Every Vow You Break

by Peter Swanson

  They kept driving, turning down toward a row of ten miniature versions of the lodge. They looked like they were the original cabins from when this was a camp. “You guys are in River Rock,” Chip said. “It’s not where you stayed before, Bruce, but I think you’ll like this bunk more.”

  “Do they have bunk beds?” Abigail asked.

  Chip let out a single nasal sound that was probably a laugh. “Sorry, we still call all the cabins bunks. Sticking with tradition.”

  He pulled up right to the front of the bunk. Its low roof was covered in bright green moss, and its wooden front door was edged in flowering vine. Abigail was admiring it when the door swung open suddenly, and she jumped. A tall Asian man stepped out into the dusk light. He was wearing khaki pants and a crisp white shirt, and he took two bounding steps to the Land Rover and opened the door. Chip said, “Meet Paul. He’s going to take care of anything you might need during your stay. Stocking your refrigerator, bringing you extra blankets, wake-up times, although I hope you won’t require those. He comes with River Rock, so feel like you can call on him anytime you’d like.”

  Paul showed them inside. Abigail knew it would be fancy, but she wasn’t entirely prepared for just how serene the interior was. There was a large stone fireplace in the center of the cabin—the bunk, Abigail reminded herself—a fire already going. In front of the fireplace was an overstuffed leather couch along with a beautiful cocktail table constructed from a single dark green stone speckled with yellow. “That’s where this bunk gets its name,” Paul said, as Abigail touched the stone. “It’s a river rock.”

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “Everything in here is handcrafted, including the bed,” Chip said.

  Abigail walked over to the king-sized bed, its sleigh-style frame made from dark refurbished wood. There were lit lanterns on either side of the bed, and Abigail thought they were real until she remembered that Bruce had told her they were battery-powered, just made to look real. Above the bed was a framed poster from the movie Midnight Lace with Doris Day and Rex Harrison. Abigail spun, and looked at Bruce.

  “No, it’s not a coincidence,” he said. “It’s a gift.”

  It had been the first film they’d watched together, the second time she’d spent the night at his apartment in New York. They’d been talking about favorite thrillers—well, Abigail had been the one mostly talking about her favorite thrillers—and Bruce had brought up Midnight Lace, a film he’d watched with his mother when he was young. Abigail had heard of it but never seen it, and they’d watched it in the wee hours while still in bed, eating popcorn and drinking champagne. She’d loved the film.

  “That’s the nicest thing you’ve given me,” she said now, about the poster, embarrassed that Chip and Paul were in the room with them.

  “Nicer than the ring?” Bruce said.

  “Yes,” Abigail said without hesitating.

  “I think she means it,” Chip said, then quickly added, “We want to get out of your hair, and I’m sure Bruce explained everything, but there are electrical outlets in the bathroom, and you do have a refrigerator, but that’s about it for electricity. There are no screens anywhere on the island, and we suggest you put your phone and laptop, if you brought one, somewhere out of sight. There’s no wireless and no cell service. You gave our number to somebody in your family?”

  He was looking at Abigail, and she said that she had. Her parents, plus Zoe, had the resort’s landline, just in case there was some emergency.

  “I won’t lie to you. Our guests can get a little wiggy in the first twenty-four hours from not having any access to the internet. Trust me, though, it passes. In one day, you won’t think about it, and next week, when you leave, you’ll wish you could live every day without a phone.”

  “I’m excited,” Abigail said, meaning it. Even though she’d grown up in an era of social media, her parents had not allowed her a smartphone until she was fifteen years old, and she still reminisced about life before Instagram and Snapchat.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then. Paul, want to show them the provisions?”

  Paul led them to the refrigerator, carefully hidden behind a wall that must have been original to the bunk, but the wall somehow slid soundlessly to the side. Inside the refrigerator there were craft beers, several bottles of wine, and an array of cheeses, charcuterie, olives, and designer water. “This is just a start,” Paul said. “Anything else you want, just let me know and I can get it for you.”

  “Oreo cookies,” Abigail said, and Paul nodded at her. She realized he had taken her seriously, and she quickly said, “I’m just kidding. You don’t have Oreos here, do you?”

  “We don’t, but like I said, anything you want, and we’ll get it.”

  “No, no. I was just kidding.”

  There was a set of French doors that led to a back veranda with a view of the pond, its surface now orange beneath the setting sun. “Cocktails at the lodge at six, but some guests like to have their cocktail hour in their bunk instead.”

  Abigail looked toward Bruce and shrugged.

  “We’ll have cocktails in the lodge,” Bruce told Paul, then looked at Abigail and said, “I want you to see it.”

  Paul showed them a few other amenities, including a button they could press to summon him, then he slipped quietly out the front door and Bruce and Abigail were alone. She started to laugh. “You didn’t say it came with a butler.”

  “Get used to it, babe,” he said.

  “I don’t know if I can, but this place is beautiful. I just want to live inside this bunk for the entire week.”

  “You can do whatever you want.”

  After unpacking their things, Abigail and Bruce took a bath together in the deep freestanding tub surrounded by candles. Bruce told her that the tub was made from sandstone. “You could just be making that up,” Abigail said, “but I believe you.”

  She slipped through the water and into his arms. They kissed, Abigail aware of the sound of the bathwater lightly hitting the edge of the tub. “It’s so quiet in here,” she said. “I think I forget how much noise we’re constantly hearing.”

  “If it becomes too much for you,” Bruce said, “we could add some ambient noise to the place. There’s actually a hidden sound system that we can utilize.”

  “Of course there is. I think you lied about the no-electricity thing. It’s just hidden electricity.”

  “Yes, that’s kind of true.”

  When they got out of the bath together Bruce dried Abigail off with a massive towel, taking his time, studying her naked skin. Though they’d never talked about it, Abigail could tell just how important visual stimulation was to him. The first night they’d had sex he’d asked her to undress in front of him and watched her with such fascination that it bordered on uncomfortable. She’d made some joke, she was sure, at the time, and it was really the only slightly strange aspect of their sex life. She wondered if it had something to do with the fact that men today, women, too, had grown up watching so much pornography. Maybe the sight of an actual naked woman in front of them was akin to finally seeing the Grand Canyon in reality after years of only seeing pictures. It was both familiar and completely new. She didn’t mind, exactly, and when they had sex, he would become more physically engaged, less visually so. It was totally common, she realized, and the only part of it that bothered her was wondering if he’d lose interest in her as the years passed, as her body changed.

  Abigail left the bathroom first and sat naked on the edge of the bed, assuming that Bruce was going to want to have sex. She felt ambivalent, as she always did up until the moment his hands started to touch her. As she waited for him while he dried off, her eyes instinctually scanned her immediate vicinity for her cell phone before she realized she’d already stowed it away in the drawer where she’d put her underwear. It was going to be strange not having a phone. How did one fill those little gaps in time? Bruce emerged from the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist. She watched him walk across the roo
m. He had a trim, athletic body—he never went more than two days without going to the gym—but he wasn’t graceful, and when he walked Abigail could always visualize the awkward teen he’d probably been, skinny and perpetually at his computer. It made her love him more, not less.

  He dropped his towel on the floor and was pulling up his boxer briefs when Abigail realized he wasn’t going to try to initiate anything. She was surprisingly disappointed and said his name to get his attention. He turned, and something in his face—a distraction in his eyes—made her decide not to call him over to the bed.

  “Nothing,” she said, then got up herself and walked to the bureau she’d claimed when they’d unpacked.

  CHAPTER 11

  The main hall of the lodge felt more like a castle than an old summer camp. The fireplace could easily fit an entire basketball team inside it, and the room’s ceiling rose three stories. An enormous chandelier made of brass and candles hung above the center of the hall, and Abigail wondered how it was possibly lit. Did one of the butlers run out here with a huge stepladder when no one was looking?

  There were only about a dozen people mingling in the hall, most standing near the fireplace or sitting in overstuffed chairs.

  “Bar?” Bruce said, and together they walked across the stone floor, covered here and there by expensive-looking rugs, toward a fully stocked bar made from dark wood carved to look like vines growing up columns. The bartender was middle-aged, with a graying mustache that flared a little on either end. Like Paul, the man charged with taking care of their bunk, the bartender was dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt.

  “Bruce, my man,” he said in an indecipherable accent. “Welcome back.”

  “Hello, Carl. I’d like you to meet Abigail, my wife.”

  “I heard. I heard. Congratulations. What can I get you? A champagne cocktail?”

  “I think we can do better than that,” Bruce said. “I don’t suppose you remember that Manhattan you made me last time I was here?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “How about two of those?”

  Abigail turned and looked at Bruce, a little surprised he’d ordered for her. It was not something he’d ever done, not something that anyone she’d ever dated had done for her. He met her eye and immediately said, “You like Manhattans, don’t you?”

  “I do. Sorry. I was just surprised.”

  “That I ordered for you? It’s a onetime thing, I promise. You have to try this drink. It’s perfection.”

  “WhistlePig Rye and Punt e Mes,” the bartender said.

  When she tasted the drink, she had to agree that it was delicious, the best Manhattan she’d had. She was still a little annoyed, though, not because he’d ordered the drink for her, although that was part of it, but because it was increasingly obvious that Bruce had spent a lot of time at this resort, and that he’d brought her to a place that felt like his place. She wondered if the honeymoon would have been more special if they’d gone to a place that was new to both of them. It was a little thing, though. She focused on the taste of the drink and the majesty of the lodge.

  “Mingle or stay put?” Bruce asked.

  “How about we stay put for the length of this drink, at least?” she said.

  “Good choice.”

  Two men approached the bar, and Carl asked them what they wanted. The men were young and hip, both dressed in jeans and casual sweaters, both bearded, and Abigail thought that they were probably young wealthy computer entrepreneurs like Bruce. She was surprised he didn’t know them. The men ordered something called Peeper on draft, then talked in hushed tones. Like everywhere else on this island, it was quiet in the lodge, almost eerily so.

  As though he were reading her thoughts, Bruce said, “There’s music here some nights. Chip has bands flown in.”

  “Like rock bands?” Abigail said, trying to imagine it.

  “More like string quartets, but also a lot of experimental bands. Electronic stuff.” He named a bunch of artists Abigail hadn’t heard of.

  Bruce started talking about the dinner, the philosophy behind the food, what to expect. Abigail listened, but also thought about where she was, who she was with, and all that had happened over the past few weeks. Since meeting Bruce she’d had these little moments when she felt as if she’d taken a step away from herself and could see the surreal nature of her new life. It was partly the money, the fact that she’d suddenly gone from struggling to pay her rent to being with someone who was probably a billionaire (she didn’t know exactly how much money Bruce had, nor had he asked her to sign any kind of prenuptial agreement), but it was also partly to do with Bruce. In these moments she would be suddenly acutely aware that he was a stranger. It didn’t last long, this feeling, and she’d remind herself how much they’d shared since they’d met. Not just experiences, but long conversations. She’d heard all about his childhood as an only child of an unhappy marriage. When he was twelve his mother had left his father for another, more successful man. He’d told Abigail the whole story one night at his apartment, the two of them staying up until dawn, falling asleep just as the light began to enter the apartment. So why did he occasionally feel like a stranger? Why did he feel like a stranger right now, the two of them sipping Manhattans a little more than twenty-four hours after they’d gotten married? She knew the feeling wouldn’t last. It never did. Maybe it was just something she’d feel on and off for a few years. The only people in her life who didn’t feel like strangers were her parents, of course, and Zoe, who had always told Abigail everything she felt and experienced. Everyone else—her college friends, Ben Perez—all felt slightly mysterious to her, like she never knew precisely what was going on in their minds.

  “Another?” Bruce asked, and it took Abigail a moment to realize he was asking her about her drink, empty now.

  “Another drink, yes. Another Manhattan, no, if you want me to make it to the dinner table. Glass of wine?”

  Carl was putting two martinis onto a tray for a server, who then carried them toward the fireplace. Abigail wondered if it was really necessary for there to be a server when there was a bartender already in the hall. But maybe the Quoddy Resort was sometimes busier than it was now. She could only count about ten people, not including them, in the lodge.

  After they got their drinks, a glass of Malbec for Abigail and an IPA for Bruce, they wandered the lodge, looking at some of the wall hangings and artwork. One whole wall was composed of framed engravings, mostly images from fairy tales. A girl pushed an old woman into an oven. There was a knight fighting a hairy, naked beast in a forest. Several included wolves; the largest engraving showed what looked like a Roman god turning a man into a wolf, his head transformed, his body still a man’s, wrapped in a toga. The most recognizable showed Little Red Riding Hood meeting the wolf in the forest.

  “‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,’” Abigail said aloud.

  Bruce looked confused.

  “Sorry, I’m quoting Robert Frost.”

  They moved to a wall that showcased photographs from the original camp, all black-and-white, groups of grim-faced boys posing in front of their bunks. “I think it was only an active camp from the 1930s to the 1960s. It was pretty run-down when Chip bought it.”

  “All boys?” she asked.

  “This camp, yes. The one on the other side was the girls’ camp. They’d do social events, I’m sure, together. Dances.”

  “Panty raids.”

  “Probably.”

  At the fireplace she and Bruce introduced themselves to a few of the other guests. It was mostly men but there was one other young couple, Alec and Jill, each holding a glass of champagne, a raspberry at the bottom of their tulip glasses. Bruce and Alec quickly started their own conversation, as Jill said to Abigail, “We got married last weekend, then stayed a few nights in Bar Harbor, and now we’ve been here for three days. It’s unbelievable, this place. Wait till you try the food.”

  “It better be amazing or I’m going to be annoyed. Everyo
ne keeps telling me about it.”

  “Oh no. I hope I haven’t overhyped it.” Jill, who was model-gorgeous with natural blond hair but with a sliver of a nose that must have been surgically altered, looked genuinely worried.

  Abigail said, “I’m just kidding. I’m easily impressed by food, trust me. If it was pizza night I’d be thrilled.”

  Jill looked relieved, and Abigail asked her where she was from, not surprised to hear that she was from North Dakota. It wasn’t just the wide eyes and the politeness, but some of the flat accent was still audible. It turned out she’d lived for five years in Los Angeles, trying to break into acting—“It’s so much harder than you’d think”—and then she’d met Alec, a film producer who’d made several action films that had all done well overseas. She mentioned one film in particular, a mountain-climbing thriller that had just debuted on Netflix, but Abigail hadn’t heard of it.

  “How are you doing with the no-screens policy?” Abigail asked.

  “Oh my God. I was dying for a little while, but I’m better now. I can’t tell you how many times a day I think about checking my phone.”

  “I think I’m actually looking forward to it. Not having a phone.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. It’s great. Honestly, I feel like I’ve lived more in the last few days than in the last couple of years. I’ve been swimming every day. I painted a picture this morning. Alec and I are … so connected. It’s been amazing.” She spoke rapidly and her voice was pitched unnaturally high, and Abigail wondered if this was how she always spoke, or if she was having less fun on her honeymoon than she claimed.

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Five more days. I’m thinking of trying sailing even though I’m kind of terrified of deep water. It just seems that if I’m ever going to get over my fear, right now is the time, do you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” Abigail said. “You’ve been busy. What’s Alec been doing?”

  “He’s been here before, a few times, so he’s just really into relaxing. He likes to hike in the woods, and then he’s been reading. They’re all books he’s thinking about optioning for film, of course, but he claims that it’s not really work.”