Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

Tate said, “I know why you didn’t tell Michael. You didn’t want to. You liked Michael. You loved him. You didn’t want to be the person who had an unshakable obsession with his younger rock-star brother. You never wanted to veer off-course, Chess. You got into this pattern, this mold, with Mom and Dad and everyone else, where everything you did was right. Michael was the kind of man you expected to marry. He fit right into your perfect life. If you had married Michael-do I even need to say it?-you would have had a six-thousand-square-foot house, a manicured lawn, gorgeous children-and you would have been miserable. You didn’t betray Michael by not telling him about Nick. You betrayed yourself. You didn’t want to be the person who had feelings for Nick, but guess what, Chess? You were that person. You are that person.”

Chess stared at the woman lying across the bed, who may or may not have been her sister.

“You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

Chess pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can tell you one thing, little sister.” She said “little sister” with irony; in this instance, Tate was most definitely the big sister. “Love is not worth it.”

“Ah,” Tate said. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

She wrote on the list for Barrett, which was now the list for Trey: Don’t leave without me!

And when she got back from running, Trey, dutiful young man, was waiting for her on the beach. She hadn’t said why she was going to Nantucket, and he didn’t ask. He wasn’t curious; he didn’t care. This was for the best.

He had learned-from Barrett-that Tate was a Springsteen fan. And guess what? So was he! He wanted to talk about the Boss, the new albums, the old albums. This kind of conversation used to delight Tate, but now she could barely find a word to say about how much she loved “Jungleland” and found it a work of genius on the scale of West Side Story. The things that used to matter, the person she used to be, had been usurped. She had room in her mind only for Barrett.

Love is worth it.

After they arrived and anchored and after they paddled the dinghy to shore (it physically pained Tate to do these things with Trey instead of Barrett), Trey asked Tate if she needed a ride anywhere.

“I have Born to Run in my truck,” he said.

She accepted a ride to town and they listened to “Thunder Road” and “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out.” Trey tapped the steering wheel and bobbed his head like the dedicated fan he was. Tate asked to be dropped on Main Street in front of the pharmacy.

He said, “How are you getting back?”

She said, “Taxi. I’ll be at Madaket Harbor at quarter to four.”

He gave her the thumbs-up and grinned. In his mind, they were buddies.

Main Street was bustling. There were people everywhere: two lovely ladies outside Congdon and Coleman Insurance selling raffle tickets for a needlepoint rug benefiting the Episcopal church, a swarm of people surrounding the Bartlett Farm truck buying zucchini and snapdragons and corn on the cob, tourists with maps and strollers and shopping bags. Everyone looked happy. Had everyone on this street found love, then, except for her?

She wandered through town and stopped twice for directions to Brant Point. Gradually the streets became more residential, and then Tate found the familiar corner and she turned right. Inside, she was quiet, which surprised her. She was a calm, cool pond.

She found Anita’s house with ease; it was impossible to forget. She peeked through the rose-draped trellis. The lawn and front gardens were peaceful and serene except for the whirring of the sprinklers.

Okay, so now what? Should she knock? Should she walk in?

She didn’t see Barrett’s truck. Was he running one of the countless errands that Anita Fullin and her house required? Tate studied the picturesque front of the house-the gray-shingled expanse, the many white-trimmed windows, the fat, happy hydrangea bushes with their periwinkle blossoms.

Tate opened the gate and marched to the front door. She was here to talk to Barrett; she wouldn’t leave until she had. For Tate, men would forever fall into two categories: Barrett, and those who were not Barrett. She knocked with purpose. She waited. She thought about Chess and all that had happened. Chess believed that her chance to be happy was over; her system had crashed and couldn’t be saved or restored. Michael was dead; Nick wouldn’t be coming back. She would, Tate pointed out, meet someone else down the road.

Yes, Chess said. But it won’t be Nick.

And Tate conceded: it wouldn’t be Nick.

And Michael is dead.

Tate said, Michael’s death was an accident.

Chess said, It was a suicide.

Tate said, You don’t believe that?

Chess said, Yes, I do believe that.

Tate was ready for anything when Anita Fullin opened the door. Or so she thought.

Anita Fullin was wearing an orange bikini. Her hair was in a bun and her face was slick with sunscreen. She had been lying in the sun. Through the house, Tate could see an orange towel draped over a chaise on the back deck; she could see a Bose radio on the table and a glass of white wine. Was this how Anita Fullin spent her days? It wasn’t fair of Tate to judge; she had spent the past twenty-five days doing pretty much the same thing.

Anita’s expression was mildly pleasant, expectant, wary. Why was her sunbathing being interrupted?

She doesn’t recognize me, Tate thought. She has no idea who I am.

Okay, this was infuriating. Her anger felt good; it felt like firepower.

She said, “Hey, Anita! Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Barrett.”

Anita smiled manically, and then she laughed once, like a gunshot. “Ha!”

Oh, dear, Tate thought.

Anita said, “Would you like to come in and sit down?”

Tate took a breath. “No, thank you. I’m just looking for Barrett.”

Anita Fullin placed her index finger under her nose and inhaled. She said, “Well, you won’t find him here.”

“I won’t?”

“He left this morning.”

“Left… for where?”

“For where, indeed!” Anita Fullin said. “For his little business, for other clients, people who need him, he says. For his pathetic, lonely life, where he will never have the money to do anything interesting and never have the opportunity to grow into a real man. He left because he thinks I’m behaving inappropriately. I’m married, he says, and I’d better start acting like it or he’s going to call Roman and tattle on me like a six-year-old.” She let loose a trill of laughter, which fluttered like a flock of birds. “He thinks he can blackmail me. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

Tate took a step back. Anita snatched her arm. “Please come in. We’ll have a drink.”

“I can’t,” Tate said.

“Please?” Anita said. “I’m not the monster he makes me out to be.” She stepped back and opened the door a little wider, and Tate stepped over the threshold. Immediately she thought of Chess, doing what was expected of her instead of following her basic instincts. Tate knew better than to step into Anita’s home territory-but what did she do? She walked right in.

Anita seemed energized by Tate’s presence. She shut the door firmly behind her and said, “Come, come, sit right here and I’ll get you a glass of wine. Is chardonnay okay?”

“Um,” Tate said. It was not yet ten o’clock. “Do you have any iced tea?”

“Iced tea?” Anita said. She disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few seconds later with two glasses of wine. “Here you go,” she said brightly. “Please sit.”