Every Vow You Break

by Peter Swanson

  Jill looked over Abigail’s shoulder, and Abigail turned her head. Three men had just entered the lodge and were walking slowly toward the bar.

  “A lot more men here than women?”

  “I know,” Jill said. “Most of them are tech people from California. They get sent here for team-building. At first I felt like I was honeymooning at some sort of men’s club, but I guess it’s all right. Honestly”—she leaned in and whispered—“I was kind of hoping that our honeymoon would involve a sunny beach, but I guess we can do that sort of trip any old time.”

  “It’s nice here,” Abigail said. “But it’s not tropical.”

  “No, it’s not,” Jill said, and finished her champagne, the raspberry rolling down the inside of the glass and bumping against her teeth. She fished it out with a finger and ate it, just as one of the resort’s employees—a woman this time, but in the same khaki pants and white shirt—came out and stood next to Bruce. He stopped talking to Alec and turned to her, and she said that their table was waiting.

  The dining room was immediately adjacent to the hall, about half the size but still enormous, and with floor-to-ceiling windows. There was still just a little bit of light in the sky, enough so that the pond was visible. She and Bruce were brought to a table for two near one of the windows. The woman who seated them lit their table candle, then presented them each with a single piece of paper with the menu choices. It was a four-course meal, two or three choices per course.

  “Good lord,” Abigail said. After studying the menu, she looked around the room. Most of the tables were set for two, but there was a long communal table that ran down the center of the room, and several of the men she’d seen at cocktail hour were now being seated there. The atmosphere was incredibly hushed, and she privately decided that it would be better if music was playing in the background, even though she was sure that was against the aesthetics of the resort.

  A waiter arrived, same outfit, but he had a large dark beard, and long hair knotted into a top bun. Abigail ordered the lobster tortellini to start, the pomegranate sorbet, then the seared Maine salmon for the main course, and a blood orange crème brûlée for dessert. After Bruce placed his order the waiter asked if they wanted the sommelier to come out to talk about bottles, or if they’d prefer wine pairings by the glass with each course. Bruce looked at Abigail, who shrugged and said that the wine pairings would be fine. After the waiter left, Abigail said, “What’s the actual employee-to-guest ratio at this place, do you think?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “But it’s got to be something like five-to-one, at least, right?”

  “From what I’ve heard, more guests are arriving late tonight. There are times when there’s no one here, and then there are times when there are all-company retreats, or an entire wedding.”

  “So, when no one is here what does the staff do?”

  “They’re all on yearly salary, and it doesn’t change depending on the number of guests. Some months are busy, some months they can take off and go traveling. That’s the way Chip described it to me. For all of them it’s a two-year commitment.”

  “It makes me feel bad that the sommelier could just be sitting back there desperately hoping that someone will ask for him and he can actually do something.”

  “He’s pretty busy, I think. He does all the wine pairings.”

  “I know. I’m just saying.”

  They were both quiet for a moment. Now that the candle on their table was lit, the window reflected the two of them. After a brief hesitation, Abigail said, “Don’t tell me if it makes you uncomfortable, but how much does it cost to come here?”

  Bruce’s brow creased slightly, and Abigail quickly said, “No, don’t tell me. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, no,” he said. “It’s fine. I just hesitated because there’s not an easy answer. I was an original investor in this place, so I’m essentially a part-owner, and I pay yearly dues.”

  “So you can come anytime?”

  “Pretty much, yes.”

  “So it turns out that you picked our honeymoon place because it was actually cheap.”

  “Exactly,” he said, smiling.

  Their first course arrived, Abigail’s tortellini and the beef tartare for Bruce. “Just out of curiosity, what does it cost for someone who’s not a part-owner?”

  “I’m not going to tell you,” Bruce said. “It might ruin your dinner.”

  “You can tell me after dinner.”

  “Sure,” Bruce said, smiling, and she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to.

  Abigail cut a small piece from her single tortellini, sprinkled with slivers of black truffle, and took a bite. She immediately concluded it was the single best thing she’d ever put in her mouth.

  After dinner, a little bit uncomfortably full, but mainly sleepy, Bruce and Abigail got up from their table and walked back into the hall. There were a few men around the bar.

  “Nightcap?” Bruce asked.

  “Oh God, no,” Abigail said. “But you should get one.”

  “Maybe I’ll order a whiskey at the bar and have it sent to our room. You sure you don’t want anything? A Baileys?”

  “Thank you, no, I’m fine.”

  She stood in the center of the hall, immediately under the chandelier, which seemed dimmer somehow. Maybe the candles had burned down or maybe they weren’t candles after all, just an elaborate illusion. She stared at it, but she didn’t have her distance glasses with her and the chandelier was blurry. The periodic sense of unreality that she’d been feeling since meeting Bruce flooded her again, but this time it was accompanied by an empty feeling. It was the combination of extreme luxury and the feeling she couldn’t quite shake that Bruce was still somehow a stranger. There was something else as well. It was the emptiness of this resort; it reminded her of a theatrical set after the season was over. It echoed.

  She looked toward the bar, where Bruce was waiting to talk with the bartender. Her vision blurred drastically, a sign she was very tired and a little drunk. She heard footsteps, loud against the stone floor, then soft, then loud again, someone walking across one of the scattered rugs. Then she realized the footsteps were coming toward her, and she turned, expecting to see Jill or Alec, or else another employee pushing an after-dinner drink on her.

  But it wasn’t Jill or Alec, or an employee of the resort. It was Scottie from California, a tentative half smile on his face.

  Abigail’s legs went weak, and for a second she thought, I’m going to faint, right here in the middle of this hall.

  Scottie stopped, and then he must have seen the color leaving her face because he immediately moved toward her again, closing in as though to catch her from falling.

  Abigail raised a hand, though, and he stopped short of actually touching her. She regained some of her composure, and said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Shh,” he said.

  “Don’t shh me. What are you doing here? I’m on my honeymoon.”

  “Look,” he said. “I got your email, and I’m sorry if you were telling the truth, but I just didn’t believe you. I just need … I want an hour of your time.”

  Abigail turned toward the bar, where Bruce was now talking with the bartender. “Seriously, you need to leave.”

  “Walk down to the pond tomorrow morning, early, and I’ll be there. Please.”

  Abigail turned from him and walked, on unsteady legs, toward the bar, and came up behind Bruce, placing a hand on the small of his back. “Oh, hi,” he said.

  “Can you make that two whiskeys, Bruce?” she said, her voice shaky-sounding, at least to her. “I changed my mind.”

  CHAPTER 12

  When she could see the faint light of dawn begin to penetrate the drawn curtains of the bunk, Abigail got out of bed, pulled a sweater on over her pajamas, and quietly opened the doors that led to the veranda. She stepped outside into the cold misty morning, and looked down toward Heart Pond, wondering if Scottie, or whoever he re
ally was, was already there.

  She’d already decided that she wouldn’t meet with him. She was tempted, figuring that maybe if she was forceful enough she could talk him into leaving her alone, leaving the island, never contacting her again. But, down deep, she knew that going to meet him alone would only lead him on. It might even be dangerous. He’d stalked her across the country. He’d probably come to her wedding. And he’d actually followed her on her honeymoon. What else was he capable of?

  She hadn’t slept at all. Walking with Bruce from the lodge to their bunk, each with their faux-lantern, she could feel herself start to shake, a delayed reaction to the appearance of Scottie in the hall of the lodge.

  “Cold out here,” she’d managed to say, the lanterns carving out small pockets of light in the blackness of the night. Above them the sky was filled with more stars than she’d ever seen.

  “It’s not that cold,” Bruce said. She kept waiting for him to ask about the man who’d come over and talked with her in the middle of the hall, but maybe he hadn’t seen the interaction. They’d only talked for about thirty seconds.

  After entering the bunk, Bruce looked at her and said, “You really are cold. You’re shaking.” He hugged her close to him, and the feel of that hug, the warmth of his body, was almost more than she could bear. When he tried to release her, she gripped harder, pressing her face against his chest.

  “I love you so much,” she said. “And this place is amazing. Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He kissed the top of her head, right at the part in her hair, and she shivered. “I have to pee,” she said, and went to the bathroom. When the door was closed behind her, she stood in front of the sink, her hands on the marble countertop, and took deep breaths. Her stomach buckled, and she bent over the sink, sure that she was going to be sick, but nothing came up.

  He’s followed me here.

  On my honeymoon.

  She wondered for a moment how he’d even known where they were going, but then she remembered the wedding announcement in the Times, how it stated that the bride and groom were honeymooning on Heart Pond Island off the coast of Maine after the wedding. Was that announcement how he’d gotten her name as well? How much more did he know about her? And what did he expect from coming here?

  She remembered the smell of cigarette smoke at her wedding. Had he been tracking her ever since that weekend in California? She squeezed her fists together, then unclenched them, pressure building in her chest.

  When Abigail had first started high school, she went through a period of extreme anxiety, overwhelmed by the multiple classes, the homework, the test-taking. She’d also been overwhelmed by the rumors that were suddenly flying around in the wake of Boxgrove Theatre’s production of Spring Awakening. Her parents were under attack, and kids were whispering that they were the town perverts, all courtesy of Kaitlyn Austin, Abigail’s nemesis. She’d briefly gone to see a therapist, but all the therapist wanted to talk about was Abigail’s earliest memories. Instead, it was her father who sat her down and gave her several very helpful hints on dealing with stress. He had her make lists, then tackle projects one at a time, or, if the projects were too big, break them up into smaller parts. It worked, but she’d still lain awake at night worrying. So he taught her a system of dealing with worry, a way to break it into mental questions and lists. She started to do that now, in the bathroom, concocting a strategy for how to face this immediate problem. She began to relax, but then heard a commotion in the bunk, the sound of voices, and her stomach went cold again.

  What if Scottie had come directly to the door to confront Bruce?

  Abigail steeled herself and opened the bathroom door. Paul, whom she was internally referring to as a butler, was lowering a tray onto the coffee table in front of the fire. He quickly departed, Bruce thanking him, and Abigail told herself that she’d need to think about the Scottie situation later, after Bruce had fallen asleep.

  On the tray was a cut-glass carafe half filled with whiskey, a bucket of ice, and a small plate with four cookies on it that looked almost like Oreos, but they were warm to the touch.

  “Homemade Oreos,” Bruce said. “The chef made them for you.”

  “Good lord,” Abigail said, but the thought of putting one of them in her mouth made her stomach buckle again, and she really did think it would be a miracle if she got through the rest of the night without being sick.

  Bruce was stretching out on the couch, a whiskey already poured. “Have one,” he said, and she didn’t know if he meant a drink or a cookie.

  “Actually, I can’t,” Abigail said. “I think I overate at dinner and my stomach is a little off. I might just get into bed.”

  “That’s fine,” Bruce said. “Mind if I sit here with my drink for a moment?”

  “No, please do. Tomorrow night I’m not going to eat all four courses. I just … I don’t feel great.”

  She undressed and got into her pajamas, then brushed her teeth at the sink, wondering if her face looked guilty just to her or if Bruce had been able to read the panic in her eyes. She rinsed her mouth, washed her face, and studied herself again. She had always been pale, but right now Abigail thought she had a chalky, unhealthy pallor. She actually pinched her cheeks to bring color to them, like a heroine in a Regency-era novel trying to look prettier.

  She went directly from the bathroom to the bed. It had been turned down, but before getting in Abigail loosened the sheets at the foot, knowing it would have been made too tight. She looked up at the poster of Midnight Lace—the image of Doris Day’s face under a twisting Saul Bass–like graphic—and tried to remember the happiness she’d felt just a few hours earlier when she’d first seen it. But that happiness was gone. She slid under the covers, her pajamas crackling against the flannel sheets, and felt tears well up in her eyes. The gift of the poster really was one of the nicest gifts she’d ever received. Bruce had reminded her, not for the first time, of her father, and how thoughtful he was, how eager to please. The thought of hurting him was almost too much to bear.

  She was relieved that Bruce was still by the fire with his drink. It was hard for her to imagine having sex right now. She turned onto her stomach, the position that she usually fell asleep in, and pressed her face into the too-firm pillow, prepared to pretend she was sleeping.

  As far as she could see, there were two possible scenarios. In the first, Scottie really did believe that the two of them had fallen in love in California, and he wanted a moment to try to convince Abigail of this. Why he had decided to try this on their honeymoon was another question, but in this scenario, she imagined that Scottie was more or less sane, just acting out of true infatuation. If this was the case, then Abigail thought there was a chance, a slim one, that she could convince him to leave her alone. The other scenario—the more likely one—was that Scottie was unwell, maybe even delusional, and that simply talking to him wasn’t going to work. If that was the case, then Abigail knew that the smartest and safest move would be to tell Bruce about Scottie right away, to alert the authorities (where were the nearest authorities, anyway?), and throw herself on Bruce’s mercy. There were two ways to do this, Abigail thought. She could tell Bruce the entire truth, that she had slept with this man in California. Tell him she’d been drunk, and that she regretted it the next morning, and beg for his forgiveness. But Abigail knew that if she told Bruce the whole truth, the marriage would be over. He felt so strongly about his mother’s infidelity that there’d be no chance he’d forgive her. The other option, of course, was to tell him half the truth. Say that she’d met this guy on the night of her bachelorette party. She’d been drunk, and maybe she’d flirted a little with him. He’d tried to kiss her, and she’d rebuffed him, but maybe not strongly enough. And now he was here, stalking her. Of course, he could tell his side of the story to Bruce, but it would be his word against hers, wouldn’t it? He couldn’t prove they’d slept together.

  Abigail thought this option—she was calling it the half-truth solution—wa
s the best. The problem was that she’d have to do so much lying. In a strange way, she believed that she hadn’t lied yet to Bruce. She’d cheated on him, of course, but it wasn’t like he had asked her directly if she’d ever been unfaithful to him since they’d met. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d asked her during the lunch they’d had at that midtown Mexican restaurant after she’d gotten back from California. She’d assured him, hadn’t she? Or had she just made some sort of joke? Either way, if she went with the “half-truth solution” there would be a lot of lying involved. Not only was Abigail a terrible liar, she knew that it would be a fatal way to start a marriage. And would Bruce ever really believe that this man, after simply talking with Abigail at a vineyard, would stalk her all the way across the country?

  She listened as Bruce went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, then emerged. He was moving quietly, and Abigail was hopeful that it meant he wouldn’t try to wake her once he was in bed, but after he got in beside her, he gently placed a hand on the small of her back, making circular rubbing motions with his thumb. Abigail shifted, mumbled into her pillow, then said, “Good night, honey,” in what she hoped sounded like a sleep-slurred voice.

  “Good night,” he said, but moved his hand lower down so that it rested at the rise of her buttocks.

  “Sleepy,” she said into the pillow, and he took his hand away.

  She lay as still as she could, breathing the way she imagined she did when she slept, and after twenty minutes Bruce flipped onto his side and began to snore.

  On the veranda in the morning, not having slept at all, she realized she still hadn’t decided exactly what her plan was. In case of the “psychotic stalker” scenario she had decided to not go down to the pond and confront Scottie. She did know she would have to speak with him eventually, and she was counting on there being a time when that could happen without Bruce knowing about it. She would make it as clear as she possibly could that she had zero interest in him, and if he didn’t believe her, or if it was clear that he wasn’t going to go away, then she would go to Bruce and confess. She still hadn’t decided whether she’d confess the whole truth, or the half-truth, but she’d figure that out later. Either way, the thought of that sickened her, not just for what it would do to their marriage, but for how much it was going to crush him. “When in doubt, tell the truth” was something her mother used to say to her, and she knew that if the time came, she would have to do that. She’d made her decision and now it was out of her hands.