Elin Hilderbrand - The Island

They got situated in the boat, and Tate said, “ Where is Barrett?”

Trey said, “He went to the airport to get the husband.”

“The husband?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Meaning Roman? I thought he was all done working for Anita.”

“He’ll never be done working for Anita,” Trey said.

Tate’s heart tumbled. This was probably right. Anita must have called him to lay down the ultimatum: Come back by noon or I will ruin you. And Barrett would have done the only thing he could and gone back. He had the kids to think of. He was like a bluefish that Anita had hooked painfully through the lip. No matter how hard he struggled, she wouldn’t release him.

When Tate got back to the house, she found Birdie, Aunt India, and Chess sitting at the picnic table, drinking Sancerre and eating Marcona almonds. Tate’s eyes welled up with grateful tears.

Birdie said, “How was your day?”

Tate said, “Awful.” And she sat down in the fourth spot, where she belonged.

Chess and Tate set the table. Normally, with only a couple of nights left, Birdie would throw together bizarre combinations of leftovers such as scrambled eggs with corn and tomatoes, but tonight they were having steaks, campfire potatoes, salad with buttermilk dressing, and rolls.

Chess set down the place mats and Tate followed behind her with the silverware. Chess said, “Did you find Barrett?”

“No,” Tate said.

“Are you okay?” Chess said.

“No,” Tate said.

Pssst. There was a noise like air leaking from a tire.

Tate looked around, fearing it was the Scout.

Pssst.

Coming up the beach stairs was Barrett.

It was Barrett, right? And not Trey looking like Barrett?

He was windmilling his arm, beckoning her over. “Monkey girl!” Yes, she was coming, she was running, just like in the movies, running into his arms, God, he smelled good, she kissed his neck, he tasted good, he was real, he was here, she loved him, she loved him. His arms were around her and he was laughing. She kissed his mouth. He… let her kiss him, but he didn’t kiss her back, at least not in the fully passionate way she wanted him to. Something was off, something was wrong. He was going to tell her he was still working for Anita. Was that it? And what would Tate say? Could she live with that? Could she? He looked happy, that was for sure. He was grinning.

She said, “Oh, my God, I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in all my life.”

He squeezed her. He whispered. “I have a surprise.”

A surprise? She heard footsteps. He had brought someone. Again? Tate’s neck stiffened. She tried to pull away; Barrett held her. She peered around him at the person huffing up the stairs.

It was her father.

She supposed it would become part of the Tuckernuck family legend, the day she nearly set the house on fire.

It took Birdie a second to figure out what, exactly, was happening. She was startled to see that Barrett had returned; she was delighted for Tate. Of secondary concern was who Barrett had with him. An older man, tanned, trim, good looking. A man who reminded Birdie of… who looked just like… who was… Grant! It was Grant! Here on Tuckernuck! Here! Then Birdie realized she was smoking and she couldn’t let Grant see her smoking, so she flicked her cigarette to the ground, which was very unlike her. She hadn’t meant to litter; she just wanted to get rid of the cigarette before Grant saw her holding it. By chance, it landed, not in the dirt at her feet, but in the paper bag where they kept the news-papers for recycling. The bag and the newspapers went up in flames in a matter of seconds.

India pointed and shouted. Birdie was too addled to notice; she was assaulted by an avalanche of thoughts, rolling, tumbling. Grant looked good, he looked fantastic, he had lost weight, he was tan, he looked different. He was wearing a white polo shirt, blue and white seersucker shorts, and flip-flops? The most casual Grant ever got was golf shoes and driving moccasins. But here was Grant in flip-flops, looking relaxed, at ease, and present in the moment, three things Birdie had asked for for thirty years.

Then Birdie smelled smoke-not grill smoke but smoke smoke- and she saw the flames licking the shingles of the house. Birdie had a momentary vision of her grandparents’ beloved house burning to the ground. She looked at Barrett in panic. There was a fire truck on the island, with a 250-gallon tank, everyone who lived on Tuckernuck knew this, but what Birdie didn’t know was who drove that truck or who to call to get it to their property.

Grant, meanwhile, was striding right for Birdie.

“Back up,” Grant said. “For God’s sake, Birdie, back up!”

He picked the water pitcher up off the table and dumped it over the flames. There was a hiss and a billow of bitter smoke. Grant checked to see that the fire was out. He grabbed the Sancerre off the table and doused the smoldering remains. Birdie thought, Not the Sancerre! But of course this was the right thing to do.

Barrett and India and the girls were looking on, mystified. Birdie was embarrassed. She said, “I threw my cigarette in the bag by accident.”

Grant said, “You were smoking?”

“Kind of,” Birdie said.

India laughed. “Kind of,” she mimicked.

Birdie said, “What on earth are you doing here, Grant Cousins?”

Grant took her hands. His eyes were a clearer blue, it seemed, and his hair was longer than he liked to keep it; it curled at the ends. He looked “cute” in the way that teenage girls thought rock stars were “cute”-he was shaggy and sexy.

He said, “I came to see you.”

Birdie found she couldn’t speak. Her mouth gaped open. He kissed her-Grant Cousins kissed her in front of everyone. And further surprise: desire stirred. God, she had forgotten all about it.

She regarded her bed-that squishy sinkhole with the five firm new pillows to compensate-and knew she wouldn’t sleep. She had felt her insomnia coming on; it was a ghost ship on the horizon drawing nearer and nearer. Her head held an electronic buzz; it felt like someone was grabbing her by the back of the neck and wouldn’t let her go.

Grant’s arrival had thrown everything off. India hated him for showing up unannounced and stealing the spotlight. Birdie was ecstatic, the girls were elated, Barrett was impressed. The man of the house had arrived! As if what they had been waiting for all these weeks was a man. Hardly, India thought. They had been just fine here, the four of them, on their own. As far as India was concerned, Grant was an egregious interloper.

Grant had approached India nervously, and she thought, You’d better be nervous! You’d better be shaking in your boots! This was the Tate house, their house, not Grant’s house; he had done nothing, in the years of India’s memory, but defile the Tuckernuck lifestyle by spending hours on his cell phone on the bluff and poring over the sheaf of documents FedExed to him each day. He used to turn the picnic table into his personal office, weighing down papers with rocks from the beach, asking Birdie to bring him more coffee. Birdie had obeyed like a dutiful wife, but deep down, India knew, she found it as despicable as India did.

Grant said, “India, I’m sorry for horning in here…”

He was about to make an excuse or give a good reason, but India shook her head at him. At PAFA she did this to great effect.

Grant lowered his voice. “I came for Birdie.”

India wasn’t sure how to take this comment. He came for Birdie. Meaning he came to get Birdie, claim her, take her home? Or he came because Birdie asked him to. Birdie had gone on a lot of mysterious errands with her phone, so this last interpretation was not unfeasible.