The hallowed halls and galleries of PAFA, which for the years since Bill’s death had served as India’s inspiration and her refuge, was now a field of land mines. Was Virgil Seversen looking at her oddly? Did Ainslie suspect? Had Lula posted gossip on Facebook? Foremost on India’s mind when she fielded Birdie’s phone call was how to escape the awkwardness of her present situation, and there was Birdie with the answer: Tuckernuck. India couldn’t hope to get much farther away than Tuckernuck. Birdie had been convincing: Chess needed her. And so, India agreed. A tragically dead ex-fiancé fell exactly within India’s sphere of emotional expertise; she could help. She had more than enough vacation time stored up; summers at PAFA were slow. India would connect with people she loved but didn’t see often. Her sister. Her sister’s daughters.
Her intentions had been good, and they had made sense at the time, but the reality was, India couldn’t stay here. She had never loved Tuckernuck the way Birdie did-and that was why her parents had left the house to Birdie and given India the equivalent in cash. India was too urban for Tuckernuck. She needed action. She needed cappuccino.
They sat around the picnic table writing up a grocery list for Barrett Lee. Barrett Lee was as ruggedly handsome as his father had been at that age. India looked between Chess and Tate; one of them would snag him. Which one?
“Bread,” Birdie said. “Milk. Special K. Sugar. Blueberries, American cheese, saltines.” She was dictating for Tate, who was writing everything down.
“American cheese?” India said. “Saltines? Let’s think like grown women here. When the kids were small, we bought American cheese and saltines, but now we can get camembert and a baguette. And a stick of good Italian salami. That, and some nice, ripe apricots and a pint of raspberries and half a dozen green figs.”
Birdie looked at India. India thought, Five days from now is Wednesday. Can I make it to Wednesday? She had not had a cigarette since leaving Philadelphia, and her body was craving nicotine at red-alert levels. She had a carton of Benson and Hedges upstairs in her suitcase. As soon as possible, she would sneak one.
“You’re right,” Birdie said. “We can eat figs and cheese if we want to. And we should get some wine.”
“God, yes,” India said.
“Chess?” Birdie said. “Is there anything you want?”
Chess shrugged. India recognized the slump to her shoulders, the far-off expression. Here they were, wrapped up in the Camp Fire girl task of making a list of provisions, and Chess couldn’t have cared less. India knew all too well how Chess felt. India hadn’t shaved her head after Bill died, but she had done other self-destructive things: She had subsisted on Diet Coke and toast for months, until she fainted behind the wheel of her car (thankfully, she was in her driveway). She had refused to return the lawyer’s calls until her bank account was overdrawn and a check for Ethan’s high school football uniform bounced. She and Chess would have a long, frank talk before India escaped this barren hell, and India would tell her… what? You will survive. This will pass, like absolutely everything else.
But right now, all India wanted was a smoke. She was a bad girl.
“Bluefish pâté,” Birdie said. “A bag of those Tuscan rosemary crackers. Lobster salad, butter lettuce, corn on the cob, aluminum foil.”
India removed her reading glasses. They had been Bill’s and were, without exception, her most valued personal possession. She regarded their Brad Pitt boy Friday. “Barrett,” she said, “are you married?”
Birdie stopped her litany. Tate’s cheeks flared an attractive pink.
“Um, no. Not anymore.”
“Divorced?” India said.
“No,” Barrett said. “See… uh, it’s tough. My wife, Stephanie? She died. She had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” The way he said it made it sound like a question. India nodded, and thought, Ooooh, Lou Gehrig’s disease. The worst way to go. “She died two years ago. A little more than two years.”
Everyone at the table was silent. India felt like an ass for asking. This was further proof that she didn’t belong here. She never put her foot in her mouth; she never made other people uncomfortable. Now, she wanted to hide under the table. Here she had just crowned herself Queen of the Widows, with a deep emotional reservoir for those who had lost a loved one, and she had managed to fry Barrett like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said. “Do you have children?”
“Two boys, five and three.”
“Names?”
“Cameron and Tucker. Tucker after Tuckernuck.”
“Wonderful,” India said. “I have a particular fondness for little boys! You’ll bring them sometime? So we can meet them?”
“Maybe,” he said. “They’re with my mom during the day and Stephanie’s parents in Chatham every other weekend.” He was quiet for a second, looking off at the water. “Yeah, I’ll bring them over sometime.”
There was silence then; it was either respectful or awkward, India couldn’t quite tell. The girls were no help. Chess was picking at a knothole in the picnic table, and Tate stared at Barrett the only way one could stare at him-with sympathy and wonder.
“Are we done with the list, Birdie?” India said. “There’s so much stuff here, Barrett’s boat is going to sink.”
“No worries,” Barrett said. “Finish the list. I’ll have everything back here later this afternoon.”
India let out a breath. Having Barrett Lee around would make things bearable. He would be their romantic hero this summer the way Chuck Lee had been her and Birdie’s romantic hero in the late sixties. Chuck Lee had been India’s initiation to a certain kind of man; he had a crew cut and a tattoo and a thick New England accent. India had desired him before she even knew what desire was. Now here was his son: handsome and helpful and tragically widowed. Barrett Lee and his surprising revelation energized her.
As he walked toward the bluff, India let out a sharp wolf whistle. The others sucked in their breath, scandalized.
“India,” Birdie scolded. “Really!”
Barrett turned around and waved.
“He better get used to it,” India said.
CHESS
Day one.
Here is my confession.
I met Michael and Nick on the same night, the first Friday in October, less than two years ago. I had just put the Thanksgiving issue to bed-a very big deal in the world of food magazines-and I was out to celebrate with my best friend from the city, Rhonda, who was a perpetual student and lived on the floor below mine in an apartment that was subsidized by her influential father. I invited Rhonda up to my apartment for martinis. We played Death Cab for Cutie, we drank, we put on makeup and fixed our hair and checked our outfits. It was finally autumn weather after a hot and breezeless summer. We were ready to go.
We went to the Bowery Ballroom to see a band called Diplomatic Immunity. There was a line around the block, but Rhonda’s father was a hotshot at the United Nations, a recipient of some kind of diplomatic immunity himself. He knew someone everywhere in the city, it seemed, including at the Ballroom, and we strolled right in. Plus, Rhonda was gorgeous. She had been naturally gorgeous, and then she got her boobs done, after which we could cut any velvet rope in Manhattan and beyond.
Michael was standing at the bar. He was six foot six, impossible to miss, a head taller than everyone else. He was handsome in the way that I liked-clean cut, smart, bright eyed-and I smiled at him.