Billy’s baby. Heidi, Billy’s wife, was twenty-nine weeks along. Everything was going smoothly; the pregnancy had been closely monitored. Heidi was an obstetrician herself; she had a sonogram machine right there in her office and she used it on herself the last day of every month. Heidi felt a heavy responsibility in carrying Bill Bishop’s grandson, the heir to that famous name, but Heidi was equal to it. She was a medical professional who followed her own advice: she took vitamins, she ate leafy greens and bananas, she had stopped drinking. Still, things could go wrong, so many goddamned things could go wrong during pregnancy or delivery-not to mention a whole wide world of disease and birth defects. Had it been this way when India was pregnant? Probably so, though not everything had a diagnosis like it did now. When India looked at the white of the envelope in Barrett’s hand, she thought, Heidi has gone into preterm labor. She will deliver before the baby’s lungs are mature. If the baby lives, there will be weeks in the NICU, respirators, and even then, possible brain damage. Oh, Billy. He and Heidi were perfectionists and overachievers. They would not handle this well.
Or, India thought, the letter could be in regard to Teddy. Of her three sons, Teddy worried her the most because he was the most like Bill. He liked to work with his hands; he had started a roofing company in the northwest suburbs of Philadelphia-Harleysville, Gilbertsville, Oaks-former farmland that now sprouted headquarters for pharmaceutical companies and McMansions for the executives. Teddy had had a longtime girlfriend named Kimberly, but they were always breaking up and getting back together. Teddy was emotionally unstable; he’d had one episode that landed him in the psych ward of Quakertown Hospital. The doctors put him on Zoloft, but he drank too much. He was, India had to admit, a time bomb. So the envelope said what? That he had killed Kimberly? Killed himself?
The letter would not be about Ethan. Ethan, at twenty-seven, was the happiest person India had ever known. He was an anchorman on a Philadelphia sports-news channel, which afforded him a bit of minor celebrity, enough to get him laid whenever he was out at the bars. Ethan had a golden retriever named Dr. J. He lived in a loft in Manayunk. He had been only twelve years old when Bill died, but he was free of anxiety, which just went to show that things didn’t always turn out the way one expected.
India took the envelope from Barrett. The front said, India Bishop, Tuckernuck Island. That was all it said; it didn’t list the address for the caretaking company that India had given the boys and Ainslie. The letter was postmarked from Philadelphia.
India Bishop, Tuckernuck Island.
“I can’t believe this reached me,” India said.
“It helps that my father knows everyone on Nantucket, including the postmaster,” Barrett said. “They’re in Rotary together. When the letter came through, the postmaster gave it to my dad and my dad gave it to me.”
“Well,” said India, trying to smile, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Barrett said. “Hey, do you know where Tate is?”
“North Pond,” India said.
“Great,” Barrett said. He dropped two bags of groceries, a bag of ice, and another case of wine in the kitchen, and then looked like he was anxious to get back to the boat. India thought to mention that Tate had specifically said she wanted to be alone, but India selfishly wanted Barrett to leave so she could have some privacy for her letter. Birdie was off on a walk somewhere, and Chess was asleep on the living room sofa. Chess had napped on the beach for nearly two hours, then come up to the house because the beach was too hot, and she had fallen asleep again. She hadn’t eaten a bite of lunch. Birdie was worried about her; before she left for her walk, she told India how worried she was, and she implored India to talk to Chess. With Tate gone for the day, this would be the perfect opportunity. Right, okay, India said. I intend to, I will. But India wasn’t sure what to say. She could tell Chess about her own experiences, but who knew if they would resonate? In India’s opinion, every woman had to go through the fire alone.
And now, India was distracted. The letter! As soon as Barrett disappeared down the beach steps, she put on Bill’s reading glasses and slit the letter open with a butter knife.
A piece of white copy paper, folded in thirds. At the top, in red felt-tip pen, it said: Was I wrong about you?
India read the line twice, then a third time. Then she sighed, folded the letter up, and slid it back into the envelope. She let Bill’s reading glasses fall to her chest.
The letter was from Lula.
On the one hand, India felt relieved. A letter from her sons would only have contained tragic news. On the other hand, India felt oddly exposed. Lula had found her, here on Tuckernuck, with an envelope that had been addressed for the pony express.
Lula might have called Ainslie to figure out where India was; perhaps Ainslie had given up the name of the island (but not the caretaker’s address). Or Lula remembered India mentioning that her ancestral summer home was on this sandbar called Tuckernuck. India felt relieved that the letter wasn’t harsher; if Lula was angry enough to leave PAFA, then she was angry enough to write more than that one little line. Lula had censored herself; she had shown restraint. She had, almost, accepted the blame.
India didn’t know how to answer the question.
She lit a cigarette, then she repaired to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of wine. It was only three o’clock, but what the hell, Barrett had delivered a new case of Sancerre. It was chilled, and India had suffered a shock. She would have a drink.
She sat back down at the picnic table and ran her hand through her spiky, salt-stiffened hair, feeling newly self-conscious, as if someone were watching her. She smoked her cigarette down to the filter, sipped her wine, raised her face to the sun, wrinkles be damned, regarded the envelope, and shook her head. Jesus.
Was Lula wrong about her?
Yes, Lula, you were probably wrong, you took the things I said and did the wrong way, you invested them with too much meaning. Was that the answer? I misled you, I vacillated, I didn’t know what I wanted or what I was feeling. I was out of my comfort zone.
India finished her glass of wine and poured another. It was cold and it was good-Birdie knew her Sancerres-and India thought, Goddamn it! She had made it through an entire week without thinking about PAFA in general and Lula in particular, and now this.
Tallulah Simpson. Lula had come to PAFA late in life, which is to say, at the age of twenty-six. She already had a degree in Romance languages from McGill University. She spoke French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic, and Hindi. The languages were a gift, more of a gift, perhaps, than her art; ever since Lula was a little girl, she had wanted to be an interpreter for an important organization-Unicef, the World Bank, the Red Cross. She had worked for a few years as a translator for big tobacco; she traveled between Montreal, Paris, and India. She hadn’t painted anything in her life until she contracted dengue fever in India and was hotel-bound on big tobacco’s dime. She recovered from the fever in three weeks and took another three weeks to regain her strength. This was when she started to paint-out of boredom, she said, and weakness. She had wanted to write a novel, but thinking hurt her brain. Painting was easier; she started with watercolors and tempera on heavy, expensive paper from the hotel’s business center. She already knew what she wanted to paint; the images had been with her since birth.
Lula had told India this much during their first meeting over lattes at the White Dog Cafe, on the first October day that it was chilly enough to enjoy an afternoon coffee. The meeting was official. India was Lula’s second-year adviser. India’s position at the academy was such that she handpicked all of her advisees; it was a condition of her serving as an adviser at all. (She was such a bitch.) India chose the second-year students who had proved during their first year to be the most interesting, the most talented, the most attractive-and Tallulah Simpson was at the top of each category. She was stunning-with long, straight black hair, clear green eyes, and golden skin. Her mouth was wide; there was a gap between her front teeth. She had an unplaceable accent. She smoked and drank and used foreign phrases; she wore expensive, stylish clothes-flaring tops, tight jeans, impossibly high heels. (India ended up emulating her fashion sense; she had, with certain purchases, downright plagiarized it.) Lula’s father, now dead, had been an Iranian businessman who had immigrated to Canada in the late seventies, and Lula’s mother was from a prominent family in Bangalore. Lula’s life had been one of privilege, though she had been marginalized, even among the tolerant Canadians, because of her race. She understood the pain of being an outsider, and from this pain came the inspiration for her paintings.