Grant said, “Thanks for asking, Bird, but I’m going to let you gals do what you went there to do. Bang your drums and chant and share your secrets by moonlight. You don’t need me around.”
“Okay,” Birdie said. She was relieved!
“It was good talking to you, Bird.”
“You, too,” Birdie said.
“No, I mean really good,” Grant said. “You made my day.”
“I’m glad,” Birdie said. She filled with warmth. These were the words she wanted to hear. Hank hadn’t been able to say them, but Grant had. Life was endlessly perplexing. “We’ll talk soon,” she said, and she hung up. The water was halfway up her shins. She was okay to walk home now, and when she got to the house, she would make herself a Perrier with ice and lime. It wouldn’t be great, but it would be okay.
TATE
Prayer worked. Sometimes, when Tate was trying to fix a really bad problem in someone’s system, she closed her eyes and said a prayer. And more times than a rational person might imagine, the God that lived inside the computer responded. The screen would clear or jump to life, and she took over from there.
And so, she thought, why not call on the God that lived on Tuckernuck to help her with Barrett Lee? She said a little prayer every day and hoped for the best. Pick me, pick me, pick me, PICK ME!
She was trying to become Barrett’s friend. This was difficult because her mother and Aunt India were always around, so there wasn’t a good opportunity for a one-on-one chat.
The only time of day when Tate and Barrett got a few minutes alone was in the morning. Barrett normally arrived while Tate was doing her sit-ups in the tree, and the sight of her hanging from her knees was clearly too much to resist because he always stopped to tease her. He took to calling her Monkey Girl, not a flattering moniker by any means, but she would take what she could get. One day, she challenged him to try it. No, really, I’m serious. I bet you can’t do one! And Barrett, handsome goddamned devil, set his visor and his sunglasses on the picnic table, pulled himself up into the tree, and hung by his knees. His shirt fell, revealing a perfect abdomen. He did ten sit-ups with his hands behind his head, then he flipped down and said, Not bad, but I prefer the gym.
Yeah, well, I prefer the gym, too, Tate said, but look where I am.
I’ll give you one thing, Barrett said. You’re resourceful.
That was right, she was resourceful! The following morning, she left fifteen minutes later than usual for her run. And sure enough-she was finishing just as Barrett’s boat was puttering into their cove. Tate had her hands on her hips and she was panting. She chugged from the bottle of water she left on the beach stairs; then she stretched her hamstrings on the steps. Barrett anchored the boat. Tate sat on the bottom step, waiting for him. Her face was hot and red, she smelled like moldy cheese, but this was it-her chance!
He jumped off the side of the boat, then lifted out a bag of groceries and a ten-pound bag of ice. Tate waved to him; he smiled.
He said, “Good morning, Monkey Girl. Did you sleep in?”
She said, “I decided to run around the island twice.”
His eyes widened. “You are kidding me.”
She said, “I am kidding you.”
He got closer. She made no move to get up. He… looked like he was going to head past her up the stairs, but then he turned and sat on the step next to her. Tate didn’t know where to look, so she stared at her running watch. Eight fourteen, it said. The hour and the minute of her first real conversation with Barrett Lee. Tate fidgeted with the buttons of the watch; the face turned a ghostly blue. It was a man’s running watch and truly hideous, though Tate remembered ogling it at the sporting goods store in Charlotte-all the things it could do! Now, she wished she’d bought something more attractive, more ladylike. Sitting next to Barrett, she was self-conscious beyond belief.
She said, “So how goes it on this fine day, Barrett Lee?”
He said, “Oh, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” Tate said. “What is your life like over there? What do you do? Aside from getting my mother her beach-plum jam, I mean.”
“Well, last night I went fishing with my old man,” Barrett said.
“How is Chuck?” Tate said. “I can remember him from when I was a little girl. I thought he owned this island. I thought he was its president.”
“Chuck Lee, president of Tuckernuck. He’ll get a kick out of that.”
“He’s okay? Birdie said he had a stroke.”
“He had a mild stroke. His left arm is affected and his speech is slow, but he gets around a little bit still-one outing a day, the post office or his Rotary lunch. He can’t golf anymore, and taking him fishing is tricky, but I do it. He loves being out on the water. I cast the line and he holds it, and if he gets a bite, I reel it in, and he snaps the line.”
Barrett was a saint, Tate thought. But to say so might embarrass him. “So did you catch anything?”
“Three stripers, one keeper.”
“Are you going to eat it?”
“Tonight, maybe,” Barrett said. “Course, my night went downhill from there. I have one client who is very needy. Her husband is in Manhattan all week, so she’s in the house alone. She heard a noise that she thought was an intruder, so the police came, and they heard the noise, but it turned out to be her pipes knocking. So she called me.”
“Are you a plumber?” Tate asked.
“I’m a little of everything,” Barrett said. “I fixed it.”
“What a pain, though, to have your night ruined.”
“Yeah,” Barrett said. “This particular woman has a problem with boundaries.” He was sitting next to Tate; their arms were practically touching. Tate had dozens of questions. What do you do aside from working and fishing? Do you ever get to do fun stuff? Do you ever get to go on dates? As Tate was debating which question to ask, Barrett said, “So what’s the deal with Chess?”
It was like the sting of the cold shower. It was her seventeenth summer all over again.
“The deal?” Tate said.
“Yeah. Your mom told me the fiancé or the ex-fiancé died. And she’s destroyed. Is that why she shaved her head?”
“That would be the logical conclusion,” Tate said. “Although who knows?”
“It’s none of my business,” Barrett said. “But God, she used to be so pretty. Her hair… and she used to be so together. Mature, you know, and cool.”
“I’d love to fill you in,” Tate said, “but she hasn’t even told me how she’s feeling. Not really. So if you want further details, you’ll have to ask Chess yourself.”
Barrett said, “Okay, fair enough.” He stood up, then turned back. “I just get the feeling she doesn’t like me very much.”
“She doesn’t like anyone very much these days,” Tate said.
Barrett looked skeptical.
“Honestly. That’s the best I can do,” Tate said. “She’s in a bad place right now. And that’s why we’re all here.”
Tate did her sit-ups from the tree branch in a haze of sickly green jealousy. When Birdie asked if Tate was all right, she said, “Uh-huh,” and stormed for the shower. The cold water felt good, but it didn’t cool her down. Birdie had made a skillet of scrambled eggs with cheddar and a plate of crispy bacon, Tate’s favorite breakfast, and yet Tate breezed by her darling mother and the beautiful breakfast. She squeezed past India on the stairs when the customary thing to do was to wait at the bottom for the person coming down to descend. The staircase was narrow and could only handle single file. Tate didn’t say good morning to her aunt. When India got to the bottom of the stairs, Tate heard her say to Birdie, “Is she all right?”