The Perfect Couple

by Elin Hilderbrand

  Despite all this, she had been thinking, right before plans for the vacation were made, of breaking up with him. She likes him but she has been consistently misrepresenting her feelings because she does not love him.

  She loves Shooter Uxley.

  She has tried to talk herself out of it. How can she love Shooter when she spent only one day with him? After Benji belatedly arrived that weekend in June, Shooter left the island, claiming a work emergency. That Sunday afternoon, once Celeste was back in her own apartment, Shooter had sent her a text that said, I couldn’t stay and watch the two of you together.

  So, Celeste thought, Shooter had felt it too. He had felt that strong, unmistakable thing, that animal attraction. Celeste uses the phrase purposefully because she’s a scientist and may understand better than most how human beings are at the mercy of their biology. Celeste thinks of a male lion establishing dominance in a pride or the blue-footed booby showing the female his blue feet by dancing. The natural world is filled with such rituals that can be documented and categorized but ultimately not explained. Celeste can’t control her urges or her feelings any better than hyenas or aardvarks; however, she can control her behavior. She has no intention of leaving Benji for his best friend. But she knows it’s not fair to stay with him when she doesn’t love him.

  She needs to break it off.

  She will break it off, she decides, after they get back from Nantucket.

  Saturday, Sunday, Monday: Celeste and Benji lie by the pool, swim in the harbor, eat the finger sandwiches and cubes of melon that Elida brings them on a tray for lunch. In the late afternoon, they go to 167 Raw to buy fresh tuna and swordfish steaks, then they go to Bartlett’s Farm for corn, summer squash, greens for salad, a homemade peach pie. In the mornings, they wander the shops in town. At Milly and Grace, Celeste tries on four dresses, and Benji, unable to decide which he likes best on her, buys her all four. That night, Benji takes Celeste out to Sconset to eat at a candlelit table in the garden of the Chanticleer. At the center of the garden stands a carousel horse, and Celeste finds herself staring at the horse throughout dinner.

  This week, Shooter is in Saratoga Springs, New York, with a group of tech executives from Belarus; they have gone to see the races. Celeste knows this because Benji keeps her constantly informed about Shooter’s whereabouts; Benji shows her every picture Shooter sends him, like a proud uncle. Sometimes he says, jokingly, “I’m boring, but here’s my exciting friend.” Celeste smiles mildly; she glances at the photos but can’t bring herself to focus on Shooter’s face. What good would it do? She never responded to Shooter’s text. She can’t have a secret line of communication with him; she knows where that would lead.

  Celeste tears her eyes away from the carousel horse and thoughts of Saratoga and wills herself to be happy. She likes Benji. She cares about Benji.

  As she watches Benji sip his wine, she imagines Shooter at the betting window, track pencil behind his ear. She imagines him in the grandstand or the elevated suite with fancy free hors d’oeuvres and scantily clad cocktail waitresses, where only the most important people in the world are allowed to sit. She imagines Shooter’s horse pulling ahead on the outside. Shooter has picked the winner again. He high-fives the Belarusians.

  “Do you want dessert?” Benji asks. “Celeste?”

  Tuesday and Wednesday: Celeste is tan. Celeste is relaxed. Celeste is growing more comfortable with Benji’s parents. One morning, she runs five miles with Tag. The following afternoon she goes to a photography exhibit on Old South Wharf with Greer, and afterward, Celeste suggests they get an Italian ice at the little shop next to the gallery.

  “My treat,” Celeste says. The ices cost only ten dollars but Celeste leaves the cute red-haired teenager behind the counter a five-dollar tip. Tag and Greer are so generous that it makes Celeste want to be generous on her own scale.

  They sit on a bench on the wharf to enjoy their ices in the sun and Greer says, “So, how are things going with you and Benji?”

  Celeste isn’t sure what Greer is asking. “Everything is fine,” she says.

  “Tag and I are heading back to the city tomorrow,” Greer says. “My friend Elizabeth Calabash’s son is getting married at the Plaza.”

  “Oh,” Celeste says. She savors the taste of her passionfruit ice and thinks of how, before she met Benji, she would have stuck to something safe like lemon or raspberry. “That’s nice.”

  “I think Benji would like some alone time with you,” Greer says. “Nothing quashes romance like having one’s parents around.”

  “I enjoy your company,” Celeste says. It’s true. With the elder Winburys in residence, there is a family atmosphere at the house. There are times it feels like she and Benji are siblings. Celeste’s greatest dream is that her parents might someday see Nantucket. She tries to describe it in her phone calls, but she can’t do it justice, and there are things she knows they won’t understand—dining at nine o’clock at night in a garden with a carousel horse, paying seventeen hundred dollars for a photograph, or even passionfruit Italian ice.

  Thursday and Friday: Tag and Greer leave late on Thursday. Benji apologizes to Celeste, but he has committed to playing in the member-guest golf tournament at the Nantucket Golf Club, which will eat up most of Friday.

  “No problem,” Celeste says. She has a new book—Mrs. Fletcher by Tom Perrotta—and she looks forward to the time alone. It’s not supposed to be this way, she knows.

  “I’ve arranged for a surprise,” Benji says. He kisses Celeste. “Shooter is coming.”

  Celeste blinks and pulls back. “What?” she says. “I thought he was in Saratoga.”

  “He was,” Benji says. “But he has a couple of days free so I asked him to come.”

  Celeste has no idea what kind of expression crosses her face. Is it one of alarm? Fear? Panic?

  “I thought you liked Shooter,” Benji says.

  “Oh, I do,” Celeste says. “I do.”

  At seven o’clock on Friday morning, Benji pulls away in Tag’s Land Rover with his golf clubs in the back. Celeste stands on the front porch and waves until he’s gone. Then she steps inside to the entrance hall and studies herself in one of Greer’s antique mirrors. She is blond and blue-eyed, pretty but not beautiful, or maybe beautiful but not extraordinary. Is there something she’s not seeing? Something inside of her? She likes animals, the environment, the natural world. This has always set her apart, made her less desirable rather than more so. When she was growing up, she was always reading the encyclopedia or National Geographic, and when she wasn’t doing that, she was collecting snakes and salamanders in shoe boxes and trying to re-create their natural habitat. She wasn’t interested in boy bands or wearing friendship bracelets or roller-blading or shopping for CDs and hair clips at the mall, just as now she doesn’t care about gender politics or social media or bingeing on Netflix or going to barre class or who wore what to the Met Ball. She is atypical. She is weird.

  Shooter is coming. She’s not sure what to do. Proceed as normal? She changes into her bathing suit, grabs her new book, and goes out to the pool.

  When she wakes up with the book splayed open on her chest, she finds Shooter sitting on the next chaise with his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, staring at her.

  No, she’s dreaming. She closes her eyes.

  “Sunshine.”

  Opens her eyes.

  “Hi,” he says. He grins. “Benji called to say you needed looking after.”

  “I don’t,” she snaps. She refuses to flirt with him. She refuses to be complicit in this. It’s as though Benji is trying to lose her, handing her off to Shooter once again. “You should have stayed in Saratoga.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re stern,” Shooter says. “And I was happy to come, I wanted to come. All I’ve wanted since I left the last time was to see you again.”

  “Shooter,” she says.

  “You must think I’m a real bastard,” he says. “Going after my best friend’s girl. P
eople write songs about this very scenario, Celeste—Rick Springfield, the Cars. And do you know why? Because it happens. It happens all the time.”

  “But why me?” Celeste says. It’s amazing enough that she won the devotion of Benjamin Winbury, but to have Shooter’s attention too seems so inconceivable that she wonders if it’s a trick or a joke. Men like Benji and Shooter should be chasing after women like Merritt. Merritt is an influencer; she has power, clout, and she knows everyone. She is connected, savvy, witty, a social genius. Celeste, meanwhile, writes e-mails to other zoo administrators about improving the orangutan habitat.

  “Because you’re real,” Shooter says. “You’re so normal and down-to-earth that you’re exotic. There is no pretense with you, Celeste. Any idea how rare that is these days? And I had such a good time with you here. I haven’t enjoyed a woman’s company that much ever before in my life. It’s like you cast a spell on me. When Benji asked me to come, I didn’t think twice.”

  “Benji is my boyfriend,” Celeste says. “Nothing is going to happen between you and me.”

  Shooter gives her a laser stare with his sapphire-blue eyes. “Hearing you say that makes me like you even more. Benji is the better choice.”

  Benji is the better choice! Celeste thinks. She wonders if Shooter is motivated by envy. He wants what Benji has—his parents, his pedigree, and now his girlfriend. Probably that’s it. Celeste turns her eyes back to her book, hoping Mrs. Fletcher can save her.

  “Put your shorts and flip-flops on,” Shooter says. “I’m taking you somewhere.”

  “Where?” Celeste says.

  “I’ll meet you out front,” he says.

  Shooter has rented a silver Jeep. He tells Celeste he asked for the exact same one they had before, and when Celeste sits in the passenger seat, she does indeed feel a strong sense of familiarity, like this is their car, like they belong in it.

  Shooter drives out to the Surfside Beach Shack. “I was wrong about the tomato sandwich,” he says. He climbs out of the Jeep and returns a few moments later with a cardboard box that holds two sandwiches wrapped in foil and two drinks. “These are the best sandwiches on the island, possibly the world.” They proceed all the way to the end of Madaket Road, cross a small wooden bridge, and enter what looks like a seaside village from another era. The houses are teensy-tiny beach shacks with funky architectural details: a suspended deck that joins two roof-lines, a slant-roofed tower, a row of round porthole windows. These are nothing like the elegant castles out in Monomoy. These are like beach cottages for elves, and they all have funny names: Duck Inn, It’ll Do, Breaking Away.

  “They’re so small,” Celeste says. “How do people actually live in them?”

  “The best living is done outside,” Shooter says. “And look at the location—they’re right on the water.”

  Celeste nearly points out that the Winburys’ house is right on the water, but she understands the inherent charm of these homes. There are brightly striped towels draped over railings and hibachi grills on the decks; the “front yards” are sand and a tangle of Rosa rugosa bushes. How idyllic life would be out here. You spent all day at the beach, rinsed off under the outdoor shower, grilled a striped bass that you had caught yourself surf-casting a hundred yards away. At night, your neighbors wandered over to share an ice-cold beer or a gin and tonic while you all gazed up at the stars and listened to the pounding surf. Rainy days would mean cards, board games, or a good paperback mystery read in a comfortable old chair.

  Shooter crouches down to let some of the air out of the Jeep’s tires; Celeste watches him from her perch in the passenger seat. She studies the back of his neck, the shape of his ears. When he works on the back tires she trains her eyes on him in her side-view mirror. He looks up, catches her, blows her a kiss. She wants to scowl, but instead, she smiles.

  Celeste and Shooter drive up over the dunes. The stark natural beauty of Smith’s Point is staggering. There’s a long stretch of pristine beach in front of them with the ocean to the left and dunes carpeted in eelgrass to the right. Beyond those dunes is the flat blue surface of Nantucket Sound.

  Shooter is taking it slow—five miles an hour—so he can easily reach over to the glove compartment, grazing Celeste’s knee with the back of his hand as he does so. He pulls out a guide to eastern shorebirds.

  “For my zoologist,” he says.

  Celeste wants to correct him—she isn’t his anything—but she becomes instantly enthralled by the guidebook. She has always loved ornithology, although it requires more patience than she has been naturally gifted with to pursue as a specialty. Still, she loves to visit the World of Birds and talk to Vern, their resident ornithologist. Vern has sighted over seven thousand of the world’s ten thousand bird species, a life list that puts him in a very elite category of bird-watcher. Vern’s best stories often aren’t about the birds themselves but rather about the travels he has undertaken in order to see them. When he was only eighteen, he hitchhiked from Oxford, Mississippi, to the Monteverde Cloud Forest in Costa Rica to see the resplendent quetzal. He has been to Gambia to see the African gray hornbill and to Antarctica to see the Adélie penguin.

  Right away, Celeste points out the sandpiper and the American oystercatcher with its signature orange beak. Shooter laughs and says, “You delight me.” He drives out to the tip of Smith’s Point—Celeste sees the much smaller island of Tuckernuck across a narrow channel—and then he curves around to the far side of the point. He sets up a camp—a chair for each of them, an umbrella for shade, towels, and a small table, where he lays out their lunch. He shucks off his polo shirt. Celeste tries not to notice the muscles of his back.

  “Watch this,” he says. He wades out into the water a few feet and then he must drop off a ledge or a shelf because suddenly he is in up to his chest. He lifts his hands in the air, and the water whooshes him down the shore. “Yee-haw!” he cries out. About forty yards down, he climbs out of the water and jogs back to Celeste. “It’s a natural water slide,” he says. “You have to try it.”

  Celeste can’t resist. Her parents took her to Great Wolf Lodge every summer of her growing up; she has never met a water slide she didn’t love. She wades in, her feet feeling for the edge of the shelf. Then she jumps in and the current carries her down the coastline.

  It’s exhilarating! It’s hilarious! Celeste hasn’t laughed or enjoyed herself this much since she was a child with her father, going down Coyote Canyon.

  “How did you know this was here?” she asks Shooter, breathless.

  Shooter says, “It’s my business to know the secrets of every universe.”

  “I want to go again,” Celeste says.

  The film montage starts once more: Here are Celeste and Shooter riding the current down the beach again and again and again, whooping like rodeo cowboys. Celeste can’t get enough; the water is swift, powerful, alive. Shooter gives up first, and finally Celeste declares she is going only one more time. Here are Shooter and Celeste eating their sandwiches—a crab, shrimp, and scallop “burger,” topped with avocado, bacon, lettuce, tomato, and a creamy dill and smoked-pepper aioli. And to drink they have fresh watermelon limeades. It’s the most delicious lunch Celeste has ever eaten. Is this hyperbole? She doesn’t think so, though she realizes the sandwich and the drink are only part of it. The swimming is also part of it, the sand, the view… and Shooter. Celeste is so exhausted after eating that she spreads out a towel and lies facedown. Shooter follows suit, and when Celeste wakes up, his leg is touching hers. Celeste doesn’t want to move, but move she must.

  At five o’clock, when they drive off the beach, Celeste’s skin is tight from the sun, and her blond hair is stiff with salt. She figures she must look a fright, but when she catches a glimpse of herself in the side-view mirror, what she sees is a young woman who is happy. She has never, in her life, been this happy.

  “Hey, Sunshine?” Shooter says.

  “Please don’t,” she says. She doesn’t want him to say anything that’s going
to ruin it. She doesn’t want him to make any declarations. She doesn’t want him to try to name what is happening. They both know what’s happening.

  Shooter laughs. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to stop at Millie’s on the way home? Get a margarita?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  As soon as Shooter pulls into the parking lot at Millie’s, his phone starts to ping, and so does Celeste’s. Shooter cocks an eyebrow at her. “Check our phones?” he asks. “Or ignore them?”

  Ignore them, Celeste thinks. But out of habit, she glances at her display. There are three texts from Benji.

  I’m back.

  Where are you guys?

  Hello?

  Celeste feels like she’s suspended in midair. What should she do? She wants to go into Millie’s with Shooter, order a margarita, maybe knock legs with him under the bar.

  But that kind of misbehavior is beyond her.

  “We need to go,” she says.

  Back at Summerland, Benji is on the deck, wearing a coat and tie. He has a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot chilling in an ice bucket. He stares pointedly at Shooter.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  “Late?” Celeste says. “Were you expecting us earlier? I thought you were golfing.”

  Shooter says, “Sorry, man, I lost track of time.”

  Something passes between Benji and Shooter. Celeste is afraid to ask what’s going on.

  “Should I shower?” Celeste says.

  “Yes,” Benji says. He kisses her. “Wear the new pink dress. We’re going out.”

  Celeste goes upstairs to shower and change. She puts on a green dress instead of the pink, a small but important defiance. She hates when Benji tries to control her; she knows he thinks he’s the Professor Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle. But he’s not. She’s an intelligent adult; she can pick her own dress.