The Perfect Couple(59)

Yes, she thinks. She would never be the same. And she hopes that Shooter wouldn’t be the same either.

“Good night,” she says. She kisses him on the cheek and retreats down the hall.


Here are Shooter and Celeste the next morning riding two bikes from the Winburys’ fleet of Schwinns into town to the Petticoat Row Bakery, where they get giant iced coffees and two ham and Gruyère croissants, which ooze nutty melted cheese and butter as they pick them apart on a bench on Centre Street. Here is Shooter buying Celeste a bouquet of wildflowers from a farm truck on Main Street, a pointless, extravagant gesture because Tag and Greer’s house is set among lush gardens and the house is filled with fresh flowers. Celeste reminds him of this and he says, “Yes, but none of those flowers are from me. I want you to look at this bouquet and know just how besotted I am with you.”

Besotted, she thinks. It’s a peculiar word, old-fashioned and British-sounding. But Benji is the British one, not Shooter. Somewhere in all the sharing of last night, Celeste learned that Shooter is from Palm Beach, Florida. Shooter was shipped off to summer camp at age eight and to boarding school a few years after that. Shooter’s father died when Shooter was a junior at St. George’s.

“And that was when the wheels fell off the bus,” Shooter said. “My father had been married twice before and had other kids and those other Uxleys swooped in and claimed everything. My one brother, Mitch, agreed to pay my final year of tuition at St. George’s but I had no discretionary income so I started running a dice game at school. There was no money for college so I moved to DC, where I worked as a bartender. Eventually I found a high-stakes poker game where I met diplomats, lobbyists, and a bunch of foreign businessmen. Which led me to my present venture.”

“What happened to your mother?” Celeste asked.

“She died,” Shooter said. Then he shook his head and Celeste knew not to ask anything further.

Besotted. What does he mean by that, exactly? There’s no time to ponder because he’s leading her down the street toward the Bartlett’s Farm truck. He buys three hothouse tomatoes and a loaf of Portuguese bread.

“Tomatoes, mayonnaise, good white bread,” he says. “My favorite summer sandwich.”

Celeste raises a skeptical eyebrow. She was raised on cold cuts—turkey, ham, salami, roast beef. Her parents may have struggled with money but there was always meat piled high on her sandwiches.

Celeste changes her tune, however, when she is sitting poolside in one of her new bikinis and Shooter brings her his favorite sandwich. The bread has been toasted golden brown; the slices of tomato are thick and juicy, seasoned with sea salt and freshly ground pepper, and there is exactly the right amount of mayonnaise to make the sandwich tangy and luscious.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Pretty good, huh?”

She shrugs and takes another bite.


They are lying side by side on chaises in the afternoon sun, the pool cool and dark before them. The pool has a subtle waterfall feature at one end that makes what Celeste thinks of as water music, a lullaby that threatens to put her to sleep in the middle of a very important conversation. She and Shooter are picking the best song by every classic rock performer they can think of.

“Rolling Stones,” Shooter says. “‘Ruby Tuesday.’”

“‘Beast of Burden,’” Celeste says.

“Ooooooh,” Shooter says. “Good call.”

“David Bowie,” Celeste says. “‘Changes.’”

“I’m a ‘Modern Love’ guy,” Shooter says.

Celeste shakes her head. “Can’t stand it.”

“Dire Straits,” Shooter says. “‘Romeo and Juliet.’” He reaches his foot over to nudge her leg. “Wake up. Dire Straits.”

She likes the song about roller girl. She’s making movies on location, she don’t know what it means. Celeste is sinking behind her closed eyelids. Sinking down. What is the name of that song? She can’t… remember.


Celeste wakes up to someone calling her name.

Celeste! Earth to Celeste!

She opens her eyes and looks at the chaise next to hers. Empty. She squints. Across the pool she sees a man in half a suit—pants, shirt, tie. It’s Benji. Benji is here. Celeste sits up. She straightens her bikini top.

“Hey there,” Celeste says, but the tone of her voice has changed. Her heart isn’t in it.

“Hey,” Benji says. He moves Shooter’s towel aside and sits on Shooter’s chaise. “How are you? How has it been?”

“I’m fine,” Celeste says. “It’s been… fine.”

Celeste tries to think of details she can share: lobster dinner, “Sweet Caroline,” swimming in her bra and panties under the stars way past her bedtime, truffle butter, a tree falls in the forest?

No.

A bike ride with the morning sun on her face, a bouquet of snapdragons, cosmos, and zinnias, tomato sandwiches?

The name of the song comes to her.

“‘Skateaway,’” she says.

“Excuse me?” Benji says.

Celeste blinks rapidly. Her field of vision is swimming with bright, amorphous blobs, as though she’s been staring at the sun.





Friday, July 6, 2018, 11:15 p.m.