28 Summers

by Elin Hilderbrand

  Great, Ursula thinks. That’s five people.

  “I didn’t announce that I was running for president,” Ursula says to her mother, the same thing she said to Bess, to Jake. “I said I wouldn’t rule it out. And I promise that when I do announce, you will not find out from Vogue magazine. We will have discussed it thoroughly first.”

  Jake and Bess had seemed skeptical about this answer; Lynette, disappointed.

  Ursula reads Leland’s Letter now because she’s grateful—the overwhelming response to the Dirty Dozen column flipped a switch and Ursula has become intriguing (and maybe even inspiring) to people outside the Beltway—but also because Ursula enjoys it. Leland’s Letter is smart. There are articles about sex and relationships, books, art, music, sports, movies and TV, food and wine, travel. It’s one-stop shopping aimed at American women who want to read about more than just fashion, beauty, and home decorating. Ursula reads a terrific interview with the eighty-year-old poet Mary Oliver; she reads about the French entrepreneurs who rehabilitated the reputation of rosé; she reads about Berthe Morisot’s place among the other (all-male) Impressionist painters in 1890s Paris.

  Every single article is fascinating, exhaustively researched, and brilliantly written. Frankly, Ursula enjoys Leland’s Letter more than the Washington Post and the Times put together.

  Ursula spends the first two weeks of August in South Haven, Michigan, visiting her mother. Lynette de Gournsey sold the big house in South Bend and bought a condo on St. Joe’s River and this beautiful vacation home on Lake Michigan. Ursula is sitting in an Adirondack chair on her mother’s expansive, shady lawn on a bluff overlooking the lake as she opens Leland’s Letter on her laptop. Jake has taken Bess to the Golden Brown bakery for “breakfast” (meaning cookies) and her mother has a “committee meeting” (meaning mimosas with her best friends, Sue and Melissa). The lead article in Leland’s Letter this week is titled “Same Time Next Year: Can It Save Modern Marriage?”

  Ursula clicks on it eagerly. She would love to know how to save modern marriage. If marriage is an “ebb and flow,” then she and Jake are in a long ebb, or possibly a permanent, stagnant swamp. This article was written by Leland Gladstone herself. Leland curates and edits the blog, but she doesn’t do any writing herself. Except, now, this.

  …late-night conversation with an intimate friend revealed a shocking secret…this friend, let’s call her “Violet,” has been conducting a clandestine relationship over the course of two decades that she calls her “Same Time Next Year.” She and her lover meet for one long weekend each year, then they part and do not communicate—no calls, no texts, no e-mails—until the following year rolls around.

  At first, I was scandalized. (“Violet” is single, but her lover is very, very married.) However, the more I ruminated upon her confession, the more I think it sounds kind of…heavenly.

  It does sound heavenly, Ursula thinks. She could only too easily see conducting such an affair with Anders, were he still alive. He might have married AJ, and Ursula would still be with Jake, but she would meet Anders in Las Vegas every spring and they would go to that bar that they went to during the Umbrecht Tool and Die case and sing karaoke. They’d have dinner at the Golden Steer and go dancing at Hyde as they had that one memorable night, then they’d make love in a suite overlooking the Bellagio fountains.

  If Anders were still alive and Ursula could pull this off, she would come back to Jake and Bess feeling so…refreshed, so energized, so grateful.

  This, too, is a point Leland explores in the article. Is monogamy in long marriages an unrealistic expectation? So many people fail at marriage. What if it’s not the participants but the rules that are to blame? Is it possible that a short, tidy affair like the one “Violet” enjoys is the answer? Violet and her lover meet at the beach somewhere. They sail; they take walks and collect sand dollars; they watch movies; they eat Chinese food and read each other the fortunes from their fortune cookies.

  Ursula pulls back like she’s been stung. Reads that again.

  Sand dollars? Fortune-cookie fortunes?

  Leland’s intimate friend. “Violet” is a made-up name.

  Ursula sets down her iPad. She feels like she’s going to vomit. But wait, wait. This is a classic case of Ursula getting ahead of herself—and hasn’t her newly hired life coach, Jeannie, provided Ursula with strategies for coping, and isn’t one strategy with stressful situations to take things slowly and methodically rather than running around like her hair is on fire?

  Sand dollars. Fortune-cookie fortunes.

  Years and years ago, after Jake left PharmX and contracted that staph infection, Ursula had been hunting through his desk looking for his COBRA information so she could pay the bill for his hospital stay, and she had come across an interoffice envelope that just looked…strange. When she felt it, it was bumpy. She had opened it and found three sand dollars and a handful of fortune-cookie fortunes. Those two things. Only those two things.

  Coincidence?

  One long weekend per year—Labor Day weekend.

  For over two decades—yes, at least.

  On the beach—the cottage on Nantucket.

  Leland’s intimate friend “Violet”—Mallory Blessing.

  Ursula combs through the years methodically, or as methodically as she can under the circumstances. Without even realizing it, she has walked to the edge of the bluff. She needs to catch the breeze. Her arms feel numb, like a doll’s arms. There was the year Ursula went to Newport alone because Jake refused to cancel his trip to Nantucket. There was the year they pushed up Bess’s christening. His own daughter’s christening! He never missed his weekend on Nantucket. It was sacred, he said, his time with Cooper, with the guys. And yet, Jake hasn’t seen Cooper in Washington recently as far as Ursula knows. And then he’d refused to go to the funeral—the funeral where Ursula met Leland and learned that Leland and Mallory had been best friends growing up.

  Intimate friends.

  Ursula needs to call someone, but who?

  Leland? she thinks. No; Leland would, as a journalist, protect her source.

  Ursula dials Cooper at work. He’s the current administration’s new director of domestic policy, a huge, demanding job, and Ursula has meant to congratulate him, though the lines between the legislative and executive branches are blurry. But she’s reaching out now on a personal matter, so there will be no ethics breach.

  Even so, it’s hard for her to get past his secretary, Marnie; Marnie obviously knows that Ursula is a United States senator and any discussion of business has to be scheduled, which this hasn’t been. Ursula says she’s calling about a personal matter. Her husband, Jake McCloud, went to Johns Hopkins with Cooper; they were fraternity brothers.

  “They were?” Marnie says. “Mr. Blessing has never mentioned that.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t lie,” Ursula says. Her tone is peevish, which will only reinforce her reputation as being somewhat bitchy (maybe more than somewhat; maybe she’s a bona fide insufferable bitch, which is why her husband has been cheating on her for more than twenty years). “They were in Phi Gamma Delta, Fiji. Jake was Cooper’s big brother.”

  Marnie sighs. “He does talk about Fiji,” she says. “But I still can’t help you. Mr. Blessing is on his honeymoon this week.”

  “Honeymoon?” Ursula says. Another honeymoon? “Well, good for him. I hope they went someplace nice.”

  “St. Mike’s,” Marnie says. “Should I tell him you called? Or—”

  “Might you give me his cell number?” Ursula asks. “It’s a rather urgent personal matter.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marnie says. “I can’t do that.”

  Ursula appreciates Marnie’s discretion even though she’s desperate to talk to Coop. “Yes, please, then,” she says. “Tell him I called.” Ursula hangs up. What next? Somewhere she used to have the number of the cottage on Nantucket. She could call and see who answers. If Mallory answers, Ursula will…what? Ask her if she’s been conducting an affair with Jak
e for the past twenty years?

  Ursula decides to give it a shot. What choice does she have? The number isn’t in either of her phones so she Googles the white pages and punches in Mallory Blessing, Nantucket, Massachusetts—but there’s no listing.

  Of course there’s no listing. It’s 2015. Everyone got rid of landlines ten years ago.

  Another honeymoon. On St. Mike’s—St. Michael’s, on the eastern shore of Maryland. There’s only one place that anyone would honeymoon on St. Mike’s, right? The Inn at Perry Cabin.

  The woman who answers at the reception desk sounds young and bubbly, which is a good sign. “Good morning, the Inn at Perry Cabin, how may I direct your call?”

  “Yes, good morning, this is Senator Ursula de Gournsey.” Ursula pauses. Please let this young woman follow politics. “I’m trying to reach Cooper Blessing. I believe he’s there on his honeymoon?”

  “Good morning, Senator! Yes, he is. I’ll just need you to provide his room number so I can connect you.”

  “I don’t have the room number,” Ursula says. “I didn’t anticipate having to call him this week but something urgent has come up. If I leave a message, will you please make sure he sees it right away?”

  The desk clerk says, “Ohhhhmmmmm.” She pauses. “I suppose I can just put you through. Please hold, Senator.”

  The phone starts to ring and Ursula wonders how she became a woman who would interrupt someone’s honeymoon to ask about her own husband’s possible infidelity. She should hang up! But she can’t. She needs to know.

  A groggy Cooper answers the phone. “Hello?”

  She’s woken him. Of course she’s woken him; it’s just after nine in the morning. She tries not to picture Cooper naked and hungover beneath the inn’s featherlight comforter, lying next to whatever poor woman has just become the fourth—fifth?—Mrs. Cooper Blessing.

  “Cooper?” Ursula says. She sounds unhinged. She is unhinged. “It’s Ursula de Gournsey, good morning.”

  She hears a rustling noise that she can only imagine is Cooper sitting up in bed, wondering what the hell is going on. “Good morning?” Cooper says. “Ursula…is everything okay? It’s not Jake, is it?” His voice breaks a little. He must think Jake is dead or injured or terminally ill, and now Ursula feels even worse. The last time she saw Cooper was at his parents’ funeral.

  “Jake is fine,” she says quickly. “He and Bess are out to breakfast. They’re both just fine.” She inhales the breeze blowing in off the lake. The lake is so big, it creates its own horizon; she’s pretty sure that people who grew up on the coasts have no idea just how vast the Great Lakes are. “I’m calling to ask about your weekends with Jake on Nantucket.”

  A beat passes. Cooper clears his throat. “Ursula,” he says.

  “You and Jake go to Nantucket every year over Labor Day,” Ursula says. “Right?”

  Another beat passes. Ursula hears a voice, female, the new wife, justifiably wanting to know who is calling their hotel room at nine in the morning during their honeymoon and making Cooper squirm. Ursula may end up being the reason for Cooper’s next divorce.

  “Ursula de Gournsey,” Cooper whispers. “I’ll just be a minute.” And then he clears his throat and says, “Sorry about that, Ursula.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” Ursula says. “Sorry for inserting myself into your life at what I’m sure is the least convenient moment. But something came to my attention just now. I was reading this…blog…and it dawned on me that maybe you and Jake haven’t been going to Nantucket together all these years. Maybe he’s…been going alone? Or with someone else? I don’t need any proof from you; you don’t need to send me pictures or share any stories. I’ll take you at your word.” Ursula feels her coffee about to repeat on her. If Cooper says he hasn’t been going to Nantucket, then an awful, stinking possibility will be exposed and they’ll both have to acknowledge it. “Has it been you that Jake spends Labor Day weekend with up on Nantucket?”

  Half a beat, maybe not even. “Yes,” Cooper says. “Yes, of course, Ursula.”

  Of course. Ursula closes her eyes. Would Coop lie to her? The answer, she can only assume, is yes. Cooper has a questionable track record with women; that much is irrefutable. Maybe he lies to his wives. Maybe he’s pathological. The other person he might be covering for is…his sister, Mallory. Mallory Blessing is pretty, yes. She’s a simple, clean kind of pretty. Girl-next-door pretty. She isn’t glamorous, isn’t powerful, isn’t a siren. She isn’t anything like Ursula. There is no way Mallory Blessing has enough allure to reel Jake all the way back to Nantucket year after year after year. Ursula is paranoid; deranged, even—and she has just shown her hand to Cooper.

  “Great, Coop, thank you so much!” Ursula says. She makes her voice as bright and cheerful as she can so there’s no doubt in Cooper’s mind that she’s a complete sociopath.

  “Ursula?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for checking in,” Cooper says. “See you on the Hill.”

  Ursula hangs up. She walks back to her Adirondack chair. Her iPad is lying in the grass, Leland’s Letter still glowing on the screen. Everything about the morning has lost its appeal. She did not assess the situation slowly or methodically. She acted on impulse and now she feels like a fool.

  The sand dollars and fortune cookies, though. It bothers her.

  Mallory drops Link off at Nobadeer Beach to meet his friends. Nobadeer is on the same coastline as the beach they live on and Mallory can’t quite understand why Link doesn’t just invite his friends to the house like he did when he was younger. Mallory even offered to make everyone fajitas with her homemade guacamole. But Link said that Nobadeer was “more fun.”

  Plus, he said, nobody wants to go to the beach when there are parents watching.

  Watching what? Mallory asked, but she received no answer.

  “There had better not be any beer in that backpack,” she says. “If the police call me, I’m not answering. You’ll molder in jail.”

  “No beer,” Link says.

  “Prove it,” Mallory says.

  Link hesitates, then unzips the backpack: two bottles of water and a Gatorade.

  “Lucky you,” Mallory says.

  “Where’s the trust?” Link says. His tone is good-natured but when he gets out, he slams the door of the Jeep a little harder than he needs to.

  “Hey,” she calls through the open window. “I love you.”

  He raises a hand.

  “I love you, Lincoln,” she says a bit louder.

  He turns around scowling, but he can’t hold on to it. He grins. “Love you, Mama.”

  Mallory’s phone rings. It’s Cooper. Cooper? He just got married six days earlier on the eastern shore of Maryland. Mallory flew down for the wedding. It had been a simple affair—just her, Amy and Coop, and Amy’s sister and mother. While Mallory was away she’s pretty sure Link had people over, even though he was supposed to be staying at his friend Bodie’s house. When she got home, the floor in the kitchen was sticky, she was out of Windex, paper towels, hot dogs, and ketchup, and she’d found an empty Coke can on the windowsill in the bathroom. She was relieved it was Coke, but Link is fourteen and she has taught high school way too long to be naive; beer is probably not far behind.

  Mallory pulls over to the side of the sandy road. She has a million-dollar view of the dunes and the ocean beyond. The waves are good today; there are dozens of people out surfing.

  “Coop?” she says. She wonders if the marriage has broken up already. On the honeymoon; that would be a new record (though not by much). “Everything okay?”

  “Guess who called me this morning?” Coop says. “Well, you’re not going to guess so I’ll tell you. Ursula de Gournsey, that’s who.”

  Mallory puts up the Jeep’s windows, turns on the air conditioning and aims the vents at her heart. She’s sweating. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What did she want?” Mallory asks.

  “She wanted my assu
rance that I’m the one Jake goes to Nantucket with every summer,” Coop says. “She told me she didn’t need proof; she said she would take me at my word.”

  Mallory feels like she’s the one riding a wave, but in a nauseated way, not a fun, beachy way. She pinches the skin of her bare thigh. She always thought that if and when she and Jake were discovered, she would have time to come up with a defense. But now she’s just…blindsided, a solid, stinging smack to the cheek. “What did you tell her?”

  “I said yes. I said it was me that Jake goes to Nantucket with every summer. I lied, Mal. To a United States senator.”

  “Thank you,” Mallory says. “Thank…Coop. Thank you.”

  “I feel sick,” Cooper says. “I’m on my goddamned honeymoon, Mallory, trying to start a life with Amy. Trying to start fresh. And yet there I am, lying to protect my sister who has been conducting an affair with my best friend for…how long? How many summers?”

  “A lot,” Mallory says. “A lot of summers.”

  “A lot of summers,” Cooper says.

  “Did she say why she was asking? Was it just out of the blue, or did something happen?”

  “She said she read some blog post that put an idea in her head.”

  “Blog post?” Mallory has a hard time picturing Ursula de Gournsey reading a blog post.

  “That’s what she said. I didn’t ask for details. I said as little as possible. But what I did say was a complete lie.” Coop stops talking and Mallory hears irregular breathing. Is Coop crying? “I stopped speaking to Jake after I figured out what was going on…back when I married Tish. When was that, 2007? I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with him in eight years. My best friend. My big brother, the brother I never had, that was Jake. And if I ever have to lie again…I’m not saying I’m going to abandon you, I’m saying, Don’t make me lie again!” He screams this last bit—and can she blame him?

  “I won’t,” she whispers.