Every Vow You Break

by Peter Swanson

  Bruce wore a very classic Brunello Cucinelli tux, and Abigail realized that she’d never seen him in any kind of suit before. He looked relaxed and handsome, and the cold that he’d been fighting the past few days had disappeared.

  Bruce’s father, whom Abigail had met only once, sat with her parents, and they all got along, or seemed to, anyway. Bill Lamb was a retired truck driver, a hardened version of his son who looked uncomfortable in the suit that Bruce had bought for him. But he kept claiming that he was having the best day of his life, and he even danced later in the evening, several times with Abigail’s mother, and at one point with all the bridesmaids.

  Abigail’s favorite part of the wedding was the cocktail reception. The photographer had taken pictures prior to the ceremony, Abigail not feeling superstitious about the groom seeing her dress, so that after they were declared husband and wife, everyone could go straight to the reception, which was set up on a sloping lawn with a distant view of the Hudson River. A few tents had been erected but weren’t needed. The skies were clear, and the temperature was somewhere in the sixties. It was perfect. The signature cocktail was a sidecar, served in a coupe. Toasts were made, the oyster bar hummed, and when Abigail’s heel sank into the lawn and she nearly fell over, Bruce managed to catch her.

  Dinner truly was a blur, but it might have been the two cocktails. Abigail managed to eat half of her sea bass with parsley cream sauce and was amazed that it didn’t taste as though it had sat in a warming tray for the last two hours. More toasts were made, including a showstopper by the actor Martin Pilkingham, who embarrassed Abigail by listing off all the Boxgrove actors she’d had a crush on, including Zachary Mason, the actor to whom she’d lost her virginity. Zoe sat next to Abigail through dinner and kept up a good appearance even though she hadn’t reconciled yet with Dan. Usually a big eater, Zoe managed just three stalks of asparagus and drank half a bottle of wine, and she was the first on the dance floor after the traditional dances had ended. During the band’s second set Zoe slipped and hit the floor, and when Bruce’s best man, Darryl Cho, a married computer programmer from California, helped her up, she thanked him by kissing him full on the mouth. The other bridesmaids helped Zoe to her room, then reported back to Abigail that they’d managed to at least get her out of her bridesmaid dress before she passed out on the bed.

  Toward the end of the evening Abigail spotted her parents sitting together at a table on the edge of the dance floor. Each had been dancing, and they now looked sweaty and tired. Abigail joined them.

  “The original Baskins,” Lawrence said. “Together again.”

  “You guys have fun?” she said.

  “God, yes,” Amelia said. “Did you see your aunt Mary on the dance floor?”

  “How could I miss her?”

  “Bruce was very sweet,” Lawrence said. “He introduced himself to everyone in our family and acted as though we are all normal.”

  “And he invited us down to see a show in New York after you two get back from your honeymoon,” her mom said.

  Abigail, slightly tipsy, suddenly said, “He’s going to want to talk with you about the theater. He wants to bring it back.”

  “What theater?” Amelia said. “Our theater?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God. Please derail him. I don’t think I have it in me.”

  “What about you, Dad?”

  “He wants to invest in the theater and bring it back?”

  “He does. Very badly.”

  He took a deep breath. “Two years ago, I would have given my right arm for an investor. But what’s done is done.”

  “Well, look, at least hear him out. He’s so excited to talk with you.”

  After the conversation, when Abigail was returning to the dance floor as the band was breaking into a swing-style version of “Friday I’m in Love,” she caught a glimpse of her parents leaning into each other, half smiles on their lips. She had a moment of clarity, not that they were going to get back together, but that they weren’t. They were too comfortable with each other post-separation. They were friends, and nothing more.

  The last dance of the night was to “Every Breath You Take,” the Police song, done in a bossa nova style. She and Bruce danced close to each other, and she could feel his breath against the hollow of her throat as he mouthed along with the lyrics. Not for the first time, she thought how creepy the words of the song actually were.

  “What did you think of your wedding day?” Bruce asked Abigail as she rested her head against his shoulder. She thought she could probably fall asleep before the end of the song.

  “Oh, it was okay.” She smiled at him and for a moment he looked concerned, then he smiled back, realizing she was joking.

  “Yeah, just okay.”

  “I requested ‘(Don’t Fear) the Reaper,’ and the band didn’t play it.”

  “Assholes.”

  “And I didn’t eat one oyster.”

  “Neither did I,” Bruce said.

  “But I did get married.”

  “Ditto for me,” he said, and she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. He looked tired, too, but in a good way. Happy-tired.

  “I couldn’t be happier, Bruce.”

  “Are you ready for the honeymoon?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I’ve barely thought about it because all I’ve been thinking about is today.”

  “And it’s not over yet.”

  “Technically, it is. We’re into our second day of marriage already.”

  After the dance, and after they’d said good night to the few remaining guests, they walked down the flagstone pathway to the carriage house that they were staying in. There was a lone guest standing in a nearby cluster of trees, smoking a cigarette, the smell of it wafting toward them. Abigail, breathing it in, had a sudden vivid sense memory, the smoke bringing her back to that night in California. But it wasn’t just the smell of a cigarette that was bringing her back; it was more than that. Whoever was smoking in the trees had to be smoking the same cigarette that Scottie had that night at the vineyard. They’d been Gauloises, those unfiltered French cigarettes that had made Abigail feel as if she’d spun around in place about ten times. She stared toward the man smoking, but he was completely in shadow, only the orange tip of the cigarette showing where he was.

  “You okay?” Bruce said.

  “Yeah, sorry. Do you know who that is, smoking?” As soon as she said it, panic grabbed at her. What if it was actually Scottie, and what if Bruce made his way over there?

  “My friend Mike, probably. Why, you want one?”

  “Ha, no.” They kept walking. The night had turned cold, and she shivered. She leaned against Bruce as he opened the door to their room, then he lifted her over the threshold, Abigail screaming in genuine shock. The four-poster bed was turned down, and there were fresh flowers throughout the room. Abigail’s bags had been brought over, and she got her toiletries and her overnight bag and went into the bathroom. There were flowers in there, too, and several lit candles. The stone floor was heated.

  She stared in the mirror for a moment, and told herself that she was paranoid. Scottie hadn’t stalked her all the way to the wedding.

  He stalked you to New York.

  Besides, all cigarettes smelled the same, didn’t they? And people were always smoking at weddings, even people who no longer smoked. She’d spotted Kyra smoking earlier, and her uncle Evan, who’d quit years ago. It made no sense that it was Scottie lurking around her wedding. Why would he come? To watch it from afar? No, if he had decided to come, the only reason would be to break up the event somehow, and he hadn’t tried to do that. It wasn’t him, just some other guest. Maybe even some other guest who liked unfiltered French cigarettes. It was possible.

  She washed her face and got out of her dress. She’d brought a sheer nightdress in baby blue that had puffed sleeves and ruffles along the hem and put it on. She felt slightly ridiculous, but it was her wedding night and when else was she going to wear something like this
? When she emerged from the bathroom Bruce was already in bed, naked from the waist up. She did a quick spin, the hem of the lingerie floating up, then got under the covers, where she tried not to think of the man in the trees, and Scottie, and the smell of French cigarette smoke.

  CHAPTER 10

  What do you mean, there’s no electricity?”

  “There’s some electricity. For a hair dryer, for example, and if there’s an emergency.”

  “Where exactly are you taking me?” Abigail said, laughing. They were driving north in Bruce’s electric Tesla.

  “It’s all part of the experience. No phones, no television, no computers.”

  “I’m fine with all that.”

  “You’re just worried about your hair?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “There are plugs in the bathrooms,” Bruce said. They had just crossed into Massachusetts. The day had begun in bright sunshine, but now there was a thin haze of clouds building across the sky, and the temperature was dropping. The forecast for the week was for heavy winds and occasional showers. Bruce had claimed that it would make the honeymoon more romantic.

  “What about lamps?”

  “They have them there.”

  “Real ones?”

  “Most everything is lit by candles at night, and they give you lanterns when you need to walk somewhere. They look just like old-fashioned oil lanterns but they’re actually battery-powered. They’re really beautiful. Trust me, a week of living this way, you’re never going to want to go back to the real world.”

  “When were you here before, again? I know you told me, but I forgot.”

  “A few times. The longest trip was three years ago, right after Chip opened it. I was one of his first guests. He originally envisioned it as a place for people who work in the computer industry, a place to reconnect with nature, take your eyes off the screen. That sort of thing. There are a lot of corporate retreats there, brainstorming sessions, that sort of thing. And now it’s actually become popular with honeymooning couples, for some of the same reasons. No distractions. Plus, the food’s amazing.”

  “What do people do there?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are there activities?”

  “There are great walks on the island. There’s an indoor swimming pool that you have to see to believe. There’s a spa, but most of the activities are supposed to be like camp activities but for grown-ups. You don’t have to do them, but if you want to, there’s archery, and sailing on the pond, and a whole art studio. You can paint pictures and do pottery.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. All voluntary, though. Personally, I like the main lodge. You can sit by the fire and read. They bring you drinks. It’s pretty sweet. And it’s not going to be filled with corporate types, I promise you. Chip told me it’s going to be relatively empty. It has a Gothic feel, you’ll like it.”

  Abigail was worried that she’d made him a little defensive about his choice of a honeymoon spot, so she said, “It sounds awesome, Bruce. I can’t wait to see it.”

  They stopped for lunch in southern Maine, eating in the basement tavern of a seaside inn near Kennewick Harbor. Abigail, who’d been starving herself just a little bit in preparation for the wedding, ate a cheeseburger with fries and declared it the best she’d ever had. Bruce had the lobster roll and they shared a bottle of Sancerre.

  “I keep having these moments,” Abigail said, “when I suddenly realize that I’m married, that we’re married. It’s kind of mind-blowing.”

  “No regrets?” Bruce said.

  “Not yet,” she said, and instantly saw something change in his eyes, even in the dim lighting of the tavern. “I’m kidding,” she added.

  “I know.”

  “How about you? Any regrets?”

  “No. I feel ridiculously lucky, like I don’t deserve you. If I feel anything, it’s a form of guilt.”

  “You totally deserve me,” she said, then added, “That didn’t come out right. We deserve each other.”

  “Okay,” he said. “No more guilt. Let’s start our honeymoon.”

  There was a small airport about twenty miles north of Portland. Abigail was nervous about taking a plane to the island, but Bruce had assured her that it was totally safe.

  “I feel like I read about small planes crashing all the time.”

  “Mostly because of bad weather, and there’s no bad weather today. And it’s only about a twenty-minute flight.”

  They walked into the departure lounge and were greeted by a tall, wide-shouldered man who looked like he was ex-military. He stood behind a desk embossed with the words CASCO AIR, and a logo that showed a plane above a lighthouse. He looked at them both and said, “Heart Pond Island, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Got a good day for it. Is that all your luggage?”

  “There are two more bags in the car,” Abigail said.

  “No worries. I’ll send someone to get them. Chip told me that you’re his special guests and I was to pull out all the stops, so just take a seat, and I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”

  They were on the plane in about twenty minutes, a six-seater in which you could see straight ahead through the windshield. It was the smallest plane Abigail had been on, and she thought she was going to hate it, but once they were up at cloud level, with views of the Atlantic Ocean, she began to get excited. This is my life now, she thought, one adventure after another. She stretched her back, felt a crackle in her neck and a pop in one of her shoulders. The plane lifted slightly, and she experienced a sudden wave of relaxation so intense that it felt like she’d keep on feeling it even if the plane started tumbling toward the ocean. Her fingers were intertwined with Bruce’s. He leaned across her and pointed through the oval side window. “See the island?”

  It was oblong, with rocky shores everywhere except for one sandy cove. In the center was the pond that gave the island its name. It was shaped very much like a heart, a triangle cut in on one side by a wooded spit of land. As the plane began to lower and circle around, Abigail could make out two clusters of buildings, one on either side of the pond.

  “Where do we land?” she asked Bruce, and he pointed out a landing strip that seemed too short along the southern edge of the island. A gust of wind came along, and it felt as though the plane almost skidded on the air. Still, Abigail was calm, telling herself that the pilot had it all under control, and pretty soon the plane was bumping down onto the gravel landing strip, then pulling up toward a medium-sized hangar. The pilot lowered the stairs and all three stepped out into the salt air, cooler here than it had been even at the airport. Abigail pulled a sweater from her bag and pulled it on over her head, as the plane’s propellers ticked to a stop.

  “This way,” the young pilot said, and Bruce took her arm as they began to walk toward the hangar, just as a stocky man with a reddish beard pulled up in a Land Rover and jumped out of the driver’s side, bustling toward them.

  “Hey, Bruce,” he said, and Abigail was surprised to see Bruce and the red-haired man hug. It was the first time she’d seen her husband physically interact with another man.

  “You didn’t have to come yourself,” Bruce said, “but thank you.”

  “Of course I did. This must be Abigail.”

  Bruce introduced her to Chip Ramsay, saying that everything she saw on the island was his. “He’s the man,” he said. Chip wore cargo shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt despite the cold air on the island. The hair on his arms and legs was as red as the hair on his head. There was what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his belt.

  With the pilot’s help they collected all their luggage and loaded it into Chip’s car. “Quick tour of the island?” he asked. “Or straight to your room?”

  “How about straight to our room?” Bruce said.

  “That sounds good,” Abigail added.

  Chip drove them along a dirt road through a thick pine forest, then up a short incline and through two sto
ne pillars that marked a gate. Above them hung a faded sign that said camp PASSAMAQUODDY. “Welcome to Quoddy,” Chip said. They were suddenly through to a clearing. To their left was an enormous lodge made of dark timber and rough stone. Even with the windows closed she could smell woodsmoke in the air.

  “Gorgeous,” she said.