The Perfect Couple(19)
Abby has been raised right. She smiles. “Good morning,” she says. “Sorry I slept so late. I am not feeling well at all.”
“Coffee?” Tag asks.
Merritt stands up. “I’m going to try the outdoor shower,” she says.
When Greer and Celeste return, the girls all head out to the pool in their bikinis. Tag would like to join them but he can’t possibly do so without seeming like a perverted and pathetic old man. He decides instead to go out in the kayak. He waves as he strolls past the pool, taking one long, appreciative look at Merritt, who is wearing a black bikini with a complicated web of straps across the back. The bikini is possibly meant to reference bondage and inspire any man who looks upon the suit to wish for a pair of sharp scissors to snip the straps and get to the luscious body underneath. However, the suit, with its web, also reminds Tag of a spider. A black widow, he thinks. Merritt is dangerous. He needs to stay away.
Tag paddles out to the Monomoy Creeks, a series of waterways that meander through reeds and eelgrass, around floating islands and sandbars. It’s peaceful here. The only sound is the plashing of his paddle against the surface of the water. Up above, an osprey soars, and in the distance, Tag spies sailboats, an approaching ferry, and Commercial Wharf. The sun is unseasonably warm for May. He is tempted to take his shirt off so he can get something vaguely resembling a suntan. He must be bewitched, he thinks, because he hasn’t given two thoughts to a suntan since he lifeguarded at Blackpool Sands in the summer of 1981. He’s fifty-seven years old, likely more than twice the girl’s age. He tries to banish her from his mind and instead focus on everything he already has—a satisfying, if stodgy, career; a beautiful, accomplished wife; and two healthy sons, both of whom are finally starting to get the hang of adulthood. Tag has a five-bedroom prewar apartment on Park Avenue, a flat in London, and this spread on Nantucket. He and Greer first visited Nantucket in the summer of 1997, and with the trust that Greer inherited on her thirty-fifth birthday, they bought the land. It had been quite expensive even then, this remote island of fishermen and free spirits, but Greer had loved it and Tag had loved making Greer happy.
He has grown quite fond of this island, even though his life here now is more fraught. There’s always something happening—a festival, a benefit, houseguests, a cocktail party, a new restaurant Greer insists they have to try, and, in a few weeks, a wedding for which they will host 170 people. But Tag’s favorite way to experience the island is like this, right now—on the water, in his kayak. Nantucket’s charm is most easily found offshore. Tag paddles all the way to the Great Harbor Yacht Club, then he turns around and heads for home. He wills himself to be strong enough for what awaits him there.
He has never quite mastered the art of getting out of the kayak and nearly always dunks himself in the process. This gives Greer much joy and himself a much-needed cooling-off so he is half guilty of facilitating the mishap. After he pulls the kayak up on the shore, he towels himself dry and checks his phone. There’s a voice mail from his friend Sergio Ramone.
Tag finds Greer arranging flowers on the sunporch.
“Sergio called,” he says. “He has two tickets to the Dujac Grand Cru wine-festival dinner tonight. The chef from Nautilus is doing the food and it’s at some swanky house out on Quaise Pasture Road. I told him we’d take them. They’re ridiculously expensive, but we deserve it.”
“I can’t go,” Greer says.
“What?” Tag says. “Why not? You love Dujac. It’s bluechip terroir. Not Sonoma, not South Africa. These wines will be once-in-a-lifetime. You know how these French vintners are. If you show the proper appreciation, they can’t help themselves—they open up the bottles they aren’t supposed to, the really, really good stuff, the rare vintages that we’ll never have the opportunity to taste again.”
“I have to stay home and write tonight,” Greer says. “My deadline is in thirty days and I’m dreadfully behind because of the wedding. Also, I had an idea while Celeste and I were out and I want to get it down before I forget.”
“The dinner isn’t until seven,” he says. “Go write now and you’ll be finished by six, in time for a shower and a dressing drink.”
“I can’t now,” Greer says. “I’m busy.”
“I’ll arrange the flowers,” Tag says. “You go write.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that, darling,” she says.
He wants to strangle her. He should never have expected his wife to suddenly display a penchant for spontaneity. He knows it doesn’t work like that; he knows Greer can’t be prodded to write, that she has to listen to her internal muse, and the muse prefers the nighttime hours, a quiet, dark house, a glass of wine (ordinary wine, a fifteen-dollar bottle of chardonnay, for example, which will have nothing in common with the wine that will be served with this dinner).
“What the hell am I going to do?” Tag says. “I promised Sergio I’d take the tickets off his hands.” If it were anyone else, Tag would call and renege, but Sergio is an esteemed criminal-defense attorney and he’s also the friend who got Thomas into law school at NYU when there was no prayer of Thomas getting in on his own. And then Sergio angled to get Thomas a job at Skadden, Arps, the law firm where Thomas now works. Thomas, Tag has to admit, isn’t the achiever the rest of them are; Tag suspects he’ll quit law before he makes partner. But even so, Tag and Greer owe Sergio Ramone a lifelong debt of gratitude. Tag can’t back out on these tickets. He can pay the $3,500 apiece and just not go, he supposes, but what a waste that would be. “Please, darling.”