“I think you’d better go,” Anita said.
Tate held up her hands to show she hadn’t stolen anything. Upstairs, the computer waited, hanging by a thread. Maybe Anita Fullin would push the magic button herself.
“I think you’re right,” Tate said.
Tate walked down the hot street toward town. This was where Barrett was supposed to appear and scoop her up so they could drive off into the midday sun. He had quit Anita Fullin; he had set himself free. But where was he?
She bought two bottles of cold water in town and walked all the way back to Madaket Harbor. It was sunny and hot, and unlike on Tuckernuck, the bike path here was paved and populated; people zipped around Tate on bikes, chiming their bells. On your left! Cars zoomed past, and she thought each one might be Barrett. But no.
She reached Madaket Harbor at two o’clock. She bought a sandwich and another bottle of water at the Westender store, and she ate on the dock with her feet dangling in the water. She wanted to swim but hadn’t brought her suit. She considered jumping in in her shorts and T-shirt-but she was determined, from this point forward, to act like a grown woman. Not a woman like Anita Fullin or like Chess or like her mother or like Aunt India-but like the woman that was inside herself.
Then she thought, The grown woman inside me is hot and sticky. And she jumped in.
She was asleep on the deck in her drying clothes when Trey nudged her with his Top-Sider.
“Hey,” he said.
She opened her eyes, then closed them. When she opened them again, it would be Barrett standing over her, and not Trey. She understood then why Chess slept all the time: when life wasn’t going your way, it was much easier to snooze.
“Come on,” Trey said. “We’re going.”
Tate sat up, bleary eyed. Madaket Harbor was spread in front of her like a painting. Blue water, green eelgrass, white boats. Trey had a bag of ice and a bag of groceries; he was untying the dinghy. She stumbled down onto the beach. Her clothes were stiff with salt, and she didn’t even want to think about her hair.
They got situated in the boat, and Tate said, “Where is Barrett?”
Trey said, “He went to the airport to get the husband.”
“The husband?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Meaning Roman? I thought he was all done working for Anita.”
“He’ll never be done working for Anita,” Trey said.
Tate’s heart tumbled. This was probably right. Anita must have called him to lay down the ultimatum: Come back by noon or I will ruin you. And Barrett would have done the only thing he could and gone back. He had the kids to think of. He was like a bluefish that Anita had hooked painfully through the lip. No matter how hard he struggled, she wouldn’t release him.
When Tate got back to the house, she found Birdie, Aunt India, and Chess sitting at the picnic table, drinking Sancerre and eating Marcona almonds. Tate’s eyes welled up with grateful tears.
Birdie said, “How was your day?”
Tate said, “Awful.” And she sat down in the fourth spot, where she belonged.
Chess and Tate set the table. Normally, with only a couple of nights left, Birdie would throw together bizarre combinations of leftovers such as scrambled eggs with corn and tomatoes, but tonight they were having steaks, campfire potatoes, salad with buttermilk dressing, and rolls.
Chess set down the place mats and Tate followed behind her with the silverware. Chess said, “Did you find Barrett?”
“No,” Tate said.
“Are you okay?” Chess said.
“No,” Tate said.
Pssst. There was a noise like air leaking from a tire.
Tate looked around, fearing it was the Scout.
Pssst.
Coming up the beach stairs was Barrett.
It was Barrett, right? And not Trey looking like Barrett?
He was windmilling his arm, beckoning her over. “Monkey girl!” Yes, she was coming, she was running, just like in the movies, running into his arms, God, he smelled good, she kissed his neck, he tasted good, he was real, he was here, she loved him, she loved him. His arms were around her and he was laughing. She kissed his mouth. He… let her kiss him, but he didn’t kiss her back, at least not in the fully passionate way she wanted him to. Something was off, something was wrong. He was going to tell her he was still working for Anita. Was that it? And what would Tate say? Could she live with that? Could she? He looked happy, that was for sure. He was grinning.
She said, “Oh, my God, I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in all my life.”
He squeezed her. He whispered. “I have a surprise.”
A surprise? She heard footsteps. He had brought someone. Again? Tate’s neck stiffened. She tried to pull away; Barrett held her. She peered around him at the person huffing up the stairs.
It was her father.
BIRDIE
She supposed it would become part of the Tuckernuck family legend, the day she nearly set the house on fire.
It took Birdie a second to figure out what, exactly, was happening. She was startled to see that Barrett had returned; she was delighted for Tate. Of secondary concern was who Barrett had with him. An older man, tanned, trim, good looking. A man who reminded Birdie of… who looked just like… who was… Grant! It was Grant! Here on Tuckernuck! Here! Then Birdie realized she was smoking and she couldn’t let Grant see her smoking, so she flicked her cigarette to the ground, which was very unlike her. She hadn’t meant to litter; she just wanted to get rid of the cigarette before Grant saw her holding it. By chance, it landed, not in the dirt at her feet, but in the paper bag where they kept the news-papers for recycling. The bag and the newspapers went up in flames in a matter of seconds.
India pointed and shouted. Birdie was too addled to notice; she was assaulted by an avalanche of thoughts, rolling, tumbling. Grant looked good, he looked fantastic, he had lost weight, he was tan, he looked different. He was wearing a white polo shirt, blue and white seersucker shorts, and flip-flops? The most casual Grant ever got was golf shoes and driving moccasins. But here was Grant in flip-flops, looking relaxed, at ease, and present in the moment, three things Birdie had asked for for thirty years.
Then Birdie smelled smoke-not grill smoke but smoke smoke- and she saw the flames licking the shingles of the house. Birdie had a momentary vision of her grandparents’ beloved house burning to the ground. She looked at Barrett in panic. There was a fire truck on the island, with a 250-gallon tank, everyone who lived on Tuckernuck knew this, but what Birdie didn’t know was who drove that truck or who to call to get it to their property.
Grant, meanwhile, was striding right for Birdie.
“Back up,” Grant said. “For God’s sake, Birdie, back up!”
He picked the water pitcher up off the table and dumped it over the flames. There was a hiss and a billow of bitter smoke. Grant checked to see that the fire was out. He grabbed the Sancerre off the table and doused the smoldering remains. Birdie thought, Not the Sancerre! But of course this was the right thing to do.
Barrett and India and the girls were looking on, mystified. Birdie was embarrassed. She said, “I threw my cigarette in the bag by accident.”
Grant said, “You were smoking?”
“Kind of,” Birdie said.
India laughed. “Kind of,” she mimicked.
Birdie said, “What on earth are you doing here, Grant Cousins?”
Grant took her hands. His eyes were a clearer blue, it seemed, and his hair was longer than he liked to keep it; it curled at the ends. He looked “cute” in the way that teenage girls thought rock stars were “cute”-he was shaggy and sexy.