The Identicals(10)

Then, at age thirty-five, Peter had a bit of a midlife crisis. He moved to Maui, captained a whale-watching ship for ten years, lived with a local girl named Lupalai, and had another couple of kids—a boy and a girl, ages fourteen and eleven—although he and Lupalai never married. He sends checks, he says, but he hasn’t seen the kids since he moved east five years ago. He has been the captain of the Belle for five summer seasons, and in the winter, he goes down to the Bahamas and runs a bareboat charter.

“I just celebrated my fiftieth birthday in April,” he says. “How about you?”

“I’m thirty-nine,” Tabitha says.

Captain Peter laughs. “All women are supposed to say that, I guess.”

“No,” Tabitha says. “I actually am thirty-nine. I turn forty in December.”

“Oh,” the captain says. He’s caught by surprise, and Tabitha’s spirit flags. She looks older; she acts older. She’s wearing a white linen shift with an obi belt. It’s the cornerstone of her mother’s collection and has been for thirty years; it’s called the Roxie. It’s meant to convey a classic timelessness, and while it may certainly do that, it is neither youthful nor sexy. Tabitha should have worn the Haute Hippie sequined miniskirt with the hot-pink Milly blouse, but she had worried that would make her look like she was trying too hard. Instead she looks like she’s headed to the early bird special before making a fourth for bridge.

The captain says something, but Tabitha doesn’t hear him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Would you like to go get a drink after we dock? I’m about to turn this old gal around now, so you’ll have to go down to the deck.”

Tabitha tugs on her obi. She feels pursued and dismissed at the same time. Does she want to go for a drink with the captain? She’s not sure. It’s obvious he’s bad news. He probably preys on every halfway decent-looking woman who boards the Belle. He’s a fifty-year-old man who still plays the seasonal back-and-forth game. He either rents a cottage somewhere on island or he lives in employee housing provided by the Westmoor Club. He likely doesn’t own any real estate; he may drive a small pickup truck. That kind of life is okay until one turns… Tabitha randomly picks the age of twenty-eight. After twenty-eight, it’s time to grow up. And how many children does Captain Peter have to support? Tabitha lost count. Four? Five? If Eleanor were here, she would veto Captain Peter immediately. Eleanor had disapproved of Wyatt because Wyatt was a housepainter, and Eleanor wanted Tabitha to marry a professional man—a lawyer or someone in private equity. Now that Wyatt owns a painting contracting business that covers the entire Cape and the South Shore from Plymouth to Braintree, Eleanor is more favorably disposed toward him. She adores Ramsay, who works for his family’s insurance business on Main Street. Ramsay wears a tie to work, and his family belongs to the Nantucket Yacht Club.

This guy, Captain Peter, isn’t the kind of guy Tabitha would ever hook up with. He’s the kind of guy… Harper would hook up with! Harper has no standards. Harper’s bar—for everything in life—isn’t just low; it’s lying on the ground.

Tabitha should say thank you but no thank you.

“Have you ever lost anyone?” she asks.

“Lost anyone?” Peter says. He seems confused and anxious to get back up to the controls.

“We can talk about it later,” Tabitha says. “I’d love to go for a drink.”



As they’re walking to the Nautilus, Tabitha regrets her decision. She has a text on her phone from Ainsley that says: When are you coming home? Ainsley has been grounded for a week after taking Tabitha’s FJ40 for a joyride in the middle of the night without permission and, more egregiously, without having a license. Tabitha discovered the transgression the previous Sunday morning when she had gotten in her car to go to a sunrise yoga class. The gas tank was empty, and the interior reeked of cigarettes. Tabitha had woken Ainsley up and demanded a confession, which Ainsley had handed over without a fuss.

“Yes, I took the car. I drove to Emma’s.”

Emma’s!

Tabitha and Ainsley live in the carriage house behind Eleanor’s grand home on Cliff Road, and Ainsley’s friend Emma—whose photo should appear in the dictionary next to the phrase bad influence—lives at the end of Jonathan Way in Tom Nevers, which is just about as far away as two points can get on Nantucket. Tabitha had shuddered, imagining Ainsley having an accident in the FJ40 while she was driving unlicensed. What if she had hit someone? What if she had killed someone? Tabitha would have been sued, and Eleanor would have been sued. The business would have been sued, their livelihood destroyed. And yet Ainsley displayed no guilt. Tabitha had snapped Ainsley’s phone up off the nightstand. That had gotten Ainsley’s attention. She was up and out of bed in a flash, chasing Tabitha through the house, trying to wrest the phone from her mother’s grip. She had scratched Tabitha’s face in her frenzy, and Tabitha had been so incredulous—struck, basically, by her own child—that she had dropped the phone, and Ainsley had reclaimed it.

“I need this,” Ainsley said. “You may be happy to have no social life, but that won’t work for me.”

“Oh, it won’t?” Tabitha said lamely. She touched the scratch on her face and looked at the smear of blood on her finger. “Well, too bad. You’re grounded.”