The Perfect Couple

by Elin Hilderbrand

  Once they’re in the Land Rover headed out the Polpis Road, Tag worries that Merritt will reach over and put her hand on his leg. Then he worries she won’t. He has an erection simply from smelling her perfume and listening to her rummage through her clutch purse in the dark. He can’t go inside in this state; he needs to talk himself down. He takes a deep breath. He worries there will be someone he knows at this dinner—and how will he explain who Merritt is? My future daughter-in-law’s best friend. It sounds sleazy. It is sleazy. What will people think? They’ll think… well, they’ll think the obvious.

  But then Tag calls upon one of his favorite sayings: Perception is reality. This situation can be translated in more than one way. Tonight, Tag will perceive this outing as innocent and fun and that is what it will become. He relaxes a little.

  “Is this your first time on Nantucket?” he asks.

  “Not at all,” she says. “I’ve come with friends over the years, in college and then as a so-called adult.”

  “Where was college?” he asks.

  “Trinity,” she says. “In glamorous Hartford.”

  He has friends whose children went to Trinity but he doesn’t dare ask if Merritt knows any of them; he’s already self-conscious enough about how young she is. Or how old he is.

  “Do you have siblings?” Tag asks.

  “A brother,” she says. “Married with kids and a mortgage.”

  “And where did you grow up?” Tag asks.

  “On Long Island,” she says. “Commack.”

  Tag nods. He and Greer have successfully avoided Long Island, though he does have a client with a house in Oyster Bay whom he visits on occasion and there was one long-ago rainy weekend in Montauk when the boys were small. He has never heard of Commack. “I always wanted a daughter,” he says. “But Greer didn’t. She’s happy with the boys.”

  “Greer is lovely,” Merritt says.

  “Isn’t she?” he says. “Anyway, now we have a daughter-in-law. Abby. And soon, Celeste.”

  “Celeste is a treasure,” Merritt says. “I met her at a difficult time in my life. She saved me.”

  This statement seems to warrant a follow-up question, but it’s too late. They’ve arrived. The house is, in fact, grand—it’s all lit up from within, overlooking the sound but from a more dramatic vantage point than Tag’s house. There are two unfamiliar cars in the driveway.

  Tag parks, then smiles at Merritt. This is going to be innocent and fun. “Shall we?” he says.

  The evening unfolds easily. There are ten diners, plus the French gentleman from the esteemed Dujac vineyard plus one of the sous-chefs from Nautilus plus two kitchen staff and two waitstaff. Tag doesn’t know a soul. The other eight diners are all one group. They tell Tag it’s their first time to Nantucket. They live in Texas.

  “Where in Texas?” Merritt asks.

  Tag steels himself to hear that they’re from Austin and then to find out that they are best friends or business partners of Abby’s parents, the Freemans.

  “San Antonio,” they say. “Remember the Alamo.”

  It quickly becomes obvious that Merritt knows nothing about wine, not even the basics. She doesn’t know that cabernet sauvignons are from Bordeaux and that pinot noirs and chardonnays are from Burgundy. She doesn’t know what terroir is. She has never heard of pinot franc; she has never heard of the Loire Valley. How can she be an influencer of culture when she doesn’t have even a basic vocabulary of wine? What does she drink when she goes out?

  “Cocktails,” she says. “Gin, bourbon, vodka, tequila. Skinny margaritas are my go-to.” She must see him grimace because she adds, “There used to be a place downtown, Pearl and Ash, that made a cocktail called Teenage Jesus, which was my particular favorite. Plus, the name.”

  Tag can’t imagine drinking something called a Teenage Jesus. “What about when you have oysters? When you have caviar? Surely you must drink champagne.”

  “Prosecco,” she says. “But only if someone presses it on me. It gives me a headache.”

  After his starter glass, a 2013 Chambolle-Musigny, goes down, he decides that Merritt’s ignorance is fortuitous. She isn’t the jaded, worldly woman he thought she was. He had convinced himself over the past few hours that she was at least thirty but now he fears she’s closer to twenty-five. More than thirty years younger than he is.

  After his second glass, a 2009 Morey Saint-Denis, he is loose. He will teach Merritt about wine. He will teach her how to roll the wine over her tongue. He will teach her how to identify black-cherry and tobacco notes in pinots, and lemon, mint, and clover in sauvignon blancs. He’s excited by this mission, although her palate will be exposed to some of the finest wines in the world tonight, and this worries him. When you start with the best, the future offers only disappointment.

  They stumble out of the house well past midnight, hand in hand. At one extremely saturated point during the evening, one of the Texas ladies turned to Merritt and said, “So how long have y’all been married?”

  Without hesitation, Merritt said, “We’re newlyweds.”

  “Congratulations!” the woman said. “Second marriage?”

  Merritt winked. “How’d you guess?”

  So when they leave, they are a couple, married by the incredible wine, the extraordinary food, the camaraderie of complete strangers. It’s as if they have stepped out of their lives into another life where everything is new and anything is possible. When Tag opens the passenger door for Merritt, she turns to him and raises her face.

  He kisses her once, chastely, on the lips.

  “That’s all I get?” she says.

  Say yes, Tag thinks. Be strong. Be true to Greer and the boys. Show some integrity, for God’s sake.

  But.

  Even that faintest touch of her lips sent a surge of electricity through him. Tag is pulsing with desire for her. He won’t be able to stop himself from driving Merritt to the beach and making love to her, maybe more than once.

  He is, ultimately, only a man.

  Saturday, July 7, 2018, 8:30 a.m.

  THE CHIEF

  After interviewing Roger, the Chief has some choices for who to talk to next. There’s the bride’s father, who is in an upstairs bedroom with the bride’s mother; Greer Garrison has requested that they not be disturbed until the last possible minute because of the mother’s health. And the groom, Benjamin Winbury, asked permission to go to the hospital to check on Celeste. He promised to be back in an hour. So, as far as persons of interest go, that leaves the Chief with the groom’s brother, Thomas; the groom’s father, Thomas Senior, known as Tag; and this Shooter fellow, the best man. The Chief thinks the third option is the most promising.

  Dickson said the best man was missing when he arrived on the scene, but then the guy turned up in a cab an hour later. He could have met a woman—or a man—last night and slept elsewhere. But the perplexing thing is that he had his luggage with him. It’s almost as if he’d planned to leave and then changed his mind. There might be a plausible explanation for this, but the Chief can’t come up with it himself. He will question Shooter.

  The Chief finds Shooter standing behind the police tape at the edge of the beach, staring in the direction of the water. He has shed the blazer, removed his shoes, untucked his shirt.

  “Hey there,” the Chief says. Shooter turns. His expression is one of fear, maybe, or alarm. The Chief is used to it. In thirty years, no one has been exactly happy to see him while he was on duty in the field. “Are you free to answer a few questions?”

  “What about?” Shooter says.

  “We’re interviewing everyone who’s part of the wedding. I understand you’re the best man?”

  “If you’re going to ask me what happened to her, I really have no idea,” Shooter says.

  “I’d just like to get some background,” the Chief says. “About the events of last night. Easy stuff.”

  Shooter nods. “I can handle that, I suppose.”

  “Great,” the Chief says. He l
eads Shooter across the driveway to the white wrought-iron bench under the rose arbor where he talked to Roger. He sees police tape all around the cottage on the north side of the property, which was where the maid of honor was staying by herself. The Chief is fairly certain that if they can find the girl’s phone, they’ll have the answers they’re looking for. The Chief has learned over the past decade that if you want to know the truth about a person, just look through his or her phone.

  Shooter takes a seat and the Chief pulls his notebook out. He has only one question for Shooter. “So… where were you last night?”

  “Last night?” Shooter says.

  Just like that, the Chief knows a lie is coming. “Yes, last night,” the Chief says. “The groom told my sergeant that you were missing. Until you pulled up in the cab, we thought maybe you were dead as well. But, thankfully, we were mistaken. Where were you?”

  “I’m sorry I caused you to worry,” Shooter says. “I was up at the Wauwinet.”

  “The Wauwinet Inn?” the Chief says.

  “The restaurant, actually. Topper’s? I’m friendly with the bartender there.”

  “And what’s the bartender’s name?”

  “Name?” Shooter says. “Oh. Gina.”

  “The bartender at Topper’s is named Gina. And you spent last night with Gina?”

  “Yes,” Shooter says.

  “She lives up there?” the Chief asks. “At the Wauwinet?”

  “Yes,” Shooter says. “Staff housing.”

  “Had you planned to spend the night with Gina?” the Chief asks. “Because the groom seemed to think you’d spent the night in the cottage.”

  “I hadn’t planned on it, no,” Shooter says. “It was just a booty call. It was late, she texted, I went up there.”

  A booty call. The Chief thinks protectively of Chloe. He feels a hundred years old. “What time was that?”

  “I’m really not sure,” Shooter says.

  “You can check your phone,” the Chief says.

  Shooter slips his phone out of the pocket of his Nantucket Reds shorts. He pushes some buttons and says, “I must have deleted the text.”

  “You must have deleted the text,” the Chief says. “Tell me why you took your luggage. All of your luggage, from the looks of it.”

  “Right,” Shooter says. His tone is cautious, and the Chief can practically see the shadowy interior of his mind where he’s groping around for something solid to hold on to. “I took my luggage because I thought I might just stay up at the Wauwinet with Gina.”

  “But then this morning, quite early, I’d say, you showed back up here. So what happened?”

  “I changed my mind,” Shooter says.

  “You changed your mind,” the Chief says. He looks at Shooter Uxley. The kid is sweating, but then again, it’s hot, even in the shade. “Would you mind giving me this Gina’s cell phone number, please?”

  “Her number?” Shooter says. “I’d rather not. I don’t want her to get involved in this if we can help it.”

  “We can’t help it,” the Chief says. “Because Gina is your alibi.”

  “My alibi?” Shooter says. “Why do I need an alibi?”

  “We have an unattended death,” the Chief says. “And you were missing, then you showed back up. Now, maybe your story holds water. Maybe you did go up to the Wauwinet to hook up with Gina the bartender with all your luggage and maybe you did then decide you didn’t like Gina that much or that the staff housing wasn’t as nice as the Winburys’ guest cottage. That’s all feasible. But we have a twenty-nine-year-old woman dead, so I’m going to proceed with due diligence and check out your story. You can either give me the girl’s cell phone—which I know you have because you said she texted you late last night—or I’ll call the front desk of the Wauwinet and contact her that way.”

  Shooter gets to his feet. “Call the Wauwinet,” he says. “I need to use the bathroom right now. My stomach is funny. I think it was the raw bar from last night.”

  “Go ahead,” the Chief says. He’s not stupid. He knows that Shooter will go into the cottage to “use the bathroom,” but really he’ll text Gina the bartender and ask her to corroborate his story.

  The Chief waits until Shooter disappears into the cottage, then he takes out his phone and calls Bob from Old Salt Taxi. Bob, who dropped Shooter off here this morning, has been a friend of the Chief’s for twenty-five years.

  “Hey, Bob,” the Chief says. “It’s Ed Kapenash.”

  “Ed,” Bob says. “Sorry I didn’t stop to chat this morning. You looked like you were busy. What’s going on? Word on the street is there was a murder.”

  Word on the street. Already? Well, it is a small island. “I can’t get into it,” the Chief says. “But you remember the kid you dropped off? I need to know where you picked him up. Did you pick him up at the Wauwinet?”

  “The Wauwinet?” Bob says. “No. That real handsome kid in the red shorts and the blazer? I picked him up down at the Steamship. He had a ticket for the six-thirty slow boat this morning but I guess he missed it. And so he asked me to take him back to Monomoy. He said he was staying there.”

  “You’re sure you picked him up at the Steamship dock?” the Chief says. “And not at the Wauwinet?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Bob says. “I may not be getting any younger but I have yet to make a twelve-mile mistake. I picked that kid up on Steamboat Wharf. He told me he’d missed the six-thirty.”

  “Okay, Bob, wonderful, thanks. I’ll talk to you.” The Chief hangs up and takes a second to think. Shooter had a ticket for the early boat? With the wedding scheduled for this afternoon? Something is going on. And he flat-out lied about the Wauwinet.

  Why?

  A text comes in on the Chief’s phone. It’s from the funeral director, Bostic, saying he’s on his way to collect the body—which is good news, considering the heat and the fragile state of everyone’s nerves. Bostic will get the body ready for transfer to the medical examiner on Cape Cod. The Chief checks the time. If everything goes perfectly, they may have a report on the cause of death by early afternoon.

  The Chief waits another few minutes for Shooter to emerge. By now, he must know he’s been caught in a lie. The Chief strides across the shell driveway to the cottage that Shooter entered and knocks on the door. “Excuse me?” he says. “Mr. Uxley?”

  No answer. He knocks harder. “Sir?”

  The Chief tries the knob. The door is locked. He forces the door, which feels extreme, but he wants Shooter Uxley to know he can’t hide.

  The cottage is empty. The Chief checks the little sitting room, the galley kitchen, the bedroom, and the bathroom—where the window is wide open.

  Shooter Uxley is gone.

  Friday, July 6, 2018, 4:00 p.m.

  KAREN

  She wakes up from her nap with the sun striping her bed and for one glorious instant, she feels no pain. She sits up without any help. It’s as if Nantucket Island—the quality of the air, the rarefied seaside atmosphere—has cured her. She’s going to be fine.

  “B-B-Betty?”

  Karen turns. Celeste emerges from Karen’s bathroom wearing a ruffled sundress the color of a tangerine, a sunset, a monarch butterfly. It’s bright and very flattering. Celeste may have the brain and temperament of a scientist, but she has the body of a bathing-suit model. She inherited Karen’s breasts, which used to be her best feature, round and firm. But along with the breasts, Celeste may also have inherited the predisposition to cancer. Karen has made Celeste promise that as soon as she and Benji are married and Celeste has comprehensive health insurance, she will go to Sloan Kettering for genetic testing. And if necessary, she will get screened every year. Early detection is key.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” Karen says. “What are you doing here? Surely you have more important places to be? This is your time to shine.”

  “I was putting your t-t-toiletries away,” Celeste says. “And now I can help you g-g-get ready.”

  Karen’s eyes prick with t
ears. It is she who should be helping Celeste, she who should be fussing over her daughter, the bride. But there is no denying that if Karen is to get dressed and make herself presentable, she will need help.

  “Where’s your father?” she asks.

  “Swimming,” Celeste says.

  There’s a stabbing pain in Karen’s chest. It’s jealousy. Bruce is swimming. Karen yearns to be with him, to feel the power of her four limbs. She had once been so strong; she remembers swimming the butterfly leg on her relay team, soaring from the water, arms stretched overhead, legs pumping behind. When she looks back at her life, she sees how much she has taken for granted.

  Celeste is by her side. Karen takes a moment to look up at her face. Her eyes are sad, and Karen is concerned about the stutter, although she hasn’t mentioned it because she doesn’t want to make Celeste self-conscious for fear that the stutter will get worse. She knows that Benji and Celeste have whittled down their wedding vows so that all Celeste has to say is “I do.”

  “Is everything okay?” Karen asks.

  “Yes, B-B-Betty, of course,” Celeste says.

  The nickname never fails to give Karen joy, even so many years later. She is Betty, for Betty Crocker, because Karen swears by the tattered, spiral-bound cookbooks she inherited from her own mother. Bruce, meanwhile, is Mac, for MacGyver, because he has a talent for unconventional problem-solving. The man can fix anything and prides himself on not having called a repairman in thirty years of marriage. Celeste gave them the nicknames when she was eleven years old and had outgrown Mommy and Daddy.

  Karen strokes Celeste’s forearm and Celeste adjusts her smile so that it seems almost real. She’s pretending. But why? Is she feeling scared and anxious about Karen’s illness? The decline has been significant, Karen knows, even in the two weeks since she last saw Celeste. Karen had dropped thirteen pounds as of a week ago and maybe another ten since then. Her stomach is compromised; she eats a bite or two of food per meal and forces down enough Ensure to keep up her strength. Her hair is nothing but gray fuzz, like one finds on a pussy willow. Her eyes are sunken, and her limbs tremble. It has probably come as a shock to Celeste.