The Perfect Couple

by Elin Hilderbrand

  “There wasn’t a water glass on the scene,” the Chief says.

  “No?” Tag says. This doesn’t make sense. “Well, I’m telling you, Merritt drank a glass of ice water. Featherleigh got it from the kitchen.” Tag glowers at the Chief, which feels risky, but he is through being intimidated. He didn’t drug Merritt and he didn’t kill her. “I think you need to talk to Featherleigh Dale.”

  “I think you need to stop telling me how to run my investigation,” the Chief says. He barely raises his voice but his tone is stern nonetheless. He’s a local guy. He must resent men like Tag with their showcase homes and their shaky morals. “I have one more question.”

  Tag is seeing spots in his peripheral vision, the first sign of a tension headache. “What is it?”

  “Ms. Monaco had quite a nasty cut on her foot,” the Chief says. “And there were traces of Ms. Monaco’s blood in the sand on the beach out front. Do you know anything about this?”

  “Nothing,” Tag says. “She didn’t have a cut on her foot when she was under the tent. You can ask Featherleigh! Ask Thomas! So… she must have cut it when she got back on land. Which is proof I delivered her safely!”

  The Chief says, “It’s not ‘proof’ of anything. But thank you for your answers.” He stands and Tag stands as well, though his legs are weak and watery.

  “I think it’s pretty obvious Merritt took some pills because she was upset, and then she wandered back into the water and drowned,” Tag says. “You could simply conclude that her death was an accident. It would be easier on everyone—her family, her friends, my son, and Celeste.”

  “I could conclude it was an accident,” the Chief says. “And you’re right—it would probably be easier on everyone, including my police department. But it wouldn’t necessarily be the truth. And in my job, Mr. Winbury, I seek the truth. Which obviously isn’t something you’d understand.”

  “I resent that,” Tag says.

  “Oh, well,” the Chief says. But then, to Tag’s relief, he heads for the door. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

  “So we’re finished?” Tag asks.

  “For now,” the Chief says.

  Sunday, June 10, 2018

  CELESTE

  Benji is away on his bachelor-party weekend. Shooter arranged for complete debauchery: Thursday afternoon they landed in Vegas, where they went to their penthouse suite at Aria and gambled until dawn. Friday brought a double bill of race-car driving and gun club. Saturday they drove to Palm Springs to golf and have a thousand-dollar-a-head steak dinner at Mr. Lyons. And today, Sunday, they are to fly home.

  Before he left, Benji tried to apologize in advance. “There will probably be strippers,” he said. “Or worse.”

  “Hookers and b-b-blow,” Celeste says, and she kisses him good-bye. “Or p-p-performing lesb-b-bians. I really d-d-don’t want to know any d-d-details. Just have f-f-fun.”

  “Should I be happy that you’re not protesting this trip,” Benji asks, “or concerned?”

  “B-B-Be happy,” Celeste says.

  Celeste spent Friday and Saturday night in Easton with her parents. Her mother was finished with treatment; there was nothing they could do now but be grateful for each new day. Karen was feeling pretty good, so the three of them took a walk around the neighborhood and then went for an early dinner at the diner.

  Celeste had brought her wedding dress at her father’s behest.

  He said, “You might want to try it on for your mom.”

  “B-B-But why?” Celeste said. “You g-g-guys are still c-c-coming, right? To Nant-t-tucket?”

  “Just bring it, please,” Bruce said.

  And so, once her mother was settled at home on Saturday night, Celeste tried on the wedding gown. She put on her white silk shantung kitten heels and her pearl earrings. She didn’t bother with hair or makeup but that hardly seemed to matter. Karen beamed; her eyes were shining; she clasped her hands to her heart. “Oh, honey, you’re a vision.”

  Thank you, Bruce had mouthed from across the room.

  Celeste had twirled and tried to smile.

  Now, Sunday morning, Celeste drives back to the city to meet Merritt for lunch at a place called Fish on Bleecker Street.

  “I want oysters,” Merritt had said to Celeste over the phone. “And I don’t want to see anyone I know. I have to talk to you.”

  When Celeste gets to Fish, Merritt is already there with a bloody mary in front of her. She’s breaking peanuts between her thumb and forefinger and throwing the shells on the floor. Fish has the atmosphere of a dive bar, but there are yards of crushed ice upon which rest piles and piles of oysters. The Yankees game is on TV. The bartender wears a T-shirt that says SEX, DRUGS, AND LOBSTER ROLL.

  “Hey,” Celeste says, taking the stool next to Merritt. She plants a kiss on Merritt’s cheek and orders a bloody mary as well. She feels she deserves a little hedonism. She has been performing her daughterly duties while Benji has been on a three-day bender.

  “Hey yourself,” Merritt says. “Have you heard from Benji?”

  “No,” Celeste says. “I asked him not to call me.” Her mood is suddenly buoyant, her tongue nimble. Her stutter all but disappears when she’s alone with Merritt.

  “Seriously?” Merritt says.

  “Seriously,” Celeste says. “I wanted him to enjoy himself and not worry about checking in with the future wife.”

  “Relationship goals,” Merritt says.

  Celeste takes a sip of her bloody mary; the alcohol and spice go right to her head. She considers telling Merritt that the reason she asked Benji not to call was that she didn’t want to hear any news about Shooter—what Shooter had planned, what Shooter was doing, what funny thing Shooter said. Celeste is almost to the finish line. The wedding is four weeks away, but still she’s afraid she’ll get tripped up by her irrational heart. Every day she thinks about calling the wedding off.

  Celeste takes another sip of her bloody while Merritt peruses the oyster list on the blackboard. It would be such a relief to confess her feelings to Merritt. That’s what best friends are for, right? Technically Celeste is being a bad friend by not telling Merritt. And yet Celeste fears naming her feelings. She’s afraid if she says the words aloud—I’m in love with Shooter—something very bad will happen.

  Merritt orders a dozen oysters. She’s in a West Coast mood, she says, so six Kumamotos and six Fanny Bays; Celeste has agreed to taste one of each in an attempt to cultivate a taste for the little buggers. Genus: Crassostrea. Species: gigas.

  Merritt takes an exaggerated breath and says, “Please don’t judge me.”

  “I would never,” Celeste says. “What’s going on?”

  Merritt holds out her hand. “I’m so nervous, I’m actually shaking.”

  “Just tell me,” Celeste says. She’s used to Merritt’s theatrics. They’re one of the reasons Celeste loves her.

  “I’ve been seeing someone,” Merritt says. “It started a few weeks ago and I thought it was a casual fling, but then the guy called me up and since then it’s gotten more serious.”

  “Okay?” Celeste says. She doesn’t understand what the big deal is.

  “He’s married,” Merritt says.

  Celeste shakes her head. “I thought you learned your lesson with Travis Darling.”

  “Travis was a predator,” Merritt says. “This guy I really like. The problem is… promise you won’t kill me?”

  “Kill you?” Celeste says. She can’t figure out what Merritt is going to tell her.

  “It’s your future father-in-law,” Merritt says. Her head falls forward but she turns to give Celeste a sidelong glance. “It’s Tag.”

  Celeste is very proud of herself: She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t hop off her stool, leave the bar, and get back on the subway uptown. Instead, she sucks down the rest of her bloody mary and signals the bartender for another.

  It’s Tag. Merritt and… Tag.

  Celeste has been hanging out with Merritt for too long, s
he thinks, because she isn’t shocked. She can all too easily picture Merritt and Tag together. “Did it start when he took you to the wine dinner?”

  “A little before that,” Merritt says. “I noticed him checking me out the Friday night of your bachelorette weekend while we were out front waiting for the taxi. And so on Saturday morning, I did an exploratory mission to see if he was actually interested, and he was.”

  “Have you slept with him?” Celeste asks. Tag is an attractive guy, and very alpha, which is how Merritt likes her men. But Celeste can’t imagine having sex with him. He’s older than her father.

  “Are you really twenty-eight years old?” Merritt asks. “Of course I slept with him.”

  “Ugh,” Celeste says. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “I figured it would be a one-night stand,” Merritt says. “He asked for my number but I never thought he’d use it. But then, a week and a half later, he called me at two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Celeste says. Her mind starts traveling the predictable path: What is Tag thinking? He’s such a creep! Such a stereotypical male douchebag! Up until this very moment, Celeste had liked him. It’s heartbreaking to discover he’s preying on her friend, a woman the same age as his children. Does he do this all the time? He must! And what about Greer? Celeste would never have guessed she would ever have occasion to feel sorry for Greer Garrison, but she does now. She understands the biological impulse behind Tag’s actions: he is still virile, still seeking to spread his seed and propagate the species.

  But come on!

  “Come on!” Celeste says.

  Merritt cringes at the outburst.

  “Sorry,” Celeste says. She dives into the second bloody mary. “I’m sorry. I won’t judge you. But p-p-please, Merritt, you have to end it. Tomorrow. Or better still, t-t-tonight.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Merritt says. “I’m in it. He’s got me. My birthday is next week and I asked him to take me away. I think he’s considering it.”

  “You’re a g-g-grown woman,” Celeste says. She winces; her stutter is back. Of course it’s back! Celeste went from feeling relaxed to feeling like she just stepped off the Tilt-a-Whirl at the carnival with a stomach full of fried dough. “He hasn’t got you. You can exercise free will and walk away.”

  “He’s all I think about,” Merritt says. “He’s in my blood. It’s like I’m infected.” The oysters arrive and Merritt absentmindedly douses half of them with hot sauce. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

  In my blood. Infected.

  Yes, she thinks. Shooter.

  “N-N-No,” she says.

  Against her better judgment, Celeste stays with Merritt at Fish all afternoon. Celeste has a Cobb salad, Merritt a tuna burger with extra wasabi. They order a bottle of Sancerre, and then—because Celeste is very slowly processing the news and Merritt is experiencing some kind of high at finally sharing it—they order a second bottle.

  “Sancerre is a sauvignon blanc that comes from the Loire Valley,” Merritt says. “Tag taught me that our first night together.”

  “Great,” Celeste says. She is patient as Merritt gradually reveals the particulars of her relationship with Tag. They meet at her apartment. They once went out for sandwiches. Tag paid, pulled her chair out, emptied her trash. Tag is refined, he’s mature, he is smart and successful. She knows it’s cliché but she is a sucker for his British accent. She wants to eat it, take a bath in it. Tag is jealous of Robbie. He showed up outside Merritt’s apartment building in the middle of the night because he was so jealous.

  “Does he ever t-t-talk about Greer?” Celeste asks. She pours herself another glass of wine. She is getting drunk. Their food has been cleared and so Celeste attacks the bowl of peanuts.

  “Sometimes he mentions her,” Merritt says. “But we tend to stay away from the topic of family.”

  “Wise,” Celeste says.

  Merritt tells Celeste that, just a few days earlier, Tag asked Merritt to show up at a hotel bar where he was meeting clients for drinks. They had sex in the ladies’ room, then Merritt left.

  It’s like a scene from a movie, Celeste thinks. Except it’s real life, her real best friend and her real future father-in-law. She should be horrified! But in an uncharacteristic twist, she is almost relieved that Merritt is doing something even worse than she is. She’s in love with Benji’s best friend. But she has exercised willpower. Willpower, she now understands, is an endangered species. Other people conduct wildly inappropriate affairs.

  “I have to get home,” Celeste says, checking her phone. “Benji lands in twenty minutes and he’s c-c-coming over for dinner.”

  “You can’t tell Benji,” Merritt says.

  Celeste gives her friend a look. She’s not sure what kind of look because her face feels like it’s made of Silly Putty. The air in the bar is shimmering. Celeste is so drunk.

  “Obviously not,” she says.

  Merritt pays the bill, and Celeste, for once, doesn’t protest or offer to pay half, nor does she refuse when Merritt presses thirty dollars in her hand and puts her into a cab headed uptown. It’s bribe money, and Celeste deserves it.

  Somehow, she makes it up the stairs and into her apartment. She can’t imagine sobering up enough to have dinner with Benji, but if she cancels he’ll think she’s upset about his weekend away.

  She cannot tell him about Merritt and his father. She can’t let anything slip. She has to act as though everything is fine, normal, status quo.

  She sends Merritt a text. End it! Now! Please!

  Then she falls asleep facedown on her futon.

  She wakes up when she hears her apartment’s buzzer. The light coming through her sole bedroom window has mellowed. It’s late. What time? She checks her bedside clock. Quarter after seven. That will be Benji.

  She hurries to the front door and buzzes him in, then she rushes to the bathroom to brush her teeth and splash water on her face. She’s still drunk but not as drunk as she was and not yet cotton-mouthed or hung over. She’s even a little hungry. Maybe she and Benji can walk down to the Peruvian chicken place, she thinks. It’s Sunday night, so Benji will sleep at home and Celeste can be in bed by ten. She has two all-school field trips coming to the zoo tomorrow; it’s the curse of June.

  Celeste is immersed in these mundane thoughts when she opens the door, so what she sees comes as a complete shock.

  It’s not Benji.

  It’s Shooter.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “Hey, Sunshine,” he says. “Can I come in?”

  “Where’s B-B-Benji?” she asks, and an arrow of pure red panic shoots through her. “D-D-Did something happen?”

  “He took a cab straight home from JFK,” Shooter says. “Didn’t he call you?”

  “I d-d-don’t know,” Celeste says. She hasn’t checked her phone since… since before getting in the taxi to come home.

  Shooter nods. “Trust me. He called you and left a message saying he wanted to go home to bed. There wasn’t much left of old Benji when we got off the plane.”

  “Okay,” Celeste says. “So what are you d-d-doing here?”

  “Can I come in, please?” Shooter asks.

  Celeste checks behind Shooter. The stairwell is its usual gray, miserable self. She thinks to feel embarrassed about her apartment—Shooter lives in some corporate condo in Hell’s Kitchen, but even that must put her place to shame.

  She isn’t supposed to care what Shooter thinks.

  “Fine,” she says. She’s doing a good job at sounding nonchalant, even a bit irritated, but her insides are flapping around like the Bronx Zoo’s hysterical macaw Kellyanne. Benji has been diminished by his bachelor adventure, and Shooter doesn’t look so hot either. His hair is messy and he’s wearing a New York Giants T-shirt, a frayed pair of khaki shorts, and flip-flops. He looks younger to Celeste, nearly innocent.

  She steps aside to let him in, then she closes the door behind him.

  “So how was the
bachelor party of the century?” she asks.

  Instead of answering, Shooter kisses her, once, and it feels exactly the way Celeste dreamed it would: soft and delicious. She makes a cooing sound, like a dove, and Shooter kisses her again. Their mouths open and his tongue seeks out hers. Her legs start to quiver; she can’t believe she is still standing. Shooter takes her head in his hands; his touch is gentle but the electricity, the heat, the desire between them is crazy. Celeste had no idea her body could respond to another person like this. She’s on fire.

  Shooter’s hands travel down Celeste’s back to her ass. He pulls her against him. She wants him so badly she could weep. She hates that she was right. She had known if this ever happened, she would become delirious and lose control of her senses.

  Don’t stop, she thinks. Don’t stop!

  He pulls away. “Celeste,” he says. His voice is husky. “I’m in love with you.”

  I’m in love with you too, she thinks. But she can’t say it, and suddenly her good sense kicks in the way it should have a few moments ago. This is wrong! It’s wrong! She is engaged to Benji! She will not debase that, she will not cheat on him. She will not cheat on him. She will not be like Merritt or Tag. They may think that the intensity of their desire justifies their actions, but that is morally convenient. Celeste isn’t religious but she does have an immutable sense of right and wrong and she also believes—though she would never say this—that if Merritt and Tag continue, something bad will happen. Something very bad.

  This will not be the case for Celeste. She can’t falter like this or her mother will die. She’s sure of it.

  “You have to leave,” Celeste says.

  “Celeste,” he says.

  “Leave,” she says. She opens the door. She feels faint. “Shooter. Please. Please.”

  He stares at her for a long moment with those hypnotic blue eyes. Celeste clings to the small piece of herself that knows this is the right action, the only possible action.