28 Summers

by Elin Hilderbrand

  Mallory isn’t sure what to do about Jake. She can’t cancel his visit. If her cancer treatment taught her anything, it’s that life is too short.

  Link might be old enough for Mallory to simply say, Listen, I have a friend coming, a male friend, and I need privacy for the weekend. Can you hang out at Nicole’s house, maybe help get her packed?

  But ugh. Ew. No.

  Then Mallory thinks of Tuckernuck. She and Jake could sail over like they did back in whatever year and use Dr. Major’s house for the weekend. It will be tricky with the sun—there isn’t a single shade tree on all of Tuckernuck—but Mallory will be careful. She’ll be so careful, if only…please!

  She sends Dr. Major an exploratory e-mail. He retired five years ago but Mallory sees him around the island—at the Stop and Shop, in line at the bank and post office—so this won’t come completely out of the blue.

  Huge favor to ask…is there any way…Labor Day weekend…such joyful memories of the last time and after my parents’ death and my recent health scare…please let me know when you can.

  The good news is Mallory doesn’t have to wait long for a response. The bad news is that Dr. Major tells Mallory that they sold the house the year before. It was just too expensive to keep up and no one ever used it.

  Mallory’s spirits flag. She could always suggest that Jake stay on the Greta. They can take long sails during the day and Mallory can run into town for burgers on Friday night, lobsters on Saturday night, Chinese food on Sunday night. They can stream Same Time, Next Year on her laptop. It might be fun?

  It won’t be fun. It’ll feel like they’re on the lam. It’ll feel shady and cheap and claustrophobic and second rate.

  Mallory could throw money at the problem. She could get a room at an inn—no, an inn would be too small. A hotel. The Nantucket Hotel, the White Elephant, Cliffside. She’ll put the room in her name and Jake can slip in and out. But a hotel means staff—front desk, bellhops, chambermaids—and other guests. It’s too risky.

  Could she rent a house, someone else’s house? That’s weird and seems extreme, but is it?

  Nantucket is an island with hundreds, maybe even thousands, of homes for rent, and yet Mallory can’t find a home on the water available over Labor Day weekend except for a seven-bedroom out in Wauwinet that rents for twenty-five thousand dollars a week. Although, make no mistake, the house is the highest quality real estate porn imaginable, with jaw-dropping views across Polpis Harbor, a pool, a hot tub, a pool house with a wet bar and an exercise room, a tennis court, an outdoor kitchen and entertaining space, and a home theater.

  The house is named Desdemona, which Mallory finds intriguing. Desdemona is the tragic heroine in Othello; Othello kills her for adultery that she didn’t commit. It seems like an odd name for a summer mansion, and yet it’s the perfect name for a house Mallory would rent so that her son doesn’t meet her married lover.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars. Before Kitty and Senior died, this wouldn’t even be an option. Now Mallory has the money—but can she in good conscience spend it on one weekend for a house that is so big, she and Jake won’t even set foot in half the rooms?

  Definitely not. She can’t believe she’s even considering it. She’ll have him stay on the boat. They’ll sail to Chatham on Saturday, Cuttyhunk on Sunday. If it rains…well, she’s not sure what they’ll do if it rains. The Greta is miserable in the rain. It had better not rain.

  Mallory revisits the idea of renting Desdemona. Other people take vacations; they go to the isle of Capri, they go on safari. Those trips must cost twenty-five thousand dollars, or nearly. Fray took Link and Anna and the baby and the baby’s nanny to the Four Seasons in Maui for ten days this past Christmas. That must have cost twenty-five grand. Of course, Fray is in a different category of wealthy from Mallory, but what does money even mean if you can’t spend it on the things that make you happy?

  Mallory and Jake don’t need seven bedrooms or a tennis court; they don’t need to watch Same Time, Next Year in a home theater. But they do need to be together in a safe, private environment and if it takes twenty-five thousand dollars to make sure this happens, then Mallory will do it.

  What does Doris say in Same Time, Next Year?

  I knew…that no matter what the price, I was willing to pay it.

  Mallory picks up her phone and calls Grey Lady Real Estate.

  “Good afternoon, this is Grey Lady, Jeremiah speaking, may I help you?”

  Mallory hesitates. Jeremiah? “Hello,” she says, praying this isn’t who she thinks it is. “My name is Mallory Bless—”

  “Oh, hey, Miss Blessing, it’s Jeremiah Freehold.”

  Mallory would like to hang up. “Jeremiah, hey there. This is a surprise. Are you—”

  “A licensed broker? Yes, I am, have been for years,” he says.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mallory says. She knew that Jeremiah had supervised a historically sensitive renovation of his parents’ home on Orange Street and she maybe knew that he’d then gone into real estate, but she is nonetheless surprised—and dismayed—to have Jeremiah on the phone right now. Even all these years later, she still feels mortified about that ride out to Gibbs Pond.

  She loves living on an island and being part of a small community, and she also hates it.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Jeremiah asks.

  What should she say? She can’t ask about Desdemona. It’s twenty-five thousand dollars a week and she’s a schoolteacher. And what possible excuse would she give for renting it? A family reunion? She has exactly one family member left aside from her child and that’s Cooper. She should never have called. Why did she call? How is she going to get off the phone with Jeremiah?

  “I’m calling for a friend,” Mallory says, then she cringes because this sounds so fishy. “They’re looking for a one- or two-bedroom rental over Labor Day weekend. Preferably on the water. And not too expensive. Do you have anything available?”

  Jeremiah laughs. “I don’t have a single thing.”

  “Right,” Mallory says. She had held out a tiny hope that maybe there was a separate listing sheet for locals and that Jeremiah, recalling Mallory’s kindness toward him so long ago—because it had been kindness—would share it with her. “Okay, I’ll tell them they’re out of luck, then. Thanks, Jeremiah.”

  “You’re welcome,” Jeremiah says. “Take care.”

  (Jeremiah hangs up, then stares at the phone. He actually does have something out in Madaket, right on the beach at the entrance to Smith Point, that would be perfect for two people. He considers calling Miss Blessing back and offering it to her, but he stops himself. He loved her so much once upon a time. When she invited him to spend lunch at Gibbs Pond during the darkest days of his senior year, he thought his prayers had been answered. The whole drive out to the pond, he’d thought about kissing her. But when they’d gotten stuck in the mud, she’d been flustered and short-tempered with him. She had treated him poorly, sending him out to the road for help like she was the queen and he her footman, and then, once they got back to school and everyone was talking about them—Jeremiah’s not going to lie, he found this exhilarating—she became frosty. She stopped reading his poetry; she stopped recommending books. She’d been extra-critical on his final assignments and he’d ended the class with an A minus instead of the A he deserved. No, he will not tell her about the cottage on the beach in Madaket, sorry.)

  The conversation with Jeremiah Freehold seems to be a sign from above that renting Desdemona is a rotten idea. Even if Mallory were okay with spending twenty-five grand on a weekend rental, Jake would be aghast. If given the choice, he would pick the Greta.

  Okay, she’ll put him on the Greta. He won’t be able to shower, he’ll return to Washington with a salt crust, but oh well.

  The night after all this deliberating takes place, Link comes home just before his midnight curfew and Mallory is, embarrassingly, scrolling through real estate listings—at everywhere but Grey Lady Real Estate—
on her laptop, looking for something available over Labor Day weekend that is less expensive than Desdemona.

  Why is everything booked? Why is Nantucket so popular? Well, she knows why.

  “Mom,” Link says, sitting down across from her at the harvest table. “Don’t say no.”

  “To what?”

  “Just promise me you’ll hear me out before saying no.”

  “You’re not going to Italy,” Mallory says.

  “That’s not what I was going to ask,” Link says.

  “Okay.” Mallory closes out her tabs and shuts her laptop. “Shoot.”

  “Nicole leaves on Monday, September fourth,” Link says. “Her flight is out of JFK and she and her mom are spending the weekend, Labor Day weekend, in New York City so they can shop for clothes and stuff for Nicole’s trip and they asked me to go with them.”

  Mallory’s heart is on a trampoline doing flips. “They asked? Terri is okay with this? She doesn’t want a weekend of mother-daughter time?”

  “She’s the one who suggested it,” Link says. “I guess she has some friend, a guy she visits in New York every year, who she wants to see, and so she’s even giving Nicole and me money so we can have a real date night.”

  “I’ll give you money for date night,” Mallory says. Her thoughts are whizzing around like moths at a porch light. Terri has a friend in New York she sees every year. She has a Same Time Next Year too, maybe? And her Same Time Next Year is saving Mallory’s? Is that possible?

  “So I can go?” Link says.

  “Yes, you can go,” Mallory says. “Tell Terri I’m paying for all your expenses. She shouldn’t have to spend a dime.”

  Link collapses back in his chair. “Thank you, Mama.”

  “You’re welcome, my sweet prince.”

  Link’s eyes fill. “I don’t want her to go.”

  “I know,” Mallory says. “Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

  Summer #26: 2018

  What are we obsessing over in 2018? The Parkland shooting; Kim Jong-un; tariffs; Justify; the Philadelphia Eagles; the opioid epidemic; Mark Zuckerberg; Waffle House; Bill Cosby; Anthony Bourdain; the Tham Luang cave rescue; Banksy; Larry Nassar; the Colorado baker; Peloton; Kate Spade; family separation at the border; the Boss on Broadway; duck boats; Cardi B.; Annapolis; Barbara Bush; Tree of Life synagogue; Stephen Colbert; Chris Pratt and Anna Faris; Daenerys, Jon Snow, Arya, Cersei, Tyrion, Sansa, and Bran; Bohemian Rhapsody; Jerome Powell; “Kiki, do you love me?”; California wildfires; Jamal Khashoggi; George H. W. Bush.

  Ursula wakes up to twenty-four text messages, twice as many e-mails, and fifteen voicemails, three of which are from Lansdell Irwin, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

  Eighty-four-year-old Supreme Court justice Cecil Anne Barton, known as Justice Cece, has died in her sleep. It’s not exactly a tragedy at her age, but she was loved by one and all.

  The three voicemails from Lansdell Irwin are variations on Wake up, Ursula. We have work to do.

  The selection of a Supreme Court nominee is delicate and Ursula de Gournsey happens to believe it’s the most important thing a president will do during an administration. The current president, eighty-three-year-old John Shields, is a kindly gentleman who comes across like a fun grandpa, the one who takes the kids out to Carvel for dinner. It’s understood that because of his advanced age, he’s a one-term president, a placeholder until the Future steps forward. Shields gamely admits that he doesn’t understand “the social media”—he can’t figure out Facebook, never mind Twitter—so he leaves that to “the youngsters.” Ursula doesn’t have high hopes for any Supreme Court candidate Shields nominates; she’s heard whisperings of some of the names on the short list and they’re all uninspiring.

  When his nominee is announced, Ursula is pleasantly surprised. It’s Kevin Blackstone Cavendish; he goes by “Stone” or, to his closest friends, “Stonesy.” The only sticky issue with Stone Cavendish is that he’s yet another white male, and aggressively WASPy: St. Paul’s, Dartmouth, Yale. But overall, he’s a solid choice, one that is notably nonpartisan. He’s married; he has three kids in public schools; he’s personable (for a judge), charming, even. If Ursula herself were president, he might be her nominee. She predicts he’ll be confirmed by both the House and the Senate with very little drama.

  Ursula is wrong.

  A woman steps forward, a well-respected superintendent of schools in Richmond, Virginia, who claims that Stone Cavendish physically and sexually abused her in the summer of 1983, which was the summer before both she and Stone left for college. They met at a bonfire in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Stone was working as a lifeguard there and the woman, Eve Quist, was visiting her friend’s summer home for the weekend. Stone and Eve talked at the bonfire; Stone brought Eve a can of Coors Light. Eve claims that when she went into the dunes to relieve herself, Stone Cavendish sneaked up behind her, tackled her in the sand, hiked up her skirt, and started to unbutton his shorts. When Eve started screaming, he threw a handful of sand into her face, and some of it went into her eyes and some of it into her mouth. She felt like she was choking, she says.

  He said, Just be quiet, please, and give me what I want.

  He tried to slip his hand into Eve’s panties and she bit his shoulder, hard; she broke the skin, tasted blood. He loosened his grip enough that Eve Quist was able to struggle free and run back to the bonfire to get her friend. The two girls left the party.

  Eve told that friend, Lydia Hager, about the incident and said she wanted to call the police. But the two girls had sneaked out of Lydia’s house in order to attend the party and Lydia was afraid of getting in trouble. She begged Eve to forget about it. Lydia knew Stone Cavendish, knew he was off to Dartmouth. Eve, meanwhile, was headed to UVA.

  You’ll never have to see him again, Lydia said.

  Stone Cavendish categorically denies the accusations; he says he doesn’t remember Eve Quist, but there is something in his eyes, Ursula thinks, that says otherwise. Or maybe what she and everyone else in America are seeing is his incredulity that anyone can just come out of the woodwork, say whatever she wants, and threaten his chance at a seat on the Supreme Court.

  The FBI investigates the accusations. The media has a field day.

  Eve Quist is attractive, poised, articulate, intelligent, and has nothing to gain from coming forward. In fact, she has everything to lose. She stays resolute and consistent with her story. Not a single detail changes over the dozens of times she tells it. Her husband, William Quist, is an orthopedic surgeon; he tells investigators that Eve related this story to him on their third date. He says he knows the incident has probably haunted Eve in a way that bad things from your past haunt you and although she would never have tracked the guy down, she couldn’t stand by and let him ascend to the highest court in the nation without letting people know that he is—or was—abusive. They aren’t looking to ruin anyone. Eve would like an admission of guilt and an apology from him.

  Stone Cavendish provides neither.

  Lydia Hager would have been an excellent corroborating witness but she died of breast cancer in 2011. Eve didn’t know anyone else at the party.

  The FBI does its due diligence and contacts all the people who were lifeguards in Point Pleasant during the summer of 1983. They find three men and one woman who remember working with Stone, and all four people say they regularly attended bonfires on the beach at which Stone Cavendish was present. The men say they have no idea which night Dr. Quist is referring to. There were so many parties and it was so long ago. The woman, Cindy Piccolo, does claim to remember the evening in question. Cindy Piccolo had been dating Stone Cavendish for most of the summer of 1983 but they had broken up in the middle of August, she said, because Stone wanted to go off to Dartmouth without any lingering attachments. Cindy had still been hung up on him. It was impossible not to be, she said in her statement. He was good-looking, smart, confident, a preppy boarding-school kid who was going to an Ivy League college. Cindy had seen St
one that night talking to a redhead who someone said was a friend of Lydia Hager’s. Cindy had watched them closely. She saw when Stone brought Eve a beer; she watched Stone follow Eve into the dunes. She also claims she saw Eve come out of the dunes alone—Cindy registered relief—and she herself had gone to find Stone. They had ended up making love in the dunes that night.

  Does Cindy remember if Eve seemed upset coming out of the dunes?

  No, she says. I don’t remember.

  Does Cindy remember if Stone had been bitten on the shoulder? Eve Quist says Stone Cavendish was wearing a tank top, so a bite might have been visible.

  No, she says. I don’t remember.

  Did Cindy hear anybody talking that night or the next day about what happened while Eve and Stone were in the dunes together?

  No, she says.

  Did Cindy ever see Lydia or Eve again?

  No, Cindy says. But I remember the red hair. Eve’s hair. That’s definitely the person he went into the dunes with.

  The country is divided: Team Stone and Team Eve.

  Jake is Team Eve.

  “The guy definitely did it,” he says.

  They’re in the kitchen, breakfast time. Jake is making Bess an omelet that she will devour without hesitation. She is wonderfully unselfconscious around food, which Ursula is happy about but also jealous of.

  “Agreeing with Dad,” Bess says.

  Ursula says nothing. She supposes families all over the country are discussing this very same issue and picking sides, but most of those families do not include a U.S. senator who will be voting on whether or not to confirm the accused to the Supreme Court.