Elin Hilderbrand - Barefoot - A Novel

He reminded her of Josh; he was on Nantucket for the summer, working. The fol owing week he would head back to the Col ege of Charleston.

At lunchtime, Vicki pul ed out the lunch she had made: chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, cold plums, watermelon slices, and chocolate peanut butter cookies. Pete and Andre devoured the sandwiches and cookies Vicki had included for them, and Andre said it was the best lunch he’d had al summer.

“Leave it to my wife,” Ted said.

“Leave it to my mom,” Blaine echoed proudly.

Vicki smiled at them and felt happiness, fleeting though it was. After lunch, she went up to the bow of the boat and closed her eyes as the boat sliced through the water. This will not be my last day on the water, she thought. But then she had a vision of herself on the operating table, the surgeon brandishing a scalpel. Why not just cut me open with a saber? The night before, Vicki had watched Brenda and Walsh holding hands.

Walsh was the kind of person El en Lyndon referred to as a “gem,” or “a real treasure”; he was immediately recognizable as good, kind, and sensitive, as wel as extremely attractive (wel , there had never been any doubt about that)—he was the kind of person that it might be reasonable to lose one’s job over. Brenda and Walsh were so visibly happy together that Vicki thought, They will get married. But I won’t be alive for the wedding.

Where did these thoughts come from? How could she make them stop? Dr. Alcott was right about one thing: Fear was its own disease.

Vicki handed Ted his cel phone; she wanted him to check on Porter. It would stand to reason that since she was enjoying herself, something must be horribly amiss at home. Ted dialed the number and it rang once, then the connection cut out. Call ended. As Ted dialed again, Vicki pictured Porter’s face in a purple squeal. It used to be when Porter got upset, he would throw up, and though he hadn’t done this al summer, it was the vision that came to Vicki: Porter spewing pureed carrots al over El en Lyndon’s white linen pants and choking on the vomit until he stopped breathing.

The second cal didn’t go through at al , and Ted shook the cel phone in frustration. “There’s no reception out here, hon. Just relax. Everything is fine.”

You always say everything is fine, Vicki thought angrily. How am I supposed to relax when Porter is probably in the hospital on a respirator?

She was distracted from these thoughts by a shout from her other son. “Dad! Daddy!” It had only occurred to Vicki a hundred times since the day began that Blaine would fal overboard and be sucked under the boat by the power of the engines. When Vicki looked up, however, what she saw was Blaine holding on to the fishing pole for dear life. The line was taut, and Blaine was pul ing back in a professional way, bracing his bare feet against the side of the boat.

Ted said, “You’ve got a bite! Here, let me bring him in.”

Vicki thought Blaine might protest, but he handed the rod over to Ted right away, with relief. Vicki, too, was relieved. She didn’t want Blaine pul ed into the drink by the resistance of some monstrous fish, nor did she want to see Blaine lose the rod altogether, which was the more likely outcome. Vicki thought there might be a long, drawn-out Ahab versus Moby Dick–like struggle, but Ted landed the fish in a matter of seconds. Even in the overwhelming sunlight, Vicki could see the glint of silver scales. The fish was sleek but long, much longer than any of the bluefish Ted had caught.

“Striped bass?” Ted said uncertainly.

The captain whistled. “Better. You caught a bonito. She’s a beauty.” He pul ed out a tape measure and pressed the flopping fish to the deck with his shoe. “Thirty-seven inches. She’s a keeper.”

“What’s it cal ed?” Blaine asked.

“Bonito,” Ted said. “Bone-ee-to.”

“They’re good eating,” the captain said.

“Do you want to keep it?” Ted said. “Do you want to take it back to the docks so Grammie and Grandpa can see it?”

“We could gr——il it for dinner,” Vicki said.

Blaine sucked his lower lip as he studied the fish. In his sun visor with his hands on his hips and the look of deliberation on his face, he could have been fourteen. He could have been twenty-four.

“Nah,” Blaine said. “I want to throw her back. I want to let her live.”

They threw the bonito back, but to celebrate their day of fishing, Ted stopped at East Coast Seafood on the way home and bought salmon, swordfish, and tuna. It was their next-to-last night on the island, the evening of the last big dinner, and it would be real y big with the addition of Buzz and El en Lyndon and John Walsh.

When Ted pul ed the Yukon up in front of the house, Vicki blinked with disbelief. Josh’s Jeep was parked out front.

“Josh,” she said. His name came easily, al in one piece.

“Josh!” Blaine shouted.

“Good,” Ted said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I can give him his check.”

Vicki felt unaccountably happy when she walked inside. She expected a house ful of people, but the only person waiting for them was El en Lyndon, who was relaxing on the sofa, gimpy leg up.

“Hel o, al ,” El en said. “How was fishing?”

“We caught fish!” Blaine said. “Seven bluefish and one . . .” Here, Blaine looked to his father.

“Bonito,” Ted said.

“Bonito!” Blaine said. “But we let them go.”

“Josh?” Vicki said. Again, no stutter, no stumble.

“Josh?” El en Lyndon said.

“Is heeeee——here?” Vicki said.

“Yes,” El en Lyndon said. “Josh and Melanie took Porter for a walk.”

Josh and Melanie, Vicki thought.

“And Brenda and Walsh are at the beach,” El en said. “And I sent your father to the farm for corn, tomatoes, and blueberry pie.”

“We bought . . .” Vicki held up the fish to show her mother. She set the fil ets on the counter and immediately started thinking: eight adults for dinner if Josh would stay; she had to marinate the fish, chil wine, soften butter, set the table, and get a shower. Plus, food for the kids. Shuck the corn when her father got home, slice and dress the tomatoes. Would there be enough food? Should she run to the market for a baguette?

The lists were back. Vicki scribbled some things down on a tablet. But as she unwrapped the beautiful fish fil ets from the butcher paper, the terror returned. Terror! When Ted passed behind her, she turned and grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?” he said.

“We’re leeee——aving.”

“We have to go back sometime,” Ted said. “We just can’t stay here forever.”

Of course not, Vicki thought. However, back in Connecticut, reality awaited.

From her outpost on the sofa, El en Lyndon sang out, “Nantucket wil always be here, honey.”

Yes, Vicki thought. But will I?

Josh might have been more comfortable in the house with the women—Vicki, Melanie, Brenda, and Mrs. Lyndon—but he found himself, instead, out on the deck with “the men.” The men included Buzz Lyndon, Ted, and John Walsh, Brenda’s student, Brenda’s lover, who had (Josh learned from Melanie) shown up without warning a few days earlier. Initial y, Josh felt threatened by John Walsh, but it quickly became apparent that John Walsh was different from the likes of Peter Patchen, or even Ted. To begin with, John Walsh was Australian, and his accent alone made him seem cheerful and approachable, open, friendly, and egalitarian. When Ted introduced Josh, John Walsh stood up right away from the deck chair and gave Josh a hearty handshake.

“Hey, mate. Name’s Walsh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Josh said.