Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

She marched over and sat next to Tate. She touched Tate’s arm and Tate removed an earbud and sat up halfway.

“Hi,” Birdie said.

Tate said, “Birdie, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to make me feel better. Because it’s not going to work. This isn’t something a mother can fix.”

“Okay,” Birdie said.

“I miss Barrett,” Tate said. “I sent him away and now I want him back.”

“I’m sure he misses you, too,” Birdie said.

“You never thought we had a chance,” Tate said. “But I did. Because I love him. I’ve loved him forever.”

“It wasn’t that I thought you didn’t have a chance…”

“You thought it was a pipe dream. A stupid summer fantasy.”

“Tate, don’t be mean.”

“You’re the one who’s mean. You and my sister.”

“Tate.”

“I told Chess I hated her, and I meant it. I hate her. Everything I wanted in life, she took away.”

“That’s not true,” Birdie said.

Tate pressed her lips together, and Birdie saw her as a little girl, stubborn, defiant, angry. She had always been full of love, but she had also always been angry. Nothing Birdie had done in the past thirty years had been able to change that.

Birdie stood up and wiped her palms on her shorts. “I’m going to let you girls work this out yourselves,” she said.

Tate muttered something as she flipped onto her stomach, but Birdie didn’t hear what it was and she wouldn’t ask Tate to repeat herself as she might have done when Tate was a teenager. But as Birdie walked the path back to the house, she wondered what Tate had said. Probably “Whatever,” or “Yeah, right.” Or maybe she had said, “Thank you,” which was the best that Birdie could hope for.

That night, Tate left the house during the communal screened-in porch hour and descended the stairs to the beach. The moon, which had been fat and full the night of the bonfire, was now a waning crescent, which made Tate sad. Tomorrow there would be four days left, and the next day three-and then they would start to pack up. Across the water, the lights of Nantucket twinkled.

Barrett!

What was he doing tonight? Was he at home with the kids, or out with Anita at some fancy benefit because Roman was stuck in the city?

He had to be missing her. He had to be thinking about her. He was in love with her. He had told Chess he was in love with her (unless Chess was lying, but even she wouldn’t cross that line).

Prayer worked, she reminded herself. And so she prayed. Please please please please please please please.

Tomorrow, Tate decided, he would come.

The next morning, Tate was standing on the beach when Girlfriend pulled into the cove.

Trey was driving the boat.

Tate thought, So much for prayer.

She said, “How’s Barrett doing?”

Trey shrugged. “He’s busy.”

A few minutes later, she knocked on Aunt India’s door.

“ Entrez! ” India said.

Tate stepped in and noticed something different right away. A painting. A small, square painting on the wall.

“What is this?” Tate asked.

“The inside of a whelk shell,” India said. She was on her bed, smoking and reading.

“Oh,” Tate said. “Yeah, I guess I can see that. Who did it?”

“A student at PAFA,” India said. She exhaled smoke. “Are you visiting for a reason or is this a purely social call?”

“A reason,” Tate said. She wasn’t sure she could go through with this. She didn’t like asking people for help. People asked her for help. That was her job; that was how she ran her life.

“Shoot,” India said.

Tate sank onto the bed. The mattress was truly unusual. It was like it was filled with quicksand; you sat on it and it sucked you in. Tate was sure that if they ever cut it open, they would find it was filled with something bizarre and horrifying, like the blood plasma of all her dead ancestors.

“Barrett has this client, Anita,” Tate said.

“I met her.”

“She wants to buy Roger,” Tate said.

“Yes, I know,” India said. “Barrett told me. Fifty thousand dollars.”

“So you told him it wasn’t for sale, and he told Anita. And Anita got mad. And she pulled a power play where she offered Barrett a full-time job, working for her only, with a salary he couldn’t turn down. He owes her a bunch of money anyway, from before, when his wife was sick and she needed private nurses.”

“Oh,” India said. “I didn’t know any of this.”

“Which is why I’m telling you,” Tate said. “That’s why Barrett doesn’t come anymore. That’s why he sends Trey.”

“Ah,” India said.

“And he doesn’t come for me because I got angry that he was working for Anita.” Tate stared at India’s new painting. There was something compelling about it. “I guess you could say we broke up.”

“Thank you for explaining,” India said. “I wondered, but it’s really not my place to ask. I’m just the aunt.”

“No, you’re way more than that,” Tate said. “You’re one of us.”

“Well, thank you for saying that. And you know I love you and Chess like my own children.”

Tate nodded. She swallowed. Her throat was coated with a film of despair. She said, “So anyway, I came up here to see if you would reconsider selling Roger.”

India’s eyes widened, but more in recognition, Tate hoped, than in shock or anger.

Tate said, “I thought if I went back to where the problem started, I could fix it. If you sold Roger to Anita, Anita would leave Barrett alone.”

India said, “I want you to hold Roger.”

Tate picked Roger up off the dresser-but carefully! He was delicate and valuable. He was whisper-light, made of driftwood and dried seaweed, beach glass and shells. He had style, though. His hair looked like dreadlocks and his eyes were round, like funky Elton John glasses.

“How did Uncle Bill get the glass and shells to stick?” Tate asked.

“Chuck Lee lent him a glue gun. Secretly, I guess. And then he filched the electricity off the generator. Bill was resourceful.”

Tate stroked the driftwood, which had grayed over the years, making Roger seem as if he were aging like a real person.

“Your Uncle Bill made him for me after we had a terrible fight,” India said.

Tate nodded. A terrible fight.

“I can’t sell him,” India said. “He doesn’t belong in Anita Fullin’s house or in a museum. He doesn’t even belong at home with me in Pennsylvania. He belongs here, in this house. He will stay here-forever, I hope. And that’s the secret about certain pieces of art. They have their own integrity, and we, as humans, must respect that.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “I would do anything for you, Tate. And I know you love Barrett and I know you’re hurting, but I can tell you that selling Roger to Anita Fullin isn’t going to bring about the kind of change you’re looking for. Only you can do that.”

Tate set Roger back on the dresser. Childishly, she felt hot tears of disappointment fill her eyes-like when she lost the hundred-yard dash at the Fairfield Regional Championships to Marissa Hart, whom she detested. Like when her father grounded her for a D in English and she missed seeing Bruce Springsteen at the Meadowlands. She hadn’t progressed emotionally since she was a teenager-that was the problem. She needed, somehow, to figure out how an adult woman would act.

“I know,” she said. “I just thought I’d ask.”

“I’m glad you asked,” India said. “I’m glad you feel you can come to me when you have a problem. And believe me, if I could help you, I would.”

Tate nodded. The fact that Aunt India was being so nice made things worse. When Tate stood up, her eyes were drawn to the painting. The inside of a whelk shell? Tate could see that, sort of, but to her, the pale, flesh-colored curve represented something else: loneliness, desolation.