Every Vow You Break(26)
“Cold out here,” she’d managed to say, the lanterns carving out small pockets of light in the blackness of the night. Above them the sky was filled with more stars than she’d ever seen.
“It’s not that cold,” Bruce said. She kept waiting for him to ask about the man who’d come over and talked with her in the middle of the hall, but maybe he hadn’t seen the interaction. They’d only talked for about thirty seconds.
After entering the bunk, Bruce looked at her and said, “You really are cold. You’re shaking.” He hugged her close to him, and the feel of that hug, the warmth of his body, was almost more than she could bear. When he tried to release her, she gripped harder, pressing her face against his chest.
“I love you so much,” she said. “And this place is amazing.
Thank you for bringing me here.”
He kissed the top of her head, right at the part in her hair, and she shivered. “I have to pee,” she said, and went to the bathroom.
When the door was closed behind her, she stood in front of the sink, her hands on the marble countertop, and took deep breaths.
Her stomach buckled, and she bent over the sink, sure that she was going to be sick, but nothing came up.
He’s followed me here.
On my honeymoon.
She wondered for a moment how he’d even known where they were going, but then she remembered the wedding announcement in the Times, how it stated that the bride and groom were honeymooning on Heart Pond Island off the coast of Maine after the wedding. Was that announcement how he’d gotten her name as well? How much more did he know about her? And what did he expect from coming here?
She remembered the smell of cigarette smoke at her wedding.
Had he been tracking her ever since that weekend in California?
She squeezed her fists together, then unclenched them, pressure building in her chest.
When Abigail had first started high school, she went through a period of extreme anxiety, overwhelmed by the multiple classes, the homework, the test-taking. She’d also been overwhelmed by the rumors that were suddenly flying around in the wake of Boxgrove Theatre’s production of Spring Awakening. Her parents were under attack, and kids were whispering that they were the town perverts, all courtesy of Kaitlyn Austin, Abigail’s nemesis.
She’d briefly gone to see a therapist, but all the therapist wanted to talk about was Abigail’s earliest memories. Instead, it was her father who sat her down and gave her several very helpful hints on dealing with stress. He had her make lists, then tackle projects one at a time, or, if the projects were too big, break them up into smaller parts. It worked, but she’d still lain awake at night worrying. So he taught her a system of dealing with worry, a way to break it into mental questions and lists. She started to do that now, in the bathroom, concocting a strategy for how to face this immediate problem. She began to relax, but then heard a commotion in the bunk, the sound of voices, and her stomach went cold again.
What if Scottie had come directly to the door to confront Bruce?
Abigail steeled herself and opened the bathroom door. Paul, whom she was internally referring to as a butler, was lowering a tray onto the coffee table in front of the fire. He quickly departed, Bruce thanking him, and Abigail told herself that she’d need to think about the Scottie situation later, after Bruce had fallen asleep.
On the tray was a cut-glass carafe half filled with whiskey, a bucket of ice, and a small plate with four cookies on it that looked almost like Oreos, but they were warm to the touch.
“Homemade Oreos,” Bruce said. “The chef made them for you.”
“Good lord,” Abigail said, but the thought of putting one of them in her mouth made her stomach buckle again, and she really did think it would be a miracle if she got through the rest of the night without being sick.
Bruce was stretching out on the couch, a whiskey already poured. “Have one,” he said, and she didn’t know if he meant a drink or a cookie.
“Actually, I can’t,” Abigail said. “I think I overate at dinner and my stomach is a little off. I might just get into bed.”
“That’s fine,” Bruce said. “Mind if I sit here with my drink for a moment?”
“No, please do. Tomorrow night I’m not going to eat all four courses. I just … I don’t feel great.”
She undressed and got into her pajamas, then brushed her teeth at the sink, wondering if her face looked guilty just to her or if Bruce had been able to read the panic in her eyes. She rinsed her mouth, washed her face, and studied herself again. She had always been pale, but right now Abigail thought she had a chalky, unhealthy pallor. She actually pinched her cheeks to bring color to them, like a heroine in a Regency-era novel trying to look prettier.
She went directly from the bathroom to the bed. It had been turned down, but before getting in Abigail loosened the sheets at the foot, knowing it would have been made too tight. She looked up at the poster of Midnight Lace—the image of Doris Day’s face under a twisting Saul Bass–like graphic—and tried to remember the happiness she’d felt just a few hours earlier when she’d first seen it. But that happiness was gone. She slid under the covers, her pajamas crackling against the flannel sheets, and felt tears well up in her eyes. The gift of the poster really was one of the nicest gifts she’d ever received. Bruce had reminded her, not for the first time, of her father, and how thoughtful he was, how eager to please. The thought of hurting him was almost too much to bear.