The Identicals(8)

“I’m going to drive to Aquinnah, clear my head,” she says. “It’s sweet that you’re worried about me, but like I said on the phone, I think I just need to be alone.”

Drew nods. She’s a sucker for him in his uniform. He’s so handsome, so upright, such a relentless do-gooder. Why can’t she be in love with Drew?

“The aunties are making you a pot of lobster stew,” he says. “I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”

“You told them about Billy already?” Harper asks.

“I called my mother to let her know,” Drew says. “Wanda and Mavis were over, helping her end beans, so they overheard. Wanda left right away to start the stew. It’s their automatic response to death—a pot of something warm and comforting so you don’t forget to eat and waste away to skin and bones.”

“They don’t have to go to the trouble,” Harper says. “They don’t even know me.”

“They know I like you,” Drew says. He bends in for another kiss. “That’s all that matters.”

Harper smiles and puts up her window.



At midnight, Harper is mostly asleep in the front seat of her Bronco, five of the beers and two of the nips consumed, plus she stopped at Alley’s General Store for a jar of their bread-and-butter pickles—her dinner. (The aunties are right to be concerned.) There has been no one in the parking lot since nine forty-five, when a bunch of high school kids came off the beach. Harper is relieved: Lucy Vincent is still perfectly safe.

Reed pulls in at twelve o’clock on the dot; he’s nothing if not prompt. Harper brings her seat back up and gets out. He said five minutes, and Harper knows that’s what she’ll get—no more, no less. He shuts off the engine of his Lexus, climbs out, and jogs over to her. He holds out his arms, and she collapses against him.

“He’s gone,” she says. “I’m never going to see him again. That’s the thing, I guess, the inconceivable thing.”

Reed squeezes her tighter. He’s a doctor. Dealing with death is part of his job—not every day, but often enough.

He says, “We’re all going to die, Harper. Billy’s end was peaceful. He had the person he loved most in the world right there with him, reading off Pedroia’s stats. What a way to go.”

Harper raises her face, and their lips meet. Reed’s lips are warm; kissing him lights her on fire all the time, but tonight, because she is ragged from crying, the desire she feels is raw and overpowering. He responds to her, opening his mouth and searching out her tongue, pressing his lower body against hers. He moves his mouth to just under Harper’s ear. His hands are all over her. They’re going to have sex. Harper can’t believe it. He must have had a couple of beers at the family picnic and maybe a Scotch once he got home, since he’s not on call this weekend. He’s looser than normal, nearly reckless. His hands travel inside her blouse; he unhooks the front clasp of her bra. He plays with her nipples, then bends his head down and sucks her left nipple until she groans. She can’t stand it. She strokes the front of his jeans.

He frees a hand to unzip himself, and Harper reaches for the car door.

“No,” he says. “Outside.”

“Outside?” she says. Is this Reed? Reed Zimmer? He doesn’t even bother with protection, something he is fanatical about; he simply thrusts inside her. Harper’s back is pressed up against the door of the Bronco, and it’s at that second that Harper sees headlights. Passing, she thinks. But no: a car is turning into the parking lot. It’s approaching. Harper struggles to disengage, but Reed doesn’t notice the lights or the sound of the engine. He’s too intent on his rhythm, and his eyes are closed. He finishes with a grunt and a shudder, a soft cry uttered against Harper’s neck.

Harper pushes him away, but it’s too late. A car door slams, and a woman is shouting, screaming, shrieking. “Reed! Reed! Reed!”

It’s Sadie.





NANTUCKET: TABITHA


She has been invited to a cocktail party on the Belle, a seventy-seven-foot wooden motor yacht built in 1929 that is now used for entertaining by members of the Westmoor Club. This evening’s soiree is being thrown by people Tabitha barely knows, and it’s still rather chilly to be out on the harbor, but ever since Tabitha broke up with Ramsay, she has been desperate to get out of the house.

Ramsay will be sitting at the bar at the Straight Wharf, waiting for Caylee to finish her shift. Tabitha was the one to break things off, yet Ramsay has rebounded far more quickly—instantly, in fact. For the three years Tabitha and Ramsay dated, Tabitha teased him about wanting someone younger, which he denied. And yet Caylee—a name fit for a chew toy as far as Tabitha is concerned—is only twenty-two.

When Tabitha was twenty-two, she was roundly pregnant. She had never had a chance to spend a summer bartending or get a tattoo; she never had the opportunity to break away from her mother’s fashion empire and pursue her own passions—real estate, architecture, interior design. And then when she was twenty-five, she endured a tragedy from which she still hasn’t recovered. Ramsay knew about Julian, and he knew it was a void that could never be filled—or so Tabitha had thought. But on a frigid night this past February, when they had both been sober—and there wasn’t even alcohol to blame—Ramsay had said, The only way to put your sadness behind you is to start fresh. Let’s have a baby.