Elin Hilderbrand - 28 Summers

Ursula doesn’t seem inclined to speak, so Mallory says, “I didn’t realize you were on Nantucket.”

“I have a fund-raising dinner tonight,” Ursula says. “Private.” She takes a tiny sip of tea. “I’m running for president.”

“Yes, I know,” Mallory says. “Your vote on Judge Cavendish—I was proud of you. Every woman in America was proud of you.”

Ursula’s perfectly shaped eyebrows shoot up; maybe she’s surprised at the compliment. “Well, the election is still a long way off,” she says. “Anything can happen. Issues arise unexpectedly. Parts of your past come up, incidents you thought were long forgotten—hell, things you don’t remember…or even know about. When you’re running for president of the United States”—she sets her tea down—“your life has to be transparent. A clean window.”

And you’ve come with the squeegee, Mallory thinks.

“You and Jake see each other?” Ursula says. “Every year?”

She’s asking Mallory rather than telling her. She seems uncertain, which Mallory didn’t expect. Ursula has a hunch but not proof, maybe? Jake hasn’t told her. Jake doesn’t know Ursula is here. This whole thing, Mallory understands suddenly, has very little to do with Jake.

“What makes you think that?” Mallory asks. The spot in her vision has quieted, but it’s still there, watchful.

Ursula smiles. “I guess if I’m being honest, I would say I’ve always had a suspicion. Since Cooper’s first wedding, when I saw the two of you dancing together.”

“During Coop’s second wedding, I saw you in the ladies’ room,” Mallory says. “You told me you were pregnant. And I got the feeling you were going to confess the baby wasn’t Jake’s.” It’s Mallory’s turn to use her tea as a prop. She takes a sip. And what the hell, she’s hungry; she drags a pita chip through the baba ghanouj. She’s not afraid of food.

“At Cooper’s third wedding, when I asked Cooper if he and Jake were planning on continuing their Nantucket weekends, it was quite obvious Cooper had no idea what I was talking about. Tish certainly had no idea. Which I found odd.”

“Tish,” Mallory says. “I can’t believe you remember her name.”

“Then I read the article in Leland’s Letter, ” Ursula says. “And I called your brother again, only he was ready for me, or at least readier. He told me that, yes, he and Jake went to Nantucket every summer.”

Mallory’s breathing is so shallow, she feels like she’s playing a dead person on television.

“I thought, Okay, maybe he’s lying, protecting his little sister. You two had just lost your parents—”

“Please,” Mallory says, and she shakes her head.

“And then …then, then, then.” Ursula spins first her watch and then a gold Cartier love bracelet around her wrist, and Mallory can’t help but imagine the birthday or Christmas when Jake gave it to her; Ursula’s joy, their kiss. “I have an adviser, a donor, a…friend of sorts named Bayer Burkhart. From Newport, Rhode Island. You know him.”

The You know him is pointedly not a question. Bayer, Mallory thinks. Bayer, of all people, is the one who told Ursula? “I knew him a long time ago,” Mallory says. “In my twenties.”

Ursula nods. “He told me. He was quite taken by you, apparently, during a time when he and Dee Dee were having trouble. He said he considered divorcing her and marrying you.”

“Ha!” Mallory says. The spot in her vision twinkles; it seems to be laughing along. “That’s ridiculous. We were…it was…a summer romance. And he was married, but I didn’t know that until the night we broke up.”

“Which was also the night you told him you had a Same Time Next Year. Whose name was Jake McCloud.”

“That was all so long ago—”

“Bayer forgot about it,” Ursula says. “He met Jake at a donor party years ago and said he thought something rang a bell, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.” Ursula slaps her hands on her knees. “Then, a couple of years ago, he saw the two of you on the docks. Friday of Labor Day weekend.”

Mallory isn’t sure what to say, so she has another pita chip. Her crunching is very loud in her own ears.

“Bayer didn’t tell me then because—well, because I think it took him a while to put it all together. And also, I wasn’t running for president.”

Mallory realizes she doesn’t have to say a word. She hasn’t broken the law. Ursula isn’t the police. Mallory stands up. “I hope your dinner goes well. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Mallory.”

Mallory won’t look at her. She carries the tray back to the kitchen. “Did I tell you my son just left for college? He’s at the University of South Carolina. The house is so quiet without him.”

“Yes, I have a daughter at college as well. Bess. She’s a freshman at Johns Hopkins. As you must know.”

Yes, Mallory knows. “I’m from Baltimore,” Mallory says. “Cooper and I were raised there.” She puts the baba ghanouj back in the fridge without any covering. She is distracted by the pressing need to sweep Ursula out the door. Her driver is waiting. What must he think? What did she tell him? She probably said she was visiting an old friend. The cottage isn’t grand enough to belong to a major donor.

“I need you to stop seeing Jake,” Ursula says. “He can’t come this Labor Day or next Labor Day or—if I win—any of the Labor Days while I’m in office.”

Mallory’s reaction to this statement must give it all away. She recoils like this is a duel and Ursula has drawn first and shot Mallory between the eyes. Or like it’s a swordfight and Ursula has just plunged a saber through Mallory’s ribs. Jake won’t come in two weeks? He won’t come the following year? Or, if Ursula wins, for four—or eight—years? Mallory is fifty years old. She realizes she may be sixty before she feels Jake’s arms around her again.

“Why are you talking to me? ” Mallory asks, turning away. “Jake is your husband. If you don’t want him to come to Nantucket, tell him.”

“If I tell him that I know—” Ursula stops suddenly. When Mallory looks over, she sees Ursula’s head is bowed. “If I ask him not to come here, I’m afraid he’ll leave me.”

So keep things the way they are! Mallory wants to say. She’s tempted to beg. Mallory has lost her parents and dropped her only child off at college. She’s alone here. Except for Jake three magical days per year, Mallory is alone.

“But…I can’t have the press or my opponent’s camp finding out about this. And trust me, Mallory, you don’t want that either. They’ll drag your name through the mud. You’ll be vilified. You’re a teacher, right? Pretty beloved, from what I understand.”

“You don’t understand the first thing about me.”

“I do, though,” Ursula says. “You love Jake. I understand that better than anyone else. But please, it stops now. He’s my husband.”

Husband.

The bright spot encroaches a little farther into Mallory’s visual field. It’s white-hot, insistent. It is, she realizes, her conscience, inserting itself into the conversation after all these many years.

Jake and Mallory’s relationship is unusual, whimsical, even, like a fairy tale. It has always seemed to exist outside of reality, or so Mallory chose to believe. They weren’t breaking any rules if there were no rules. They weren’t hurting anyone’s feelings if no one knew.

But now.

Now, Mallory has to make a decision. Own up to what she’s been doing and stop. Or deny what she’s been doing and continue.

The spot in her eye is as bright as a flare.