The Identicals(38)

“Hey,” she said. He was far less intimidating since his accident. Not an object of pity, exactly—at least not to Harper. More of an accessible god. He wore a knit cap and a Carhartt work jacket over a flannel shirt; his feet were in sturdy work boots. She wondered if he had tied the laces himself or if he’d had to ask his mother to do it.

“Brendan?” Harper said. “Hi—it’s Harper. Harper Frost.”

A slow smile spread across Brendan’s face. He was still good looking—gorgeous, really—with his light blue eyes and his sandy blond hair kept long and shaggy.

“Harper,” he said. “Hi.” He patted the spot on the bench next to him.

She knew enough, somehow, not to bombard him with questions, and they sat in silence for a long while as the snow fell and the wind rippled the surface of the pond.

Finally Brendan turned to her. “Why do you come here?”

“To get away,” she said. “I made a bad decision, and I lost my job and most of my friends.”

“Really?” Brendan said. “Me, too.”



When Harper went back to Mytoi the next day, Brendan was there, and Harper sat with him again. The third day it was bitterly cold, and Harper nearly skipped her trip to Chappy, but it had become a ritual of sorts, so she bundled up and went. Brendan was there yet again, but after a few minutes of sitting and shivering side by side on the bench, Brendan stood up and offered Harper his hand.

“We’re going,” he said.

“Okay,” Harper said. “Where?”

“My house,” he said. “I’ll make you an Irish coffee.”

Harper had been hesitant because of Mrs. Donegal. Mrs. Donegal was wealthy and well connected; Harper feared she had heard about Harper’s fall from grace. She might have been friends with Jude or one of Jude’s clients; it was impossible to comprehend the millions of circuitous routes that gossip traveled on the island.

But it had been fine. The Irish coffee Brendan made was strong and hot, and Harper had two mugs of it. When she was finished with the second, Brendan took her mug and set it in the sink.

“I’m not the same,” he said. “I’m not the same as I was.”

“It’s okay,” Harper said. She had no idea if it was okay or what kind of scrambled messages his brain might be transmitting. “I like you the way you are now.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harper said.

And he had kissed her on the cheek.



They spent time together on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings, always meeting at Mytoi, then going back to Brendan’s house for Irish coffee. After a few months, Harper introduced Brendan to Fish—dogs weren’t allowed at Mytoi, so Fish slept across the backseat of the Bronco in the parking lot—and it was love at first sight. Fish had cuddled up to Brendan immediately, his tail wagging as though he’d found a long-lost friend.



Harper has been going over to see Brendan twice a week for nearly three years. Their relationship has no name; it has depth but no breadth. Harper isn’t about to suggest that she and Brendan go to dinner or grab coffee or spend a summer day on Lobsterville Beach. There is only Mytoi and the coffee and a kiss on the cheek when she leaves.



The Chappy ferry is a platform barge that holds three cars and travels the 527 feet that separate Chappaquiddick from the rest of the Vineyard in ninety seconds. Harper prefers the On Time II to the On Time III because her favorite ferry master, a woman in her seventies named Indira Mayhew, works on the II. Indira is as salty as they come, but after three years of Harper’s regular Chappy visits—summer and winter, spring and fall—she knows Harper and even grants her a smile or two.

“Missed you last week,” Indira says.

Harper feels a swell of tenderness. Perhaps Indira hasn’t heard the rumors about her and Dr. Zimmer, or maybe she has but she doesn’t connect the name Harper Frost with the brunette in the navy-blue ’68 Bronco.

“I missed you, too,” Harper says. Then she feels guilty. She missed a visit for the first time ever. She will have to explain it to Brendan, or try to.



A few minutes later, Harper is driving off the barge onto Chappy. Her heart is pounding. If Brendan isn’t at Mytoi, she will have to go to his house unannounced, which makes bumping into Mrs. Donegal—something Harper has managed to avoid up to this point except for a few waves from afar—a valid concern. Harper pulls into the parking lot; hers is the only car, but that doesn’t mean anything. Brendan walks from home.

Okay, she thinks. Here goes.

The gardens are another place altogether now, at the start of summer. The cherry trees are blushing pink; their luscious blooms and fragrance are almost indecent. The ferns have unfurled, and the dell planted with camellias is in its full glory. The pond is full to brimming and nearly overflowing with fat koi. The fish swim with renewed energy, flashing the silver and tangerine of their scales. There are butterflies flitting and a concert of birdsong.

Harper meanders over the newly packed dirt trail around to her spot, their spot, and she sees Brendan sitting on their bench… with another woman.

What? Harper thinks. She hasn’t been here for a week, it’s true, but she never thought she’d be replaced.

As she gets closer, she sees the woman is older. It’s Brendan’s mother. Harper considers turning around and going back to her car, but then Brendan sees her and waves her over.