Elin Hilderbrand - The Love Season

She started talking again-about Cade demanding that Renata stay for dinner, about the Robinsons, their daughter, Claire, the ex-girlfriend no one had mentioned to Renata, about the shared semester at the London School of Economics.

“The semester before he met me,” Renata said. “And he never said a word.”

Marguerite forked a bite of tart. The pastry was flaky, the cheese creamy, and although she registered no flavor at all, she could tell the tart was a success. Renata devoured hers, then pressed the pastry crumbs into the back of her fork. Marguerite cut her another piece, a small piece, because there was more food to come.

“Oh, thank you, Aunt Daisy,” Renata said. “Thank you just for listening. It has been the weirdest day. Nothing was as I expected it to be.”

“Indeed not,” Marguerite said. She marveled at Renata’s story. And Marguerite thought her day had been extraordinary-because she left the house, visited old friends, stopped by her former place of business, because she drove to the country side of the island and back, because she had telephone conversations, because she polished silver and drank tea, because she looked at old photographs, because she sacrificed her Alice Munro stories in favor of the old, useless stories of her own life, because she cooked a meal for the first time since Candace’s death. Ha! That was nothing.

“I’m glad you escaped,” Marguerite said, only a little ashamed at herself for lauding the girl for leaving a dinner party without any excuse, warning, or word of good-bye. Marguerite was being horribly selfish. “You’re safe here.”

“I haven’t told you the real reason I left,” Renata said.

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Marguerite said. The champagne had officially gone to her head. She had lost her wits, or was about to. Water , she thought. She fetched a tall glass of ice water for herself, and one for Renata, who simply stared at it. “What is the real reason you left?”

“My father is here.”

Marguerite hiccupped, then covered her mouth and closed the top of her kimono with her other hand. “Here where?”

“On Nantucket. He flew in tonight. When I snuck out, Cade was leaving to pick him up at the airport.”

Marguerite let her eyes flutter closed. She remembered Dan’s promise to show up if he thought that was what it would take to save his daughter. But look, Dan , Marguerite thought as she gazed at Renata-bruised from the surfboard, sunburned, her two ringless hands pushing her corn silk hair back from her forehead -she saved herself .

“Daddy will call,” Renata said. “Once he realizes I’m gone. He’ll come here.”

“Yes,” Marguerite said. How it panicked her, knowing she didn’t have much time, knowing she still had a story of her own to tell. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

8:11 P.M.

Claire Robinson was the first one to notice Renata’s absence. She figured Renata was upstairs in her bedroom, pouting like a child, because no one, it seemed, had told her that Cade and Claire had been a couple for seven years. Either that or she was hiding, afraid Claire would tell Cade about her frolic with Miles in the dunes. Claire chuckled; this was just too good. She had battled her parents about coming tonight-haw could they possibly ask her to share a meal with Cade and his new fiancée? But when Claire saw Renata, a bell sounded. It took her a while to be sure-but sure she now was-Renata was the same girl that everyone playing volleyball at Madequecham that afternoon had watched Miles lure into the dunes. Eric Montrose had pointed it out. “There goes Miles with another Betty. Young one this time.”

Claire tiptoed up the stairs, grinning with the stupid pleasure it gave her to be privy to this scandalous information.

To the left, Claire spied the dark doorway of Cade’s room, a room she knew intimately. How many nights had she sneaked up and slept with Cade, both of them naked and salt-encrusted from a late-night swim, arms and legs and hair entwined until one of them woke up to the sound of the early ferry’s horn or the cry of seagulls. Claire sighed. She had thought, for certain, that she and Cade would be married. Now she was headed to graduate school at Yale to study Emily Dickinson, and she should be grateful she hadn’t married Cade Driscoll. Hell, if Miles had looked at her twice, she would have followed him into the dunes herself. She might even tell Renata this; they would conspire. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul .

Claire tapped on the guest room door. Light spilled out from the bottom of the door, but Claire heard no noise. Maybe Renata had fallen asleep; Claire noticed the way she had been pounding back the drinks. Claire knocked again. Nothing. She cracked the door. “Renata?” Claire hated to admit how much she loved the name; it was a poetic name, both harmonic and sensual. It meant “reborn.”

Claire peeked into the room. It was empty. The bed was made, though a bit rumpled; there was a head-shaped indentation in the soft, white pillow. One of Suzanne Driscoll’s canvas beach bags lay on its side on the floor among a scattering of sand. Inside the bag, Claire found a damp beach towel and a piece of folded-up paper. Did she dare? She checked the bathroom, empty, and the deck, deserted. Renata must have slipped downstairs.

Carefully Claire smoothed out the paper. It was a list, written out in Suzanne’s hand. Wedding stuff. Claire sniffed. The list was silly-flowers, cake, party favors-and yet Claire felt a pang of…what? Regret? Jealousy? She reminded herself of her disastrous reunion with Cade in London: He admitted that he felt nothing for Claire anymore, nothing but a great fondness, a brotherly love. Claire was quick to agree. Of course. I feel the same way . This wasn’t true, but at least she’d escaped with her pride.

Claire laid the list on top of the dresser. As she did so, she gasped. Sitting there all by itself like someone’s forgotten child was Renata’s engagement ring. The stone was huge, square, in a Tiffany setting; the stone must have been close to three karats. Claire turned the ring in the light. The diamond was clear, flawless. Claire’s hands were trembling. Did she dare? Why not? It was obvious at that moment, though perhaps only to Claire, that Renata was gone for good.

Claire slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

The ride from the airport to Hulbert Avenue was a quarter hour of hell for Daniel Knox, forced as he was to listen to Cade, a kid with a shirt and a watch and a car more expensive than Daniel’s own, make a twenty-point case about why he should be allowed to marry Renata. Daniel said very little during this presentation, figuring silence was the best way to put Cade on edge. Daniel had given his “blessing” to Renata that morning, in a panic. Never in fourteen years of raising his daughter had he used reverse psychology, but for some reason the announcement of her engagement cried out for it. If Daniel said yes when she expected him to say no, it would frighten her. And it must have worked, because clearly Renata had said nothing to Cade about Daniel’s cheerful response. Despite the tedium of listening to Cade describe how he would care for Renata, Daniel felt triumphant. He knew his daughter better than these people.

It was very dark, and Nantucket, out of town, had few streetlights, but Dan peered through the window nonetheless. It was a singular experience, returning to the place where your life had once been. He had lived here-alone at first, running the Beach Club, then he lived here with Candace, and then with Candace and Renata. He knew the streets, cobblestone, paved, dirt, and sand; he knew the smells of bayberry and of low tide on a still, hot day; he knew the sounds of the ferry horns and the clanging bell at the end of the jetty. This had once been his home, but now he was very much the visitor.