The Identicals(79)

“Thank you for dinner,” she says, and she leaves the restaurant. She turns back once to look at Ramsay. He is sitting, stunned, and makes no move to follow her.



She walks all the way home in her bare feet—kitten heels be damned—and thinks to herself: The halcyon days—days when no storms occur—are over. She can’t last a second longer. She pulls out her phone and stares at the screen—it shows a long-ago photo of her and Billy on the boat, with Billy holding up a striped bass—willing herself to let reason rule here. But no, sorry. She calls Reed and is shuttled to his voice mail. She has something to tell him. It’s only a hunch, but she can’t leave it in a message. She hangs up.

But then, almost immediately, Harper’s phone rings. Reed? Or is it Ramsay, just now recovering from his shock? Harper waits for the ringing to stop and the chime to sound indicating a voice mail, then she checks her display.

It’s an unfamiliar Vineyard number, exchange 693. She stops in her tracks on the side of Cliff Road. Maybe it’s Reed, calling from a landline.

It’s a moment or two before Harper can bring herself to listen to the message.

“Harper, hello. This is Edie Donegal, Brendan’s mother. I understand you might still be away, but I felt the need to call you. Brendan isn’t doing well. I know you care about him, and as much as I don’t want to impose, I can’t help but ask if you might be able to visit him sometime soon. It’s the only thing I can think of that might help. Thank you, Harper. Good night.”

Harper’s head suddenly feels too heavy to hold up. Brendan. Poor Brendan. And yet in her current state of mind, Harper doesn’t believe she can help Brendan. She will only make things worse.

She deletes the message.

She can’t take another step. Her stomach roils, and green waves of nausea wash over her. She vomits into the grass on the side of the road.

More than a hunch, she thinks. She knows.

She’s pregnant.





NANTUCKET


A stretch of days arrives when the weather is so brutal that it’s the only thing people want to talk about. It’s eighty-seven degrees at noon—unheard of since the heat wave of 1936. The brick sidewalks of town bake in the sun; the beaches are unbearable. There is no breeze, no clouds, not a second’s respite from the punishing heat.

It’s too hot to gossip. Nobody can sit still long enough to listen.

But the insurance offices of Striker & McClain are mightily air-conditioned, so much so that every client who walks in sighs with the deliciousness of it.

Percil Ott sinks into the armchair next to the desk of the receptionist, Bonnie Atkinson. Percil tells Bonnie he needs to see Ramsay Striker about a windshield replacement.

“But no hurry,” Percil says to Bonnie. “I could sit here all day.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. Percil is a retiree who likes the sound of his own voice. She isn’t about to get sucked into his vortex.

“I’ll let Ramsay know you’re here,” Bonnie says.

Ramsay works back in the corner of the office, and Bonnie notices his privacy walls are up, which is unusual. Bonnie has worked at Striker & McClain for twenty-one years, and she can’t remember this ever happening before. Intellectually she realizes that privacy panels mean that Ramsay would like privacy, but Bonnie suffers from an acute case of natural curiosity. She peeks through the crack and sees Ramsay intently studying his computer screen. Bonnie’s hand flies to her chest. Pornography? She never pegged Ramsay for the pornography type; he’s handsome enough to have any woman he wants—look at the twenty-two-year-old bartender he dated for nearly three months! But then Bonnie squares her expectations with reality: everyone watches porn. Everyone except Bonnie and her husband, Norm Atkinson. Norm watches reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.

“Excuse me, Ramsay,” Bonnie says. “Percil Ott is here to see you.”

Ramsay startles as if he has indeed been caught at some illicit activity. Over his shoulder, however, Bonnie catches a glimpse of the screen. It’s an old article from the Inquirer and Mirror.

Ramsay stands and moves aside one of the privacy panels. “Thanks, Bonnie,” Ramsay says. “I know Mr. Ott isn’t your favorite. I’ll handle him.” He strides down the hall, leaving Bonnie to stand at the opening of his office.

Most of us may claim that we would never do what Bonnie Atkinson then did, but most of us would be lying. Bonnie steps quickly over to Ramsay’s computer and scans the contents of the screen. It’s an obituary, she realizes. An obituary for an infant boy, Julian Wyatt Cruise, born May 28, 2003, died August 15, 2003. Bonnie inhales sharply. Not even three months old. The cause of death is stated as “respiratory failure.”

Why would Ramsay be interested in this? Bonnie wonders. Then she sees the names of the surviving family. Father: Wyatt Cruise. Mother: Tabitha Frost.



The other place that is lavishly air-conditioned during the hideous heat wave is the ERF boutique. We understand the rationale: nobody wants to try on clothes when she’s sweating, and in weather such as this, all air-conditioned venues are seeing an increase in foot traffic.

At eleven o’clock on the fifth day of unbearable hellfire heat, Caylee Keohane is experiencing a lull in her workday. The store has been empty just long enough for her to wonder: Is this heat wave a result of global warming? And is the new president planning on doing anything about it?