Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

“Did she…?”

“She slept on the couch,” Birdie said. Chess couldn’t tell what Birdie thought about this.

“Did she say anything?”

Birdie held out a plate with two eggs over easy and a piece of wheat toast, lavishly buttered. Chess accepted it.

“She’s still pretty angry,” Birdie said.

“I didn’t do anything, Birdie,” Chess said. She wanted her mother to understand this. “I’m not out to steal Barrett away from her.”

“Oh, heavens, I know,” Birdie said. “And she knows that, too. I think she’s dealing with older issues.”

Birdie wasn’t helping set Chess’s mind at ease. Birdie and Tate had always been closer than Birdie and Chess. Tate courted Birdie in a way that Chess found unnecessary. But right now, she realized, it would be nice to have her mother on her side.

“I guess,” Chess said.

“Your sister has been jealous of you your whole life,” Birdie said. “Just the way I’ve been jealous of India.”

“Jealous of me?” India said, descending the stairs. “What the hell are you talking about?”

A few minutes later, a young man appeared in the doorway.

“Is this the Tate house?” he asked. He was about nineteen or twenty and he looked enough like a young Barrett Lee that Chess blinked in surprise. The blond hair flopping in his eyes, the lean build, the visor, the sunglasses, the flip-flops.

“Yes!” Birdie said.

“I’m Trey Wilson,” the boy said. “I work for Barrett Lee.”

India said, “You could be his stunt double.”

Birdie said, “Where’s Barrett?”

“He’s at another job,” Trey said. “So he sent me. I’ll be doing deliveries from now on. He said I’m supposed to get your trash and your laundry and the… list?”

Birdie said, “I’m confused.”

At that second, Tate walked in. She looked at Trey and did a double take; then she stormed up the stairs. Trey gathered a dripping bag of ice and a bag of groceries from the picnic table.

Chess took the ice. “Barrett has another job, so he sent Trey. Trey is going to be coming from now on.”

“But what about Barrett?” Birdie said.

“He’s gone! ” a voice from upstairs shouted.

India missed Barrett more than she expected she would. The new kid was cute-he looked enough like Barrett to be his long-lost little brother-but he didn’t connect with people the way Barrett did. Trey Wilson was a kid who could drive a boat. He didn’t care about Tuckernuck and he didn’t care about them. There was no history and no intrigue. It was too bad, India thought, that they had to end the vacation this way.

There had been only one time that India could remember when Chuck Lee had failed to appear, and that had been India’s fault. It was the summer after Bill had killed himself; India had come to Tuckernuck as usual, but from the beginning her heart wasn’t in it. She had two of the three boys with her; Billy had taken a counselor job at a basketball camp at Duke for the summer. Birdie and Grant and the kids were there, and they went through the motions of doing the same things-the driving lessons, the clambake, the walks to North Pond and East Pond-but India always felt like she was watching from half a mile away. Chuck Lee had been the one coming twice a day then, though he frequently had Barrett with him, in training. When Chuck came alone, he always said something nice to India, complimented her hair or earrings, told her she was getting tan; on several occasions, they shared a cigarette down on the beach. In those days, there was no smoking up at the house because Grant hated the smell. Chuck never asked about what had happened to Bill, though India assumed he knew. Once, he picked a perfect sand dollar up off the beach and gave it to her. He said, “Here. Tuckernuck souvenir.” India had kept the sand dollar-she still had it-because Chuck had given it to her and Chuck had been the first man she’d ever noticed, back when she still wore a training bra. She had thought that maybe-just maybe-something would happen that summer, but she was too buried to make a move, and Chuck had a wife on the other side of the water. Eleanor, her name was, Barrett’s mother, Chuck’s wife of a million years, a real battle-ax, he said, whatever that meant.

Near the end of their stay, Chuck showed up with bluefish fillets that he had caught; he presented them to India in a heavy-duty Ziploc bag, and India could tell by the set of his shoulders, and by the way he pretended it was no big deal, that it was a big deal. India acted very grateful. But the bluefish fillets were a lurid red, they were slick and oily, and India, as well as everyone else in the family, abhorred bluefish. India thanked Chuck profusely and promised they would grill the fish for dinner that night. Chuck seemed pleased by this, as pleased as he ever got, with the touch of a smile lifting the cigarette in his mouth.

“All right, then, good,” he said. “I’m glad I brought them.”

As soon as Chuck was gone, India threw the bluefish fillets out on the bluff, and the seagulls swooped in to devour them.

The next morning, India made a point of raving about how delicious the bluefish had been. Again, Chuck gave the half smile. And not five minutes later, India’s youngest son, Ethan, came out, and when Chuck asked him how he liked the fish, he said, “Mom threw the fish out on the bluff and the seagulls ate it.”

India was mortified. She remembered her face burning; she remembered being at a complete loss for words. Chuck wouldn’t look at her. He collected the trash and left without the list. He didn’t come that afternoon nor the following morning. Grant was bellowing about his Wall Street Journal, and India kept to her room, watching out the window, like the old Nantucket widows waiting for their husbands to return from the sea. She couldn’t believe how bad she felt. She had already suffered through the worst of the worst; she hadn’t believed that anything else could affect her. But she cared about Chuck. She explained to Birdie what had happened, and this helped because Birdie understood how India felt about Chuck Lee; Birdie felt pretty much the same way herself. Chuck Lee had been the romantic hero of their youth. Birdie and India fretted together; they worried he would never come back.

He did eventually return, but India sensed things had changed. He didn’t like her anymore. Didn’t he realize that she had only lied to spare his feelings? She couldn’t confront him about it; he wasn’t the kind of man you could apologize to. He was the kind of man you tried to keep happy because one slip and…

Well, it was never the same. There were no more compliments, no more shared cigarette breaks, no more offerings of sand dollars or fish. They left that summer, and when they returned the following summer, Barrett was doing the deliveries.

And now Barrett, too, was gone. India couldn’t help feeling a bit bereft.

On the afternoon of the second day, Trey Wilson appeared with a package for India. He wasn’t even sure which one of the women India was, so it was fortunate that India was sitting at the picnic table, smoking. Chess was down on the beach, Tate had driven the Scout to North Pond-the two girls still weren’t speaking-and Birdie had gone for “a walk,” which meant she was off to either secretly console Tate or make another one of her clandestine phone calls.

“India?” Trey said. He was so young that he rightfully should have called her “Mrs. Bishop,” but they were on Tuckernuck, where things were insistently casual, and the kids’ friends had always called her “India” anyway. Trey held out the small, flat package to her.

“For me?” India said. She put on Bill’s reading glasses. The familiar handwriting, the absurdly sparse address. “Well, thank you.”