Elin Hilderbrand - The Rumor

“That’s not really the same thing,” Eddie said. And it wasn’t. Eddie and Trevor got along great, they had fun together, they occasionally had what Eddie thought of as “real” conversations, but almost always these conversations concerned their wives or children. There was no lasting bond between Eddie and Trevor. Eddie hadn’t seen Trevor since dinner a couple of weeks earlier, and it was no big deal to Eddie, just as Eddie was sure it was no big deal to Trevor. Trevor was flying his planes, going about his daily business, just as Eddie was. “Trevor and I hang out, drink, smoke cigars. But honestly, that friendship is primarily powered by our wives. I would say the friendship you had with Greg was probably pretty rare.”

“I’ll agree with that,” the Chief said. “Where did you grow up, Eddie?”

“New Bedford,” Eddie said. “Downtown.”

“Mean streets,” the Chief said. “At least, as I understand it.”

“I guess so,” Eddie said. “My parents did the best they could, then my old man died of emphysema when I was fourteen, then my mother three years later, of lung cancer. They both smoked like chimneys, and Barbie, too. I never touched cigarettes because I ran track.”

“That’s right,” the Chief said.

“Running kept me out of trouble,” Eddie said. “I still hold the Commonwealth record for the four hundred.”

“You don’t say!” The Chief ordered another drink, and Eddie felt pleased by this. It was as if the three hundred other people in the bar had ceased to exist. He was hanging out and drinking and engaging in meaningful conversation with the chief of police. Maybe because Eddie had grown up in New Bedford, or maybe because Eddie’s business had, for so many years, seemed so easy as to be illegal, or maybe because Eddie’s conscience was aching, or maybe because he, Eddie, just like everyone else in the world, needed authentic human connection, his present circumstances seemed monumental.

“Would you like to order a couple dozen littlenecks?” Eddie asked. “I know I’m not Greg MacAvoy, but I’m happy to help you eat them.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”

Eddie flagged Eliza and ordered up the clams.

“Thank you,” the Chief said. “You’re a good guy, Eddie. A really good guy.”

At five o’clock, Eddie walked out of Cru feeling like a changed man-upright, clean, worthy, respectable. The Chief had left fifteen minutes earlier to get home to his wife and the MacAvoy twins, Chloe and Finn, whom he was now raising. The Chief had actually hugged Eddie good-bye and pounded him on the back, and they had exchanged cell-phone numbers, the Chief giving Eddie his supersecret number, which he was sure to answer any time of the day or night.

“If you ever need a hand or want to grab a drink,” the Chief said, “just call me.”

“I’ll do that,” Eddie said, and then he laughed. Too loudly? Too eagerly? The four vodka martinis had him by the shoulders; the Chief had had just as many drinks as Eddie, if not more, but he was a man who was unaffected by alcohol.

“I’ll call you sometime to go fishing,” the Chief said. “I bought a boat last year, a twenty-six-foot Whaler with a brand new two-fifty. Do you like to fish?”

“I love to fish,” Eddie said, although this was a lie. He hated to fish. It was too much sit-around-and-wait for Eddie; he would rather be in the office making money. But if the Chief wanted to go fishing, Eddie would go fishing. Trevor loved to fish and had belonged to the Anglers’ Club since he was eighteen. It occurred to Eddie that Trevor might be a better choice as a friend for the Chief-but now Eddie was starting to sound like Grace.

“Great,” the Chief said. “Take care, and enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“Okay, Chief,” he said. He felt sorrowful at the Chief’s departure. “I would definitely like to go fishing. Call me.”

The Chief pointed at Eddie in a way that could have meant anything, and then he sliced his way through the intoxicated crowd, who all stepped aside for him because, even if they didn’t know he was the police chief, they sensed his authority.

Now, out on the Straight Wharf by himself, Eddie saw Figawians stumbling and swaying, he saw potential fistfights brewing, he saw women losing their shoes and their hair ties and control of their bra straps. Walking back past the Straight Wharf Restaurant, Eddie spied the girl in the white strapless sundress sitting on the railing, drinking a Corona. She had puked and rallied. Good for her.

She saw him staring and waved at him. He walked quickly away. He was not going to lose this glow of virtue by flirting with someone half his age.

But he was going to lose the glow of virtue-yes, he was. He thought of the paper bag full of cash. He thought about how everyone on the staff at the Great Harbor Yacht Club now knew Eddie was in financial trouble. Soon, other members would hear the rumor, and then there would be blood in the water. Glenn Daley, Eddie’s archenemy, belonged to Great Harbor.

He needed to sell a house.

But until then, he had the girls.

Angie called, screaming. At first, Madeline thought it was angry screaming, but then she realized it was happy, joyful, excited screaming.

“I love it!” she said. “I absolutely fucking love it!”

Madeline was confused. “You love what?”

“Your new book!” Angie said.

“Wait a minute,” Madeline said. “How did you get it?”

“Redd sent it to me,” Angie said. “I read the sample scene. There is something in the writing that is so immediate, so electrifying, it nearly burned my fingers as I turned the page. Your characters have such hot chemistry. We’re going to market it as ‘the Playboy Channel meets HGTV.’ After all, what woman doesn’t want to sleep with her contractor?”

Madeline was stunned silent. She had sent the outline and sample scene to Redd because she’d wanted him to know that he hadn’t cashed in his diamond-quality favor for her in vain. She had made a good-faith effort to come up with something else. She hadn’t expected Redd to forward it to Angie, and she certainly hadn’t anticipated this kind of enthusiasm.

The Playboy Channel meets HGTV?

“I want you to start writing as fast as you can,” Angie said. “I want to bump this up to the winter list, and I think we can sell first serial to Redbook. The morning shows are going to love it! Gayle King is going to go nuts! She and Norah will fight over it.”

Madeline swallowed. She tried to imagine herself going on CBS This Morning with Gayle King, Norah O’Donnell, and Charlie Rose to discuss a novel she had written… about Grace and Benton Coe.

“The thing is?” Madeline said. “There would be a lot I’d have to change, because the stuff I have in there now hits a little close to home.”

“Do you know someone who has gone through this?” Angie asked. She gasped. “You?”

“No, not me!” Madeline said. Although if it had been her going through it, she surely wouldn’t want her best friend writing a novel about it.

“It’s okay if it is you,” Angie said. “Did I ever tell you about the guy who tiled my master bathroom? He was edible. I wanted to eat him.”

Madeline closed her eyes. She could not believe she had started this ball rolling. All across America, women would be admitting to having impure thoughts about their electricians and their plaster guys.

“I definitely have to change the mint tea,” Madeline said. “And the pistachio macarons. And the ploughman’s lunch and them dancing to the song ‘Loving Cup.’”

“Normally, I would say go right ahead, replace those details with equally vivid details-but in this case, Madeline, you really nailed it. Those details belong in there. You can’t take out the mint tea! You can’t take out the ploughman’s lunch, the way you describe the radishes and him feeding her-it’s all too good to cut. It would be like Hemingway without the bullfights or Cheever without the six twenty-four to New Canaan.”

“Yes, but…,” Madeline said.

“Just keep it as it is,” Angie said. “If we absolutely, positively have to change stuff later, we will.”

“Okay,” Madeline said uneasily.

“And have you thought of an ending?” Angie asked.

“An ending?”

“I know you have issues with resolution,” Angie said. “But what I’d really like to see happen here is for… B and G to end up together.” Madeline heard Angie slam a pen down on her desk. “I’m sick of women at the end of these novels doing the right thing, sticking with their husbands, pandering to ‘family values.’ Even Fifty Shades of Grey played it safe.” She huffed. “I want an ending where the woman is happy instead of good.”

“Okay,” Madeline said. “I can do that.” She was marginally more comfortable now that they were talking about the ending. Grace and Benton were still carrying on, so anything Madeline wrote would be wholly fictional.

“Great,” Angie said. “This book is going to be a huge hit. I can feel it in my tooth fillings.”

“Thanks?” Madeline said.

“We need to come up with a title,” Angie said. “You don’t have any ideas, do you?”

“I… I really haven’t gotten that far,” Madeline said. “I kind of wrote it as a lark? Or maybe more like a practice exercise?”

“A practice exercise? That’s classic, it really is. This practice exercise is going right to the top of the New York Times bestseller list!” Angie said. “Don’t worry about the title. I have people in house for that. We’ll brainstorm.”

“Okay?” Madeline said.

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” Angie said. “We won’t give your book a title without running it past you.”

“Right,” Madeline said.

“What are you doing on the phone with me?” Angie said. “Get writing!”

Madeline hung up.

What had she done?

It was fiction, she reminded herself. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

It.

Was.

Fiction.

Brick wanted a car, there were bills to pay; she had rented this stupid apartment for twelve grand. College was on the horizon. Trevor was two thousand feet in the air. He was, technically, not even on the planet with her. She couldn’t discuss any of this with Trevor anyway-unless she told him Grace’s secret.

Two of the women at this table will betray the person on their left.

Eddie had been to Grace’s left. Grace had been to Madeline’s left. So here it was, then… her betrayal of Grace.

No, Madeline wouldn’t do it.

But if Madeline pissed off Angie, Angie might nail her on breach of contract. Madeline might be forced by law to return the advance, most of which she’d already spent.

As Madeline saw it, she had two options. She could write the novel about Grace and Benton. Or she could default on her contract and return her advance money-and write another novel down the road, when she was ready.

The morning shows were tempting… but no.

She called Eddie again, to ask for her fifty thousand dollars back.

Thornton Bayle, the paving king of Nantucket, who was resurfacing the parking lot of the Nantucket Yacht Club, overheard Eddie Pancik on his cell phone. The Nantucket Yacht Club was right across the street from the office of Island Fog Realty, and pretty much everyone in town knew that when Eddie was having a conversation he didn’t want anyone else to hear, he headed across the street to the yacht-club parking lot.

What Thornton Bayle overheard, late in the afternoon of Memorial Day, went something like this: Madeline, yes, I understand your dilemma. I understand, Madeline! I told you June, and if not June then August. Madeline, if I could I would, but I just can’t right now. You have to be patient. I need you to hang in there. I need you to believe in me. There were two parties involved from the get-go… you knew there was risk. Yes, you did. Madeline, please, I need you to cut me some slack. I will make everything right, but I can’t do it today. You have to give me time, Madeline. Please, just give me time.

Well, he thought. That’s interesting.

She weathered the rumor about her screwing Brick by holding her head high and not saying one word on the topic. Allegra was back to walking with Brick between classes, making him late for everything, because they stopped in front of every water fountain to kiss.

Hope couldn’t watch them without wanting to barf.

Meanwhile, Allegra was still seeing Ian Coburn. She would tell Brick she was going to “stay home and cram for finals” and tell her parents that she was going to wait at the end of the driveway for Hollis to pick her up for a “study group,” but instead it would be Ian Coburn in his red Camaro, whisking her away to study the fine art of giving a blow job while watching the sun go down from a remote stretch of beach in Madequecham.