birdie smelled India’s musky scent; she felt the bristles of India’s short hair and the soft skin of her cheek.

They separated. India handed Birdie her glass of wine and then offered her a cigarette.

“Thank you,” Birdie whispered.

“You’re welcome,” India whispered back.

N ick and I had agreed: Clean break with Michael first. Clean, meaning I was not to mention Nick. This left me with no reason to break the engagement other than the stark and unapologetic I’m not in love with you anymore.

My conversation with Michael, which was a series of conversations, went something like this:

Me (crying): “I can’t marry you.”

“What?”

“I can’t marry you.” (I had to say everything six or seven times for it to sink in.)

“Why not? What happened?”

“What happened” was the big question-put to me by Michael, my mother, my father, my sister, by Evelyn, by my friends, by my assistant. When Michael called Nick to tell him the engagement was off, I wonder if Nick said, “What happened?” I was pretty sure he didn’t say that, but I didn’t know for sure. We had agreed not to speak again until the smoke had cleared.

“Nothing ‘happened,’ ” I said. “I just don’t feel the same way anymore.”

“Why not?” Michael said. “I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, no,” I said. I didn’t want to make this his fault. The only thing he had done “wrong” was to propose in the public way that he did. It forced me to say yes. But I could have undone the proposal immediately after accepting; the knot had been loose at that point. No plans had been made, no bridesmaids asked, no deposits plunked down. I could have asked for time, then more time, and slipped out.

“I should never have said yes.”

“Because you didn’t love me even then?” Michael asked. “You never loved me?”

“I loved you. I love you now.”

“Then marry me.”

What I didn’t say was this: I don’t love you enough and I don’t love you the right way. If I marry you, bad things will happen. Maybe not right away, but down the road. We will be at a family gathering and I will stare longingly at Nick. I will bump into him behind the shed in your parents’ backyard, where one of our kids has thrown his Frisbee, and he will kiss me. And then, as we drive back into the city, I will be moody, and when we get home, I will pack my bags. Or I will have a full-blown affair with someone who reminds me of Nick but who doesn’t have your best interest at heart the way that Nick does. This man will steal me away; he will steal your house and your children. You will be left with much less than you have now.

What I did say was: “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“All right, then I won’t.”

He didn’t understand. Nobody understood. Michael and I were so perfect together. We liked the same things; we seemed so happy. People fell into two categories: Those who understood the intangible quality of love and thought I was smart to get out while I could. And those who didn’t understand the intangible quality of love. These people looked at Michael and me and saw a match-perfect on paper!-and thought I was making a whopping, self-destructive mistake.

I explained myself until there was nothing left inside me except for the nugget of truth that I would not reveal: I loved Nick.

Michael suspected someone else. He asked me over and over again in every conversation: “Is there someone else?”

“No,” I said.

And this was true. Nick wasn’t mine in any real sense. He had no claims on me, nor I on him. But I knew he was waiting.

We talked after about ten days. I gave him the rundown, and he gave me the rundown. Because Michael wasn’t only talking to me; he was talking to Nick.

Nick said, “Man, this is tough. This is weighing on my soul.”

I said, “What should we do?”

He said, “I’m leaving for Toronto to make this album on June tenth. I want you to come with me.”

“Come with you?”

“Come to Toronto with me. Live with me. Let’s find out if this thing is real.”

It meant leaving my job. It meant leaving New York. The job was easy enough. I had been food editor for three years; what had been the most exciting challenge of my life was now a spin on the lazy Susan. January/February: comfort foods. March/April: lighten up. May: foreign issue. June: garden fresh. July: BBQ. August: picnic. September: football tailgates. October: harvest flavors. November: Thanksgiving. December: Christmas/Hanukkah. I was ready to hop off.

We put the July issue to bed early, finishing at two o’clock. It was a lovely spring day and I gave my assistant, Erica, the rest of the day off. Then I walked into the office of my managing editor, David Nunzio, and told him I was leaving the magazine. From there, I walked to the office of the editor in chief, Clark Boyd, with David Nunzio trailing behind me saying he hoped I wasn’t serious, I couldn’t just leave, boom, like that, and what could they do to get me to stay? Did I want more money? I told Clark Boyd that I was leaving.

“Leaving?” he said.

“I’m done,” I said. “I quit.”

Both Clark Boyd and David Nunzio studied me for a moment, as if realizing at the same time that I might not be in my right mind. Indeed, some essential part of me was missing; I loved this job, I was good at it, and yet here I was, walking away.

Clark said, “I know you’ve been through a rough time…”

I laughed, but the laugh sounded like a hiccup. I wasn’t even getting the laugh right. But I found it funny that Clark Boyd would have any inkling about my broken engagement, although of course the offices of Glamorous Home, just like any other workplace, was a nest of gossip and rumors. I had tried to keep it under wraps; I hadn’t taken a single personal call.

“This has nothing to do with…,” I said. Then I stopped. I didn’t owe them an explanation.

“If you need time…,” Clark said.