“Hold up,” she called out. “I have to take my shoes off.”
Laurel gave her a look.
“Never mind, go on ahead if you want,” Belinda said. “I’m way out of my comfort zone here.”
Laurel waited for Belinda—which was decent of her, Belinda thought—and together they trudged up the hill until they came to the battered wooden snow fence that funneled them straight down to the beach. The ocean was in front of them: dark blue, loud, and majestic—and, to Belinda, totally terrifying. She had accompanied Deacon—and then Deacon and Hayes, and then Deacon and Hayes and Angie and Scarlett, the nanny—to this beach a handful of times each summer. She would sit on a chair underneath an enormous umbrella and read scripts while everyone else swam and splashed and loudly announced how delicious the water felt. That had been Scarlett, Belinda remembered now, cavorting around in her teensy red bikini—because of her name, she always wore harlot red—calling the water delicious.
Laurel stripped off her shorts and blouse; she was wearing a floral bikini underneath. Her body looked amazing. Her stomach was flat and smooth. How was this possible? It was as if she had never had children! Well, only one child, almost thirty-five years earlier. When you had a baby at nineteen, Belinda supposed, your body snapped back like tight elastic instead of bagging out. Belinda had given birth to Mary at forty-two and to Laura at forty-three, and she had been doing battle with her tummy ever since.
Laurel gave a rollicking whoop and went racing into the water—high-stepping first, shouting, “It’s cold! It’s cold!” until finally diving in. Belinda sat in the sand with her wine.
“Come on in!” Laurel shouted.
“No, thanks,” Belinda said. “I’m good.”
As Laurel swam, Belinda’s mind returned to the fateful night almost thirty years earlier: She had given Deacon her room number at the St. Regis, and against all odds, he had shown up. He had thrown her onto the bed; he’d torn her paper-thin T-shirt right off her. When he kissed her, he had tasted like tequila.
After it was over, Belinda had offered him a glass of ice water, which he gratefully guzzled down. She said, “Why did you come?” She figured he was just drunk, or maybe the ginger-haired maître d’ had talked him into it because she was Belinda Rowe.
Deacon said, “When you came into the kitchen, you looked so… I don’t know… lonely, I guess. You looked the way I felt.”
She had traced her index finger along his clavicle. “You’re lonely?”
“Always,” he said.
Later, as they were walking back—Belinda out of wine and Laurel dripping wet, holding her clothes—Laurel said, “So you got married again, and you have two girls?”
Belinda nodded. Those factoids could be found on Wikipedia, but even so, Belinda’s guard went up.
“I married Bob Percil,” Belinda said. “He’s a Thoroughbred trainer. Our daughters are Mary, nine, and Laura, eight.”
“I was pretty surprised when I saw a photo of you in the tabloids, pregnant,” Laurel said. “I thought you weren’t able to have children.”
Belinda blinked. It’s none of your fucking business, she thought. This wasn’t going to be one of those weekends when every secret was confessed and women who previously hated each other forged a new bond due to the death of their mutual ex-husband.
But she didn’t want to start a fight. Not yet, anyway—she had just gotten here.
“No one was more surprised than me,” she said. She needed to turn the tables here. “How about you? Are you dating anyone?”
“No,” Laurel said.
“I find that hard to believe,” Belinda said. “You’re so pretty.”
“Please don’t patronize me,” Laurel said.
“I’m not!” Belinda said. “I was checking you out earlier. You look fantastic.”
Laurel narrowed her eyes.
“Why don’t you date Buck?” Belinda said. “He’s single, right? And you know he’s always had a crush on you.”
“Stop,” Laurel said.
“It’s true,” Belinda said. “Deacon used to tease him about it.”
Laurel smiled down at her feet, and Belinda thought: Advantage, Rowe. She had gotten her enemy to smile. Belinda had noticed Buck and Laurel looking pretty cozy on the deck when she arrived. Something was definitely going to happen there, which would do wonders in lightening up the melancholy atmosphere of the weekend.
Belinda sat down on the big rock that Deacon had long ago painted with a green 33, marking the start of the driveway. “You can go on up. I’m going to put on my shoes.”
“Okay,” Laurel said. “I’m going to take an outdoor shower, then head into town for a bit.”
The outdoor shower! On her first trip to Nantucket, Belinda had bemoaned the sad state of the indoor plumbing. The showers worked in only three of the bathrooms, each of which produced a lukewarm spritz of water—enough to mist one’s face—but Deacon frowned upon using them, anyway. It wasn’t how things were done on Nantucket. It was summertime; one showered outdoors! He had been right: Belinda had grown to love showering with the late-afternoon sun streaming down and the pure-blue sky above her head, the vista of the rolling moors just visible over the top of the shower door.
Belinda stood up, not bothering with her shoes. She had to hurry; otherwise Laurel would use up all the hot water.
Intermezzo: Deacon and Laurel, Part II
He can’t believe he’s doing it. He would like to blame it on the three shots of tequila he did with Buck after service, but he’s never felt sharper. His vision is crystal clear. He wants this. He convinces himself that if Laurel finds out—and he will do everything in his power to make sure she doesn’t—she will understand.
It’s Belinda Rowe.
He enters the lobby of the St. Regis and finds the elevator. He pushes 18.
He falls under her spell. How this happens, he’s not quite sure. Part of it is the fame, the money, the lifestyle, her confidence, her glamour. She has kissed Steve McQueen, Robert De Niro, and Paul Newman on screen. She lives in a room in a five-star hotel and calls up bottles of Dom Pérignon and silver dishes of long-stemmed strawberries as if it’s her cool second job. Deacon sips champagne out of her navel; he feeds her the berries. She buys him a watch that he knows costs north of five thousand dollars. So you’ll know when it’s time to be with me, she says. He lies to Laurel about the watch and about where he is every time he goes to the St. Regis. He tells Laurel he’s with Buck. He hates himself for the lying, but he can’t stop.
He does go out with Buck one night after service, and he confesses everything to his friend; then he gets so drunk, he blacks out. Buck delivers him home to Laurel, and in the morning Deacon worries that Buck has told Laurel his secret. Buck, Deacon knows, wants Laurel for himself. Somewhere in his confused mind, this stirs up an accusation that Laurel is sleeping with Buck behind Deacon’s back.
Laurel doesn’t get mad. She doesn’t see the accusation for what it is: an admission of Deacon’s guilt. Instead, she laughs in his face.
“Me and Buck?” she says. “Hahahaha!”
He wants to get angry at her for laughing, but he can’t summon the energy. He is an awful, horrible, evil, damaged human being for lying to his angelic wife. He starts to cry, and Laurel does what she always does when he cries: she pulls his head into her lap and strokes his hair.
He loves Laurel. He will stop seeing Belinda. Belinda is heading back to L.A. in another week anyway. Deacon goes to the St. Regis after service, and right away, before there is any time for funny business, he tells Belinda it’s over. It was a mistake, he says. He is married. He has a son.
Belinda stares at him, and then she crumples to the floor. Deacon can’t leave her in a sobbing pile. He doesn’t want to leave her. He loves her—not because she’s famous or glamorous or rich. He loves her because inside she is broken, just as he is. She is lonely, just as he is.
Belinda wants Deacon to move to L.A. She will be able to introduce him to people. His career will really take off. She will buy him his own restaurant. He can be his own boss.