The Identicals(63)

Franklin managed better than most kids, he says. He played tight end on the football team and sang in a garage band with three guys in his class.

“You must have been quite a stud,” Tabitha says. She feels jealous of all the girls she is sure he’s bedded. Probably every desirable girl on the Vineyard. Tabitha is so enthralled that she can’t think of another man with the appeal of Franklin Phelps—not Clooney, not Pitt, not Downey junior.

“I had a girlfriend,” Franklin says. “Same girlfriend from seventh grade until halfway through junior year in college. Patti Prescott.” He exhales, and Tabitha recognizes the sound of ancient pain.

Tabitha sets their empty plates on the dresser and climbs under the comforter. “What happened to Patti?”

“She was brilliant,” Franklin says. “She went to Williams. But… she came home halfway through her junior year. I was doing a semester in London. I knew she was battling depression, because she couldn’t get out of bed some days. I would call her from a pay phone, but I could only talk for a few minutes. Her parents sent her to a shrink, then the shrink put her on meds, and they thought she was getting better.”

Tabitha pulls the covers up to her chin. Have you ever lost anyone?

“She killed herself in her parents’ garage,” Franklin says. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Oh, no,” Tabitha says. “I am so sorry.”

“It was tough,” Franklin says. “I carried guilt about it for a long time.”

“Guilt?” Tabitha asks. “Why?”

“I should have come home,” he says. “I should have come home and saved her. But I didn’t. I was too busy drinking pints at the Flask in Hampstead, playing rugby, and singing for money in Regent’s Park. I think her parents hold me responsible. It’s a small island; everyone here knows me. I think a bunch of people hold me responsible.”

“No,” Tabitha says. “Certainly not.”

“It’s okay,” Franklin says. “The rumor mill is part of the island, and the island is my home. I love it here.” He kisses her until she feels dizzy. This is happening.



When she wakes up, it is bright daylight, and Franklin is gone.

“Hello?” Tabitha says experimentally. The door to the bathroom is open; Tabitha can see Franklin’s toothbrush in a glass by the sink. She didn’t have a chance or the wherewithal to check the place out when they walked in the night before, but she’s relieved to see only one toothbrush. He’s a bachelor, as he said. Did he say that? Or did she assume? She checks the nightstand: the sandwich plates are gone.

Tabitha gets out of bed and finds her clothes—her white pants are flung over a chair, the Trina Turk halter is a puddle of crumpled silk on the floor. Tabitha can honestly say she has never done this before: slept with a nearly complete stranger—okay, a complete stranger—and then woken up in said complete stranger’s house forced to put on her clothes from the night before and find her way home.

Where is she?

She peers out the window and sees her FJ40 on the street. Yes! she thinks. She remembers that Franklin offered to drive it back here.

Once she’s dressed, she creeps down the stairs. “Hello?” she says. The house is quiet. She tiptoes through the living room past a moss-green velvet sofa with coordinating throw pillows in various textures and patterns. A woman’s touch? she wonders. In the kitchen, she finds a pot of coffee brewed, her clutch purse (thank God!), and a note. The note says: Had to go to work. Thanks for a great night! xo

Tabitha sets the note down and checks through her purse for her wallet and phone. Both accounted for.

She reads the note again. Had to go to work. Where does Franklin work? Did he tell her? Does he have a job other than playing the guitar? He did a semester abroad in London, but did he say what he was studying? She didn’t see what he drove. Was there a car or truck in the driveway when they got here? She has no idea. There must have been, otherwise how did he get to work?

Thanks for a great night! Well, it was a great night, but something about him thanking her feels yucky. There is no mention of getting together again, and he did not leave his number.

She has to admit she’s crushed.

It was a one-night stand, she tells herself. Just because it ranked as one of the best nights of her life doesn’t mean he felt the same. Men don’t take dalliances like this seriously.

But what about that thing he said? I’ve never wanted anyone like this before. He probably says that to all the women he brings home. Why wouldn’t he? It’s a very effective line. What about calling her breathtaking? What about the sandwich? Does he make pastrami sandwiches from heaven for all his conquests? Are there other conquests? He’s a singer at a bar—of course there are other conquests!

What about telling Tabitha the story of Patti Prescott? He gave her a peek into his sweet, soft heart. That was a real, adult conversation; it was intimate.

Tabitha can’t believe he didn’t leave his number or ask for her number. She can’t believe how much she cares. Probably Franklin thinks she’s the kind of woman who does this all the time. It’s no big deal to him. Why should it be a big deal to her? She needs to shake it off.

She pours herself a cup of coffee. There is a speckled ceramic pitcher of cream set out, and the sugar bowl is full. She feels like searching through the refrigerator and his cabinets. She wants to peruse all the photographs on the living-room shelves, see pictures of his family, maybe even of Patti Prescott. But if she’s never going to see him again, what’s the point?