There was a strange wavering cry that came from the pond, followed by another, similar cry. She thought it was probably loons, even though she’d never heard one before. But somewhere in her past—or in a book she’d read—she’d heard that their cries were ghostlike. She watched the sliver of the pond that she could see. Its surface was glassy in the early morning light, and a hazy mist was rapidly dissipating.
The doors behind her opened and Bruce stepped out onto the veranda. “You’re up early,” he said.
“Temporarily up,” she said. “No guarantee I’m not going back to bed. Did you hear the loons?”
“No,” he said.
“I think they were loons. Either that or the pond is haunted.”
“What do you want to do for breakfast?” he asked.
“Can we have it brought here? Scrambled eggs on toast?”
“Sounds perfect. Oh, is that one?”
The loons had made their cries again.
“Yep,” Abigail said, and for a brief moment she almost turned and told him everything, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. She knew that once the words were out, the rest of their lives would instantly change. She didn’t want to lose him, and she didn’t want to hurt him.
“I’ll order breakfast,” Bruce said, and went back into the bunk, closing the doors behind him.
CHAPTER 13
After they’d eaten, Abigail asked Bruce if he wanted to go swimming at the pool.
“I was thinking of taking a walk around the island,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “Do you want to meet for lunch?”
“Sure,” he said. “If we don’t see each other back here, then lunch at one-ish in the lodge?”
She agreed, thinking it felt a little strange that they were splitting up, but she was actually glad for the opportunity to be alone. It would give her a chance to find Scottie, or a chance for him to find her, and to talk.
She’d packed both a one-piece and a bikini but put on the dark red one-piece. She didn’t know exactly what the indoor pool would look like, but she was hoping for swimming lanes. It would feel good to burn some energy.
She put jeans and a sweater on over her bathing suit, then kissed Bruce goodbye and walked up the path toward the lodge. She felt exposed, the blank eyes of the bunks all watching her. There was a man up ahead, exiting the lodge and making his way down toward the pond, and she thought for one stomach-tightening moment that it was Scottie, but he turned her way and she could see the white of his beard. It wasn’t him.
She entered the lodge even though Bruce had explained to her that the pool and spa area was just past the lodge and into the woods a little way. But she had decided that it was worth a shot to see if she could get some information on her stalker. It bothered her that he knew who she was but she had no idea even what his real name was. Once inside the lodge—there was the distinctive smell of something fresh-baked coming from the dining area—she glanced around, looking for anything resembling a front desk. She was about to head in the direction of the dining room when one of the employees—it was the woman, actually, who had seated her and Bruce at their table the night before—fast-walked across the hall toward her.
“Hi, Mrs. Lamb, what can I help you with?” she said.
“I actually have a … What’s your name?”
“It’s Mellie.”
“Thanks, Mellie. I was wondering if you could help me out. I saw someone last night that I know, but I can’t remember his name.”
“Do you know what bunk he’s staying in?” Mellie said.
“I don’t. Sorry. I can describe him to you.”
“Sure.”
Abigail thought for a moment, and then said, “He has a brown beard and blue eyes, and last night he was wearing either very dark blue jeans or black jeans, and a roll-neck sweater.”
Mellie smiled, then said, “Scott Baumgart.”
“Oh,” Abigail said, and there must have been a look of surprise on her face.
“Is that not him?” Mellie said.
“No, that sounds right. Scott.”
“He got in late last night.”
“Thanks, Mellie.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Lamb.”
“You can call me Abigail,” she said. She hadn’t officially taken Bruce’s last name yet, although she knew he’d like her to do it. Still, it felt strange to be referred to as a Mrs., let alone a Mrs. Lamb.
“Not a problem, Abigail. Anything else?”
“I was planning on going for a swim.”
“Lucky you. You know how to get there?”
“I think so. Back outside, and towards the woods.”
“I can show you the secret passageway, if you’d like,” Mellie said.
Abigail agreed and followed Mellie behind the bar and into a part of the lodge that felt as though it was for employees only. There were stacks of chairs and boxes of wine, and there was actual fluorescent lighting in tracks along the ceiling. They went down some cement stairs, Mellie walking fast in her khakis and white shirt, and Abigail briefly wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing for Mellie to be stuck on this island with so many male employees. They were in a dimly lit hallway that suddenly veered to the right, and then they were in an even dimmer tunnel, carved from rock, with a much lower ceiling that curved like an archway.
“Wow,” Abigail said.
Mellie turned back, smiling. “This is a secret, so don’t tell anyone I brought you down here.”
At the end of the tunnel, at least fifty yards, Abigail began to smell chlorine, and the air changed, becoming warmer, more humid. There were double glass doors, and the two women pushed through into another hallway, this one carved from stone as well, but more luxurious, with soft lighting and a higher ceiling.
Mellie pointed to the left and said, “There’s a changing room just down a little ways. Everything’s in there.”
“Thank you, Mellie,” Abigail said, and made her way down the hall, then pushed through another glass door marked with a stenciled w. Inside, it felt less like a changing room and more like a spa. The walls were stone and all the furnishings were made from blond wood. She found a closet where she could hang her clothes and took off everything but her bathing suit. She was, not surprisingly, the only one in the changing area, and for a moment she longed to be at a different type of resort, one that was full of women and children. It was too quiet in here, almost creepy, and she kept thinking about her stalker. There was no way that Scott Baumgart was his real name, and she wondered how he’d managed it. Had he paid in cash? Or had he used his real name to register, but then asked the staff to call him something else? She supposed it was possible that he really was a Scott, but what were the chances? She’d come up with the fake name of Scottie on the night they’d slept together. Hadn’t she? He’d called her Madeleine and she’d countered with Scottie. Because of Vertigo. That was the way she remembered it. If his name really was Scott, he’d have mentioned it, right?
She heard a distant sound, like a door closing. Leaving her clothes behind, she went in search of towels, finding a neat stack of them near the exit, along with swimming caps and goggles wrapped in plastic. She grabbed one of each and walked out toward the pool, hoping she wouldn’t be alone out there. The quiet of this place was getting to her.
There turned out to be two pools, one a standard lap pool with eight lanes. She was happy to see that one of the lanes was occupied. It was a man, but she knew right away it wasn’t Scottie. The man hurtling through his strokes was dark-skinned, and Abigail thought she’d seen him the night before, noticing him because he was one of the few people of color, either guest or employee, here at Quoddy Resort. The only peculiarity of the lap pool was that the far lane extended into a curving tributary that went under an archway built into the stone wall. Abigail skirted the wall to see where it went and there was the second pool, built just for lounging and designed like an underground grotto, vegetation everywhere, rocks plunging up out of the water, ev
en a small waterfall. It was magical, actually, and Abigail felt a stab of anger at Scottie for keeping her from enjoying this moment.
While she was standing there trying to figure out if she should actually do some laps or just lounge around in the grotto, the door across from the women’s changing room swung open and a staff member entered. He walked over to Abigail and asked her if she wanted anything. “A smoothie? Or a tropical drink?” Abigail, tempted to order a Bloody Mary, declined, and the employee, who’d introduced himself as Brad, showed her a button she could push if she changed her mind.
After he left, Abigail stepped into the water of the lap pool, donned her cap and the goggles, and began her slow, awkward crawl that kept pulling her to the left. As she swam, she tried to empty her mind of what was happening, but it wasn’t working. Even though she’d decided earlier that morning that if she couldn’t talk Scottie into leaving her alone she would tell Bruce some version of the truth, she was beginning to wonder if maybe she should lie, after all. Scottie was messing with her life, and maybe she needed to protect herself. She imagined a conversation with Bruce, maybe over lunch.
I didn’t bring this up last night because I didn’t want to freak you out, she’d say. But there’s a guy here that I met out in California. He was a pest, kept asking me if I was sure I was ready to get married, and maybe I talked with him too long, but he’s here now. He must have become obsessed or something. I didn’t tell you last night because I didn’t want to wreck anything, but I think you need to know.
She imagined herself crying. And then she imagined Bruce springing into action, having Scottie removed from the premises. No doubt Scottie would try to tell a different story, but Bruce would believe her, wouldn’t he? And maybe, in this case, lying would be the best thing to do for everyone involved. Maybe it would be the kindest thing to do for Bruce?
Her arm came down on the rope that separated the lanes—she was drifting left again—and she bobbed to the surface to take some deep breaths. The water was a perfect temperature, reminding her of the feel of Woodhouse Pond, her favorite swimming spot near Boxgrove. The man who’d also been doing laps had disappeared, and Abigail wondered if he’d swum through the connecting tunnel into the grotto. She decided to follow his lead, but after getting in a little more exercise. She even thought that when she got to the grotto she’d press that secret button and get herself a Bloody Mary, maybe even a pitcher. She picked up her pace, exhausting herself, and she felt good for the first time that morning. Even though she had slept with the stranger from California, that didn’t give him any kind of right to fly across the country to try to fuck up her marriage. The anger felt good, as though it were filling her, and she almost considered going straight to Bruce and telling him what was going on—the half-truth version—right away. She wanted it over and done with so she could really start her life. Instead, she crossed the lanes of the lap pool, then breaststroked her way through the tunnel and past the greenery and into the grotto. The water was lit from below and the ceiling was bowed, shaped like a planetarium, shimmering with light from the pool.
The man was settled to one side of the gently flowing waterfall, his head back along the pool’s stone rim, his long, muscular arms stretched out to either side. He seemed to be breathing hard, but nodded in her direction as she swam into the middle of the pool.
“I’m ordering a drink,” Abigail said to him. “What can I get you?”
He smiled and said, “What are you having?” His accent wasn’t American. She thought it was probably English even though there was a little bit of a lilt to it, as if he might be from the Caribbean.
“I can’t decide between some sort of healthy smoothie and a Bloody Mary, so I thought I might order both.”
“I can’t let you drink alone. I’ll have a Greyhound.”
“What’s that?” Abigail asked.
“Vodka and grapefruit juice. Get two of them. That way you’ll have three drinks.”
She got out of the pool and walked, dripping, to the button. About five seconds after she pushed it, Brad entered the pool area; he must have been waiting just outside the door. “Can we get some drinks?” she asked, then gave her order.
The man’s name was Porter, and it turned out he was from Bermuda. After the drinks had arrived, she told him how she was on her honeymoon with Bruce, and he told her how he’d come here with a small group of insurance executives. The rest were sailing on the pond this morning.
“Not your thing?” Abigail asked.
“Actually, I grew up sailing, and didn’t want to see it done poorly by my colleagues. Besides, I’d been to this pool earlier and there was no way I wasn’t coming back before I left.”
“Has it been this quiet the whole time you’ve been here?”
He took a long sip of his Greyhound, some of the salt from the rim clinging to his upper lip.
“When did you get here?” he said. “Last night? There was a big group that left yesterday morning, but, yes, it’s quiet. Definitely quiet.”
Abigail had finished her Bloody Mary, tasted her own Greyhound, and was now halfway through her smoothie. She was a little tipsy and had to pee. But it felt good to be in the pool, making small talk with this stranger, and not obsessing over what she was going to do about the Scottie situation. She was all set to tell Porter that she had to go to the changing room for a moment but that she’d be right back, when the door quietly opened. She felt cool air move through the grotto room and expected to see the waiter coming to see if they needed more drinks. But it was Scottie, dressed in jeans and a hooded jacket. She could tell it was him by the way he purposefully strode along the edge of the pool to where she and Porter were lounging.
“Hi, Abigail,” he said.
“Hey,” Porter said, filling in the unnatural pause. Abigail hadn’t spoken yet. “You must be Bruce. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m not Bruce,” Scottie said.
“What’s your name again?” Abigail quickly asked Scottie, and he glanced at her with almost a hurt look.
“Scott Baumgart,” he said, crouching and shaking Porter’s hand.
“Scott and I met on my bachelorette weekend, and then totally by chance he showed up here,” Abigail said. “Small world.”
“No shit,” Porter said, then stretched his hands out, looking at his fingertips. He said, “I’m pruning up. It’s time for me to take off.”
Abigail didn’t know if he was actually wanting to get out of the pool or if he was sensing the weird tension between her and Scottie.
“Nice meeting you, Porter,” she said, then turned to Scottie and added, “I’d love to talk with you for a few minutes. Can we meet outside the changing room?” There was no way she wanted to be alone with him in the pool area, she in her bathing suit, he looming over her with all his clothes on.
“Sure,” Scottie said, and Abigail followed Porter up the stone steps out of the pool. She walked past Scottie without looking at him and went straight into the changing room.
She took her time showering, then slowly got dressed. There was a pitcher of ice water available—had that been there before?—and she drank two tall glasses. There were actually three exits from the changing room, one that went back out to the pool, the one she’d come in from that led to the tunnel back to the lodge, and another exit, which Abigail assumed led toward the ground-floor entrance. She decided that Scottie would most likely be waiting for her there. Before pushing through the doors, Abigail went through a mental checklist. She tried to remind herself that when she’d met Scottie he’d seemed like a nice person. He was attentive, he told her about his unhappy marriage, how much he loved his dog, how much his own parents loved his wife. He wasn’t necessarily a monster. He was a human being. She needed to try to appeal to this side of him first. Tell him that she was sorry he’d come all this way, but she really was in love with Bruce, and she wanted to make the marriage work. Ask him nicely to just leave.
And if that didn’t work? Well, then, she was fully prep
ared to unload on him, tell him he better get the fuck off this island before she alerted the authorities. Tell him that as far as she was concerned nothing had happened between them in California, and that Bruce would believe her. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but she needed to be prepared.
She pushed through the doors, which brought her to a staircase that led up to a reception area, although, as with all the reception areas here, there was no front desk, just the constant presence of a lingering employee. Like the changing room, the reception area was made of light wood, and one wall was covered with succulents while another had a built-in waterfall, a sheet of perpetually falling water.
Scottie was perched on a white chaise longue under a high window that showed the dark woods outside. Abigail didn’t want to talk inside, so she walked straight to the door and out into the cool air.
CHAPTER 14
At the back of the building, a path of stones led to a wooden bench that faced a grove of birch trees. Abigail sat down, and Scottie sat next to her.
“You made a new friend,” he said.
Abigail was confused for a moment, then realized that he was talking about Porter, the man in the pool.
“I did,” she said, already annoyed, and decided that she should probably just skip the treat-him-like-a-nice-guy plan.
“What kind of friend is he?” He unzipped his jacket a little, and she saw that he was wearing a flannel shirt, maybe even the same shirt he’d been wearing in California. Looking at him now, she wondered how she’d ever found him attractive. He was handsome, in that wiry way she liked, but his skin was too orange, as though he went to tanning booths. Also, he was far too intense, the way he sat with his head cocked her way, his hands—he wore three rings—thrumming on his kneecaps like he was waiting to pounce.
Every Vow You Break Page 9
