The Island by Elin Hilderbrand

ultimate boss, Spencer Frost, president of the board of directors? India’s actions had been beyond reproach. She had, even in the most intense moments with Lula, followed her doctrine of impeccable behavior. But Lula was young (twenty-six), she was fiery, she was an artist, and she had fallen madly in love with India. Who knew how she would present things?
    The hallowed halls and galleries of PAFA, which for the years since Bill’s death had served as India’s inspiration and her refuge, was now a field of land mines. Was Virgil Seversen looking at her oddly? Did Ainslie suspect? Had Lula posted gossip on Facebook? Foremost on India’s mind when she fielded Birdie’s phone call was how to escape the awkwardness of her present situation, and there was Birdie with the answer: Tuckernuck. India couldn’t hope to get much farther away than Tuckernuck. Birdie had been convincing: Chess needed her. And so, India agreed. A tragically dead ex-fiancé fell exactly within India’s sphere of emotional expertise; she could help. She had more than enough vacation time stored up; summers at PAFA were slow. India would connect with people she loved but didn’t see often. Her sister. Her sister’s daughters.
    Her intentions had been good, and they had made sense at the time, but the reality was, India couldn’t stay here. She had never loved Tuckernuck the way Birdie did—and that was why her parents had left the house to Birdie and given India the equivalent in cash. India was too urban for Tuckernuck. She needed action. She needed cappuccino.
    They sat around the picnic table writing up a grocery list for Barrett Lee. Barrett Lee was as ruggedly handsome as his father had been at that age. India looked between Chess and Tate; one of them would snag him. Which one?
    “Bread,” Birdie said. “Milk. Special K. Sugar. Blueberries, American cheese, saltines.” She was dictating for Tate, who was writing everything down.
    “American cheese?” India said. “Saltines? Let’s think like grown women here. When the kids were small, we bought American cheese and saltines, but now we can get camembert and a baguette. And a stick of good Italian salami. That, and some nice, ripe apricots and a pint of raspberries and half a dozen green figs.”
    Birdie looked at India. India thought, Five days from now is Wednesday. Can I make it to Wednesday? She had not had a cigarette since leaving Philadelphia, and her body was craving nicotine at red-alert levels. She had a carton of Benson and Hedges upstairs in her suitcase. As soon as possible, she would sneak one.
    “You’re right,” Birdie said. “We can eat figs and cheese if we want to. And we should get some wine.”
    “God, yes,” India said.
    “Chess?” Birdie said. “Is there anything you want?”
    Chess shrugged. India recognized the slump to her shoulders, the far-off expression. Here they were, wrapped up in the Camp Fire girl task of making a list of provisions, and Chess couldn’t have cared less. India knew all too well how Chess felt. India hadn’t shaved her head after Bill died, but she had done other self-destructive things: She had subsisted on Diet Coke and toast for months, until she fainted behind the wheel of her car (thankfully, she was in her driveway). She had refused to return the lawyer’s calls until her bank account was overdrawn and a check for Ethan’s high school football uniform bounced. She and Chess would have a long, frank talk before India escaped this barren hell, and India would tell her… what? You will survive. This will pass, like absolutely everything else.
    But right now, all India wanted was a smoke. She was a bad girl.
    “Bluefish pâté,” Birdie said. “A bag of those Tuscan rosemary crackers. Lobster salad, butter lettuce, corn on the cob, aluminum foil.”
    India removed her reading glasses. They had been Bill’s and were, without exception, her most valued personal possession. She regarded their Brad Pitt boy Friday.