“Barrett,” she said, “are you married?”
Birdie stopped her litany. Tate’s cheeks flared an attractive pink.
“Um, no. Not anymore.”
“Divorced?” India said.
“No,” Barrett said. “See… uh, it’s tough. My wife, Stephanie? She died. She had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” The way he said it made it sound like a question. India nodded, and thought, Ooooh, Lou Gehrig’s disease. The worst way to go. “She died two years ago. A little more than two years.”
Everyone at the table was silent. India felt like an ass for asking. This was further proof that she didn’t belong here. She never put her foot in her mouth; she never made other people uncomfortable. Now, she wanted to hide under the table. Here she had just crowned herself Queen of the Widows, with a deep emotional reservoir for those who had lost a loved one, and she had managed to fry Barrett like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said. “Do you have children?”
“Two boys, five and three.”
“Names?”
“Cameron and Tucker. Tucker after Tuckernuck.”
“Wonderful,” India said. “I have a particular fondness for little boys! You’ll bring them sometime? So we can meet them?”
“Maybe,” he said. “They’re with my mom during the day and Stephanie’s parents in Chatham every other weekend.” He was quiet for a second, looking off at the water. “Yeah, I’ll bring them over sometime.”
There was silence then; it was either respectful or awkward, India couldn’t quite tell. The girls were no help. Chess was picking at a knothole in the picnic table, and Tate stared at Barrett the only way one could stare at him—with sympathy and wonder.
“Are we done with the list, Birdie?” India said. “There’s so much stuff here, Barrett’s boat is going to sink.”
“No worries,” Barrett said. “Finish the list. I’ll have everything back here later this afternoon.”
India let out a breath. Having Barrett Lee around would make things bearable. He would be their romantic hero this summer the way Chuck Lee had been her and Birdie’s romantic hero in the late sixties. Chuck Lee had been India’s initiation to a certain kind of man; he had a crew cut and a tattoo and a thick New England accent. India had desired him before she even knew what desire was. Now here was his son: handsome and helpful and tragically widowed. Barrett Lee and his surprising revelation energized her.
As he walked toward the bluff, India let out a sharp wolf whistle. The others sucked in their breath, scandalized.
“India,” Birdie scolded. “Really!”
Barrett turned around and waved.
“He better get used to it,” India said.
CHESS
D ay one.
Here is my confession.
I met Michael and Nick on the same night, the first Friday in October, less than two years ago. I had just put the Thanksgiving issue to bed—a very big deal in the world of food magazines—and I was out to celebrate with my best friend from the city, Rhonda, who was a perpetual student and lived on the floor below mine in an apartment that was subsidized by her influential father. I invited Rhonda up to my apartment for martinis. We played Death Cab for Cutie, we drank, we put on makeup and fixed our hair and checked our outfits. It was finally autumn weather after a hot and breezeless summer. We were ready to go.
We went to the Bowery Ballroom to see a band called Diplomatic Immunity. There was a line around the block, but Rhonda’s father was a hotshot at the United Nations, a recipient of some kind of diplomatic immunity himself. He knew someone everywhere in the city, it seemed, including at the Ballroom, and we strolled right in. Plus, Rhonda was gorgeous. She had been naturally gorgeous, and then she got her boobs done, after which we could cut any velvet rope in Manhattan and beyond.
Michael was standing at the bar. He was six foot six, impossible to miss, a head taller than everyone else. He was handsome in the way that
Birdie stopped her litany. Tate’s cheeks flared an attractive pink.
“Um, no. Not anymore.”
“Divorced?” India said.
“No,” Barrett said. “See… uh, it’s tough. My wife, Stephanie? She died. She had Lou Gehrig’s disease?” The way he said it made it sound like a question. India nodded, and thought, Ooooh, Lou Gehrig’s disease. The worst way to go. “She died two years ago. A little more than two years.”
Everyone at the table was silent. India felt like an ass for asking. This was further proof that she didn’t belong here. She never put her foot in her mouth; she never made other people uncomfortable. Now, she wanted to hide under the table. Here she had just crowned herself Queen of the Widows, with a deep emotional reservoir for those who had lost a loved one, and she had managed to fry Barrett like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she said. “Do you have children?”
“Two boys, five and three.”
“Names?”
“Cameron and Tucker. Tucker after Tuckernuck.”
“Wonderful,” India said. “I have a particular fondness for little boys! You’ll bring them sometime? So we can meet them?”
“Maybe,” he said. “They’re with my mom during the day and Stephanie’s parents in Chatham every other weekend.” He was quiet for a second, looking off at the water. “Yeah, I’ll bring them over sometime.”
There was silence then; it was either respectful or awkward, India couldn’t quite tell. The girls were no help. Chess was picking at a knothole in the picnic table, and Tate stared at Barrett the only way one could stare at him—with sympathy and wonder.
“Are we done with the list, Birdie?” India said. “There’s so much stuff here, Barrett’s boat is going to sink.”
“No worries,” Barrett said. “Finish the list. I’ll have everything back here later this afternoon.”
India let out a breath. Having Barrett Lee around would make things bearable. He would be their romantic hero this summer the way Chuck Lee had been her and Birdie’s romantic hero in the late sixties. Chuck Lee had been India’s initiation to a certain kind of man; he had a crew cut and a tattoo and a thick New England accent. India had desired him before she even knew what desire was. Now here was his son: handsome and helpful and tragically widowed. Barrett Lee and his surprising revelation energized her.
As he walked toward the bluff, India let out a sharp wolf whistle. The others sucked in their breath, scandalized.
“India,” Birdie scolded. “Really!”
Barrett turned around and waved.
“He better get used to it,” India said.
CHESS
D ay one.
Here is my confession.
I met Michael and Nick on the same night, the first Friday in October, less than two years ago. I had just put the Thanksgiving issue to bed—a very big deal in the world of food magazines—and I was out to celebrate with my best friend from the city, Rhonda, who was a perpetual student and lived on the floor below mine in an apartment that was subsidized by her influential father. I invited Rhonda up to my apartment for martinis. We played Death Cab for Cutie, we drank, we put on makeup and fixed our hair and checked our outfits. It was finally autumn weather after a hot and breezeless summer. We were ready to go.
We went to the Bowery Ballroom to see a band called Diplomatic Immunity. There was a line around the block, but Rhonda’s father was a hotshot at the United Nations, a recipient of some kind of diplomatic immunity himself. He knew someone everywhere in the city, it seemed, including at the Ballroom, and we strolled right in. Plus, Rhonda was gorgeous. She had been naturally gorgeous, and then she got her boobs done, after which we could cut any velvet rope in Manhattan and beyond.
Michael was standing at the bar. He was six foot six, impossible to miss, a head taller than everyone else. He was handsome in the way that
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