The news lands like a punch to Marty’s gut because his very own daughter, Laura Rae, is getting married in September and her maid of honor, Adi Conover, is like a second daughter to Marty. Because Marty’s wife, Nancy, is gone, Marty has been the one planning the wedding with Laura Rae. They hired Roger Pelton to help—Marty and Roger go way back, as Roger’s daughter Heather and Laura Rae played softball together in high school—and out of curiosity plus some kind of hunch, Marty asks Brenner the state policeman if Roger Pelton was doing the wedding.
“Roger Pelton?” Brenner says. “He’s the one who called it in. But I’m pretty sure he’s been cleared.”
Cleared? Marty thinks. Of course Roger has been cleared. He certainly didn’t murder anyone! Marty tells Brenner to call over to Blade, the private helicopter service, as well as the private plane hangar ASAP. There’s no way a person of interest would escape Nantucket via a commercial flight. The TSA are too assiduous; they’re bulldogs. They don’t let peanut butter through, much less a person of interest.
Brenner says he’ll handle the private services, and Marty alerts the TSA and the policeman on duty inside security, then he goes back upstairs to his desk to call Roger Pelton.
“I heard about the body,” Marty says. “I’m so sorry, Roger.”
“I can’t… I don’t think…” Roger sounds choked up. “I can’t describe what it was like, pulling that poor girl out of the water. The bride was the one who found her floating, her best friend, her maid of honor. The bride was… well, she was hysterical and she’s such a sweet, sweet kid. Her big day ended before it even began, and in complete tragedy.”
“Aw, jeez, Roger,” Marty says. He eyes his breakfast, which has now grown cold. He pushes the plate away. “Who’s this person of interest on the lam? This Shooter Uxley?”
“On the lam?” Roger says. “Shooter?”
“The Chief called a little while ago,” Marty says. “They’re looking for someone named Shooter Uxley.”
“He’s the best man,” Roger says. “Real gregarious kid, strong handshake. He went out of the way to notice the details. He’s in event planning himself, I guess. I have twenty weddings this month alone and I can’t remember anyone—but that guy I really liked.”
“Well, he’s missing,” Marty says. “He was about to be questioned by the police and he escaped through a bathroom window.”
“That doesn’t look good,” Roger says. “I guess you never know.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Marty says. And then he says good-bye, hangs up, and gets back to the job.
When Mary Ellen Cahill gets off the phone with the Chief, she hands Lola a slip of paper that says Shooter Uxley.
“He’s not in the computer,” Mary Ellen says. “So he would have been a walk-in. He’s six feet tall, dark hair, wearing a blue blazer.”
“That narrows it down,” Lola says.
“My guess is he took the Steamship,” Mary Ellen says. “I hope he took the Steamship. We’re too busy for a murder suspect today.”
Lola looks at the name again. Shooter Uxley. She pulls out her phone, which is expressly forbidden on the job, and finds him instantly on Facebook. He’s as handsome as Tom Brady. And then Lola figures it out.
“Hold the boat!” she shouts. She tears out from behind the counter and goes charging out of the office and down the dock. George, the steward, is just about to fold up the gangplank.
“Lola.” George winks at her. He has a crush on her, she knows, which will work to her advantage.
“I need to get on that boat,” she says. “And as soon as I get on, I need you to find a policeman and send him right behind me.”
“Whoa!” George says. “You buggin’?”
“Trust me, Georgie. This is an urgent matter. A life-and-death matter. Let me on the boat, then find a policeman.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Lola says.
She wants to go charging through the cabin but she maintains her calm. The stolen ticket. The movie-star handsome Shooter Uxley stole a ticket from the pregnant woman and went sauntering onto the boat. Lola scans the faces. She sees old people, sunburned people, men wearing Nantucket Reds; she sees yellow Labs, crying babies, Boston terriers, women who have had a lot of plastic surgery. She sees a kid in a Spider-Man costume. She sees a shirtless guy in a pair of American-flag trunks, passed out and snoring.
Lola Budd feels a hand on her arm. She turns to see a policeman standing with Fred Stiftel, one of the captains.
“Young lady,” the policeman says. “What’s going on?”
Lola glances around the cabin. Her eye snags on a face in line at the bar. He has his sunglasses on but she recognizes the set of his jaw and the dark, floppy forelock. Blue shirt, navy blazer.
“There he is,” Lola says to the policeman. She keeps her voice normal and her eyes trained on the person of interest. “Shooter Uxley. He’s right there.”
The officer approaches Shooter Uxley, who drops his beer. In the ensuing commotion, he tries to run but it’s too crowded, there’s nowhere to go, and the policeman easily pins Shooter’s arms behind his back and cuffs him. He informs Shooter that he is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation and that he will be detained until the police release him from questioning. Everyone on the boat is watching. There’s a low-level hum beneath a general hush.
It’s just like on TV! Lola thinks. In this case, the hero is her! Lola Budd!
She can’t wait to text Finn and tell him about it. The Chief will have to like her now.
Friday, July 6, 2018, 8:30 p.m.
KAREN
Bruce brings her a cup filled with a pale, fizzy liquid garnished with two blackberries.
“What is this?” she asks. “Not the punch? I don’t think I can handle the punch.”
“Not the punch,” Bruce says. “It’s a wine cooler, handcrafted by yours truly. More cooler than wine, but I tasted it and I think you’ll approve.”
Karen takes a sip and is transported back to her youth. Her husband is the most thoughtful man on earth. “Thank you, baby,” she says.
He kisses her full on the lips, and even after so many years, something inside of Karen stirs. “Anything for you,” he says. “And I do mean anything.”
At the table, Karen eats half a lobster tail. Each butter-drenched bite makes her moan with pleasure. Never in her life has anything tasted so divine.
Bruce tries to cajole her into tasting his biscuit. He pulls it apart so she can see the fluffy layers, but she demurs. The lobster was enough, more than enough.
Bruce chimes his spoon against his water glass as he holds it aloft. The tent grows quiet. Karen hopes this goes well. Bruce has had at least three cups of the punch.
Bruce says, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Bruce Otis, father of the bride.”
His face radiates pride. He loves the title and Karen has to admit, she does too. The last time either of them were people of distinction, she thinks, was when they were in high school. She swam the butterfly leg on the four-hundred-meter relay team, and anyone who isn’t impressed by that has never tried to swim a hundred yards of butterfly, much less swim it fast. And Bruce, of course, won the state wrestling title.
Karen gazes down at the table and closes her eyes to listen. We would go to the post office to mail packages or check our box, and the line was always extra-long on Saturdays, but you know what? I didn’t care. I could wait an hour. I could wait all day… because I was with Karen. Karen embeds these words deep within herself. She has been loved in her life, deeply and truly loved. She has been known and understood. Is there anything more she is supposed to want?
But following her gratitude is… guilt. She hasn’t told Bruce about the three pearlescent ovoid pills mixed in with her oxy. The pill is an unpronounceable compound that she bought illegally off the internet from a website she stumbled across when she Googled euthanasia. She e-mailed with a person named Dr. Tang who used to be an anesthesiologist, licensed in the state of
Utah, and now provides terminally ill patients with drugs—for a price—so that people like Karen can end their lives with dignity.
The three pills cost twelve hundred dollars, eleven hundred of which Karen withdrew from her own personal checking account, money she had stashed away from working at the Crayola factory gift shop—her “mad money,” as her mother used to call it. The other hundred dollars she stole from Bruce’s wallet in five-and ten-dollar increments. She justifies the act because, unlike Bruce, she does not have a penchant for expensive clothes. She has never spent a frivolous dollar in her life, and she certainly isn’t now. These pills will put her down instantly, saving both Bruce and Celeste the anguish, mess, and expense of her natural demise.
If she told Bruce, he would understand, she thinks. In thirty-two years of marriage, they have always viewed the world the same way. But what if he doesn’t understand? Euthanasia is a topic that taps into deeply personal views of dignity and fear but, mostly, spirituality. Karen is afraid of pain, yes, she’s afraid of the cancer eating her up from the inside. Bruce is afraid of being left alone, but he might also be afraid for her soul. She has no idea. They haven’t been big church people, though they identify loosely as Catholic and celebrate all the holidays. They had Celeste baptized at St. Jane’s in Palmer Township, back when Karen’s mother and Bruce’s parents were still alive. But Karen hasn’t set foot in St. Jane’s for years and years. Bruce has always seemed to be on the same page as Karen—she doesn’t know what she believes in; she just tries to be a good person and hopes for the best. But what if Bruce secretly holds the tenets of the Catholic Church to be absolute and believes that suicide will automatically assign Karen to hell?
Karen hasn’t talked to Bruce about life after she’s gone because he refuses to acknowledge the inevitable—which, she supposes, is better than him accepting it too readily. As the assembled guests raise their glasses to Celeste and Benji, Bruce gazes down on Karen with an expression so filled with tenderness, with love and awe, that Karen can barely meet his eyes. Her ardor matches his own, but she is a realist. Cancer has made her a realist.
She has, for example, come to terms with the likelihood that Bruce will remarry. She wants him to. It won’t be the same, she knows. He will always love her first, last, and best. The new wife will be younger—not as young as Celeste, Karen hopes—and she will add a new vitality to Bruce’s life. Maybe the new wife will have a job that provides money for traveling, real traveling—national parks, cruises, bicycle tours of Europe. Maybe Bruce will take up yoga or watercolor painting; maybe he’ll learn to speak Italian. Karen can imagine these possibilities without jealousy or anger. That’s how she knows it’s time for her to go.
After dessert, she and Bruce dance to one song, “Little Surfer Girl.” Karen has always loved this song even though she has never been anywhere near a surfboard. She heard her father sing it once, in the car, when she was a little girl and that was all it took. Her father’s happiness and his carefree falsetto had been contagious. Bruce knows about this memory and so he croons in Karen’s ear. They are dancing—shuffling, really—among the other guests. No one is staring at them, she hopes, or taking photos or marveling that a woman so sick can still dance.
When the song is over, everyone claps. The band, it seems, is calling it a night. The evening is drawing to a close.
Celeste appears out of nowhere. “D-D-Did you have fun, B-B-Betty?”
“So much fun,” Karen says. “But I’m exhausted.”
She feels Bruce’s hand against her back; even the light pressure is excruciating. The oxy is wearing off, leaving her nerve endings to glint like shattered glass. She needs one more oxy before she falls asleep.
“We have a big day tomorrow,” Bruce says.
Celeste says, “T-T-Tag is really looking forward to having a drink with you in his st-st-study. A drink and a Cuban cigar. He’s been t-t-talking about it all week.”
“He has?” Bruce says. “News to me.”
“I’ll get B-B-Betty up to b-b-bed,” Celeste says.
“No, no, darling,” Karen says. “You go have fun. It’s the night before your wedding. You should go out with your friends.”
Celeste gazes across the yard to where Benji and Shooter are filling up cups of beer at the keg. Shooter looks up, then jogs over. Karen is embarrassed at how handsome she finds him. He’s as good-looking as the teen idols from her era—Leif Garrett, David Cassidy, Robby Benson.
“Mrs. Otis,” he says. “Can I get you anything? I happen to know where the caterers stashed the extra lobster tails.”
This makes Karen laugh despite the knives starting to twist in her lower back. How darling of Shooter to remember that Karen likes lobster, even though the days when she might have enjoyed a midnight snack are gone.
“We’re going to bed,” Karen says. “But thank you. Please take my daughter out on the town.”
“I need my b-b-beauty sleep,” Celeste says.
“You’re beautiful enough as it is,” Shooter says. “You couldn’t get any more beautiful.”
Karen looks at Shooter and notes the expression on his face: tenderness. Celeste inspires it in people, she supposes.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Karen says.
“The defense rests, then,” Bruce says. He kisses Celeste’s forehead, then nudges her gently toward Shooter. “Go have fun, darling.”
“But Mac, T-T-Tag wants—”
“Your father will go find Tag for a drink,” Karen says. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to bed.”
Shooter takes Celeste’s arm but she pulls away to give Karen one more hug and a kiss on each cheek. This is an echo of how Karen kissed Celeste good night when she was growing up. Does Celeste realize this? Yes, she must. Karen would like Celeste to come upstairs, tuck her in, read her something, even if it’s just an article from the issue of Town and Country on the nightstand, and then lie with her until she falls asleep, just as Karen used to do with Celeste. But she will not be a burden. She will allow—indeed, encourage—Celeste to pursue her new life.
Bruce turns to Karen. “Let me just walk you upstairs.”
“I’ll be fine,” Karen says. “Go find Tag now so you can come up to me sooner. I’d prefer that.”
Bruce kisses her on the lips. “Okay. Just one drink, though.”
Karen takes her time on her way to her room upstairs. She wants to experience the house at her own pace. She wants to touch the fabrics, sit in the chairs to judge their comfort; she wants to smell the flower arrangements, read the titles of the books. She has never been in a house like this, one where every piece of furniture has been professionally chosen and arranged, where the clocks tick in unison and the paintings and photographs are lit to advantage. The other homes Karen has visited in her lifetime have all been variations of her own—corner cabinets to display the wedding china, sectional sofas, afghans crocheted by maiden aunts.
Karen wanders into the formal living room and stops immediately at a black grand piano. The top of the piano is down flat and it’s covered with framed photographs. The frames themselves strike Karen initially—the majority look like real silver and others are burled wood—and then she looks at the photographs. All of them seem to have been taken on Nantucket over the years. In the one that Karen studies first, Benji and Thomas are teenagers. They’re standing on the beach in front of this house with Tag and Greer behind them. Tag looks then like Benji does now—young and strong with a wide smile. Greer’s expression is inscrutable behind her sunglasses. She wears white capri pants with red pompoms dangling from the hems. That’s a playful touch, Karen thinks. In her next life, she will own such pants.
When she goes to pick up the next photo, she hears someone cough. Karen is so surprised she nearly throws the photograph over her shoulder. She turns to see a woman curled up in one of the curvy modern chairs, like an egg in a cup. The woman is so still that Karen would guess she’s asleep except that her eyes are wide open. She has been here all along, wat
ching Karen.
“I’m sorry,” Karen says. “You frightened me. I didn’t see you.”
The woman blinks. “Who are you, then?” she asks.
“I’m Karen Otis,” Karen says. “Celeste’s mother. The bride’s mother.”
“The bride’s mother,” the woman says. “Yes, that’s right. I noticed you earlier. Your husband gave that lovely toast.”
“Thank you,” Karen says. She suddenly feels very weak. This woman has a British accent; she must be a friend of Tag and Greer’s—nearly everyone here is. Karen remembers her vow to shine. “And what’s your name?”
“Featherleigh,” the woman says. “Featherleigh Dale. I live in London.”
“Very nice,” Karen says. She should excuse herself for bed but she doesn’t want to appear rude to this Featherleigh. Why do the British give their children last names for first names? Winston. Neville. And Greer. When Karen first heard Celeste say the name Greer, Karen had thought it was a man. And this practice is catching on in America, she’s noticed. She used to shake her head in wonder at the children who would come through the Crayola factory gift shop. Little girls named Sloane, Sterling, Brearley. Boys named Millhouse, Dearborne, Acton. And what about Celeste’s maid of honor, Merritt? Like the parkway, Karen heard her say, though Karen has no idea what that means. “I just took a detour on my way to bed. But I should really excuse myself. It was nice to meet you, Featherleigh. I suppose I shall see you tomorrow.”
“Wait!” Featherleigh says. “Please, can you stay another couple of minutes? I’m too drunk to get back to my inn right now.”
“Would you like me to go find Greer?” Karen asks. She’s only asking to be polite. The mere prospect of hunting down Greer is exhausting.
“No!” Featherleigh says. “Not Greer.”
Something in her tone catches Karen’s attention.
Featherleigh lowers her bare feet to the ground and leans forward. “Can you keep a secret?”
The Perfect Couple Page 13
