Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

All plans in the city were now off; the rehearsal dinner had been thrown in the recycling bin along with everything else. Chess and Evelyn had gotten along famously; they were better friends, Birdie had to admit, than Chess and Birdie were. They met for lunch on the seventh floor of Bergdorf’s, they walked in Central Park after work, they cruised art galleries downtown in search of paintings for the apartment that Chess and Michael would inhabit after the wedding. But Chess hadn’t spoken to Evelyn in person about the breakup. Calling Evelyn Morgan was one more thing that Chess should have done but refused to do. And so, it fell to Birdie.

Birdie wasn’t sure how she envisioned the one and only phone call between her and the woman who would not become Chess’s mother-in-law; she thought maybe she and Evelyn would commiserate a little, express regrets that they would not be grandmothering the same future children. But what niggled at Birdie was the thought that she might be expected to apologize to Evelyn. Her daughter had hurt Evelyn’s son. How was this call any different from the call Birdie had had to make to Helen Avery when Tate pushed Gwennie Avery from the top of the slide and Gwennie Avery broke her arm?

Birdie tackled the call at the civilized hour of ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Birdie had a hair appointment at eleven, followed by a manicure, a pedicure, and a massage. She had a date with Hank at six that evening. Her day would be so, so pleasant once she got this phone call over with.

She dialed the number at the kitchen counter and then stared into her fruit bowl at the pineapple, the lemons, the Granny Smith apples.

Evelyn picked up on the first ring. “I was wondering if you’d have the guts to call,” she said.

“Hello?” Birdie said.

“I’ve been wondering if you, Birdie Cousins, mother of Mary Francesca Cousins, would have the guts to call me, Evelyn Morgan, mother of the heartbroken, yet admittedly overprotected, Michael Kevin Morgan.”

Was the woman drunk? Her voice was loud and theatrical, as though she were speaking not only to Birdie but to an audience of people that Birdie couldn’t see.

“I have the guts,” Birdie confirmed. “I’m calling.”

“You are a better woman than I,” Evelyn sang out. “In a similar position, I would have found a way to talk myself out of calling.”

Birdie sighed. “I’m sorry, Evelyn.”

“You have no reason to be sorry,” Evelyn said. “ You did nothing wrong.”

“Chess is sorry, too,” Birdie said.

“If she’s really sorry, she would call me herself and tell me so,” Evelyn said. “I’ve left the girl God knows how many messages. I even called her at work, and they told me she’s no longer accepting personal calls.”

“If it makes you feel any better, she won’t take my calls either,” Birdie said.

“I just don’t get it,” Evelyn said. “This came out of nowhere. I was there when Michael proposed. You’ve never seen a girl so happy. And that’s why I’d like to talk to her. I’d like to find out what happened.”

“I don’t think anything happened, ” Birdie said. “She just changed her mind.”

There was a pause on Evelyn’s end, and Birdie wondered if her last comment had been too glib: Chess broke Michael’s heart because she changed her mind? Was Chess that flighty? That insensitive?

When Evelyn spoke again, her voice took on a normal timbre. “Chess feels how she feels, there is no right or wrong. We can’t make her marry him. She has to want it. I applaud her for being brave enough to speak up.”

“You do?”

“I do,” Evelyn said.

“How is Michael?”

“He’s devastated. He’s not eating, not taking care of himself. He works all the time because when he’s working, he doesn’t have time to think, and as I’m sure you know, it’s thinking that hurts. He does have a trip planned. He’s going rock climbing with his brother in Moab over Memorial Day.”

“That’ll be good for him.”

“He’ll survive,” Evelyn said. “But he’s lost something. All of the Morgans have. Chess is a wonderful girl. I love her like my own. We’re the ones missing out.”

“You’re sweet to say so,” Birdie said. She was shocked to find that she liked Evelyn Morgan. Birdie might have enjoyed a life tethered to this other woman, as they lived their lives on either side of the reflecting pond that was New York City.

“It was good of you to call,” Evelyn said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Birdie said. She didn’t want the conversation to end. She might never speak to this woman again. “I just thought-”

“You thought correctly,” Evelyn said. “And please encourage Chess to call me when she’s ready. I’d like to talk to her.”

“I will,” Birdie said. “Good-bye.”

On the twentieth of May, which happened to be Birdie and Grant’s ex-anniversary, Chess called to say she had quit her job at Glamorous Home. From the background noise of traffic and sirens, Birdie could tell Chess was calling from the street. Birdie was dumbfounded.

“So you quit quit?” Birdie said. “You walked out?”

“I walked out,” Chess said. “We just put the July issue to bed and I thought, That’s that. ”

Birdie wondered what was going on here. Was the fact that her elder daughter had marched out on two major commitments in a row-seemingly without planning or forethought-a sign of encroaching mental illness?

“I can’t believe it,” Birdie said. “You’ve been there so long.”

“Eight years,” Chess said.

She had been at the magazine for eight years; she had been named food editor a month shy of her thirtieth birthday. Birdie had been so proud. Her daughter was a prodigy; she was the Yo-Yo Ma of food magazines. One day she would be the magazine’s creative director or editor in chief. But now a sideways move might not even be possible. If Birdie understood her, she had walked out without giving two weeks’ notice.

A prevalent worry of Birdie’s since the children were small was that her kids would suffer from their privilege rather than benefit from it. This worry surfaced now: Breaking her engagement and then quitting her job? What did Chess plan to do for money? Ask her father? (Internally, Birdie cringed. This was, of course, what she did when she needed money.)

Birdie longed to call Hank to ask his opinion. She had continued to see Hank every weekend, and often he spent the night. He was the warmest, kindest, most evolved man Birdie had ever met. He not only brought Birdie flowers but spent two hours on his knees in her garden helping her weed. He took her to see Jersey Boys and then they drank champagne and shared french fries from a paper cone at Bar Americain. Hank serenaded her all the way home, and then he carried her upstairs to bed like a bride. Another weekend they had wandered around Greenwich Village and he had encouraged Birdie to enter clothing boutiques meant for women twenty years younger and try on clothes. It had been something of an erotic fashion show, with Hank occasionally peeking at her over the top of the dressing room door. Birdie didn’t want to weigh down her relationship with Hank with her concerns about Chess. She didn’t want him to think Chess was a complete mess. Chess was her marquis, gold-standard daughter. She would leave her job at Glamorous Home only after securing a more fabulous job at Bon Appétit or Food and Wine. But she had called from the street. Was she a complete mess?

“What are you going to do?” Birdie asked Chess now. “Do you have anything lined up?”

“No,” Chess said. Her voice was so indifferent that Birdie wondered if this was really her daughter. Maybe this was some kind of prank? “I’m thinking of traveling.”