Every Vow You Break

by Peter Swanson

  Bruce stirred beside her in the bed, and Abigail formed a plan. This morning she would go and see Jill at the pool. If they were alone, she’d tell her what was going on with her and Eric Newman. It would be good to get another opinion. Abigail decided that the best thing to do—no matter how dishonest it was—was to simply tell Bruce this afternoon that she needed to leave the island right away. She hadn’t quite figured out what she was going to say to him yet. She considered just telling him that she was having panic attacks, being so cut off from civilization, but was worried that he’d try to get her to confront her fears instead of calling for the plane to get them. Maybe she’d complain of severe stomach pain, try to convince him she had appendicitis. Or she could go with the idea she’d already considered when making the phone call—telling him that Zoe was in crisis. If she could convince him that it was bad enough, then he’d be forced to get her off the island. She hated the idea of doing that—of all the lying—but she now realized that getting off of Heart Pond Island was what needed to happen. It would solve the problem of Eric Newman, at least temporarily.

  “I’m going for a walk again. You want to come along?” Bruce said, after finishing his eggs Benedict.

  “Sure,” Abigail said. “Just so long as we get back here around ten-thirty.”

  After leaving the bunk, they walked down a well-trodden path to the edge of Heart Pond, then out along a wooden dock. Up close, the pond seemed larger, almost like a lake. Abigail lay down on her stomach on the warmed wooden slats of the dock and peered into the clear water. A fish darted by and Abigail ran her fingers along the surface of the pond, the water surprisingly warm. “We could swim in here,” she said.

  “Well, you could,” Bruce replied. “I’ll go sailing.”

  Abigail turned over and sat up. She’d forgotten her sunglasses and shaded her eyes as she looked around the edges of the pond. There was a boathouse, probably where the sailboats were kept, and next to the boathouse there was a stack of kayaks, plus a few canoes. It was all pretty rustic, and Abigail was surprised. Considering the renovations made on the main camp, she’d imagined that there’d be top-of-the-line boating equipment down at the pond. She kept moving her eyes along the shoreline and spotted another boathouse on the other side of the pond. Above it loomed a lodge, shrouded by dark woods.

  “Is that the other camp?” she said.

  “That was the girls’ camp, yes. We’re going to start renovating that in the spring.”

  “Then you can put all the women there and you won’t have to have any at your camp,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Bruce.

  “That’s the idea,” he said.

  “Can we go over there and look around?”

  “We’re not supposed to, I think, because it’s unsafe.”

  “You’re part-owner here. You should be able to check it out.”

  “Whatever you say,” Bruce said. “But let’s walk to the cliff first so I can show you the views.”

  They walked along the shoreline past the boathouse and picked up another path that took them up along a ridge through spruce trees and birches, then turned away from the pond and emerged from the woods onto an open bluff. They were high enough so that the Atlantic Ocean, sparkling in the morning sun, spread out all around them.

  “Wow,” Abigail said.

  “Yeah, not bad.”

  They walked across the bluff along a barely visible path. On either side were low shrubs, several with red berries. A large bird hovered above them in the sky, and Bruce pointed it out, said it was an eagle that was nesting over near the pond. When they got to the edge of the bluff, they met up with a wider dirt path that skirted the cliff edge, dark gray outcroppings that sloped down to a rocky shoreline. “Can we get down there?” Abigail said.

  “It’s about a half-mile walk but there’s a path.”

  They walked along the cliff edge, the breeze off the ocean suddenly gusting. They reached a copse of twisted trees, then picked their way down a steep path that deposited them in a cove. Large rocks, slick with seaweed, spread out into the ocean. The beach itself was covered with medium-sized rocks, black, gray, and green. Here and there were deposits of seaweed or the remains of a gull. Bruce picked up several small stones, then found a strategic location where he could skip them out along the water. “It’s slack tide,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s gone all the way out, and there’s this brief period before the tide starts to come in again. It’s called a slack tide.”

  Despite growing up in New England, and then living in New York City, Abigail had spent hardly any time by the ocean. Her parents had always been too busy, especially in the summer season, and the few big trips they’d gone on as a family had always been to New York to see plays. And summers in western Massachusetts meant trips to swimming holes and nearby lakes. She loved the water, but rarely got to the ocean’s shore. Despite that, there was something nostalgic about being here now. The tidal smell, and the distant sounds of gulls, made Abigail feel young again. As Bruce searched for perfect stones to skip, she began to pile stones on the shore, using the smoothest ones she could find, starting with a circular base and working upward. She was still thinking about her predicament, still thinking about telling Bruce that they needed to leave the island, but as she built her pile those thoughts began to disappear. She was wholly focused on her task, suddenly filled with purpose. Looking for good building blocks for her pile, she’d found a beautiful, perfectly round white stone with a single band of pinkish red around its middle and slid it into her front pocket to save it for the top.

  “You’re building a cairn,” Bruce said. He was suddenly next to her, and she realized that she’d stopped hearing the sound of skipping stones for a minute or so.

  “A what?” she said.

  “It’s a cairn, a pile of stones like the one you’re making.”

  “Where I come from, we call it a pile of stones,” Abigail said.

  “Well, it’s a good-looking pile of stones.”

  Abigail had just reached the top; any more and it was bound to collapse. She touched the white stone through her jeans and was about to pull it out and put it on top when she decided to keep it instead. She liked the way it felt in her pocket. “Find a pretty stone for the top,” she said to Bruce, feeling a little bad that she’d been snippy about the whole “cairn” thing.

  “Okay,” he said, and searched around the rocky beach, coming up with a speckled green stone that was almost perfectly round. Abigail carefully placed it on the top of her pile and stepped back, satisfied.

  “When do you want to have kids?” Bruce suddenly said, and she turned to him, not able to keep the surprise off her face.

  “Not this very moment,” she said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No.” He laughed. “Sorry. I guess I just thought of kids because here we are playing on the beach.”

  They’d discussed children before, but only in the vaguest terms, each saying that they did envision themselves one day having a family. “Let’s discuss it after our honeymoon, okay?” Abigail said, smiling widely so that it didn’t sound harsh.

  “Sure,” Bruce said.

  The sun had climbed in the sky and they both stretched out along the rocks. They were protected from the ocean breeze and Abigail removed her fleece and put it under her head as a pillow. The sun felt nice on the skin of her arms, and she lifted her shirt a little to expose her stomach. Bruce reached out a hand toward her, and she took it, intertwining their fingers. This is the moment, she told herself. This is the moment I should tell him about what’s happening. Just tell him everything, and it will be out of my hands. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It was like standing on the edge of a high diving board and being unable to jump.

  The sun dipped behind a single ragged cloud, and her skin instantly turned cold, then warm again when the cloud moved swiftly away. She was beginning to drift off. Under her eyelids multicolored dots swam and she cha
sed them, moving her eyes, but the dots kept skirting just outside of her vision. Then she was lightly dreaming, walking along the second-floor balcony that hung in the lodge. The hall was filled with people, hundreds of them, and they were all silent, just staring up toward Abigail on the balcony. And even though they were looking right at her she wondered if they could see her, and if they did, would they come for her? Two people were speaking, two men, their voices coming from somewhere in the crowd, but then she was on the beach again, cold, because another cloud, bigger this time, had blocked the sun. She sat up, groggy.

  Bruce was no longer next to her. He was standing about ten yards away, his hands on his hips, talking to someone whom Abigail couldn’t see because they were blocked by Bruce. Still, she knew it had to be Eric Newman, Scottie, whatever his name was, and that he’d followed them here. She didn’t move, and a snatch of conversation reached her—Bruce’s voice exclaiming enthusiastically about something. The sun came out again and she put her hand above her eyes. Bruce bent to pick up a stone and she saw that it really was Eric Newman, wearing a white fisherman sweater and staring directly at Abigail through a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses.

  Bruce must have caught Eric looking Abigail’s way, because he turned around and said, “You’re awake.”

  “A little bit,” she replied, and thought of lying back down on the rocks, hoping Eric would just go away. But it was too late for that. She stood up, her body stiff—how long had she been out?—pulled her fleece back on and walked toward the two men. Bruce was smiling, so it was obviously not a confrontation, at least not yet.

  “Abigail, this is Scott. Scott, this is Abigail.”

  The lenses of Eric’s sunglasses were not completely opaque, and she could see the intensity of his stare. “We met, didn’t we?” she said to Eric, not reaching out with her hand. “First night I was here. In the lodge. You said I looked familiar.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “That’s right.”

  “I thought you said your name was Eric Newman, or am I confused?” She said it without thinking, but he stammered a little in his reply and Abigail felt a brief moment of triumph that she’d put him off balance.

  “Uh, well, it’s Eric Scott Newman. I like to be called Scott.”

  “Uh-huh,” Abigail said.

  “Bruce just told me that you’re on your honeymoon,” he said, and there was a click in his voice as if his mouth was dry. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” Abigail said. “Are you married?”

  She caught Bruce turning his head toward her out of the corner of her eye, maybe hearing something in the tone of her voice. Maybe she was going too far, taunting her stalker, but it felt good. Her own words were filling her, and despite the presence of two tall men, she felt tall herself.

  “I was,” Eric said. “But it didn’t work out.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. So, you’re here alone, or are you with a group?”

  “No, just here by myself. Heard some good things about this place. Wanted to get out into nature. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “It’s goddamn life-changing.” That was Bruce, jumping back into the conversation. “Not just here.” He gestured with his hand toward the view. “But at Quoddy. Getting away from screens, from your phone, from everything.”

  “Yeah, I love it. Makes me a little sad to be here alone, to tell you the truth.” He flicked his eyes toward Abigail.

  “Look, man,” Bruce said. “I get you. If you want to join us for dinner, tonight or any—”

  “No, no way.” Eric held up his hands, Abigail noticing all the chunky rings again. Had he been wearing all of those in California? “You guys are on your honeymoon. I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.”

  “Yeah,” Abigail said. “If you change your mind, join us.”

  “I won’t, but thanks. And I should let you both be alone here now as well. I was just passing through, really, and now I’m starting to think about brunch.”

  Hearing the word “brunch” made Abigail check the time on her Fitbit. It was ten-thirty already—how long had she been sleeping?—and she realized that she had to hurry if she didn’t want to be late to her swimming pool date with Jill.

  “Take it easy, you two,” Eric said, and spun and left, heading toward the steep path that led back up to the bluff.

  “You were asking him a lot of personal questions,” Bruce said when Eric was out of earshot.

  “He gives me the creeps, that guy. He came up to me the first night we were here, while you were getting drinks at the bar. He said he was sure he knew me from somewhere, and he asked me if I’d been to Piety Hills Vineyard.”

  “So he must have seen you there, on your bachelorette weekend.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t remember him. It’s creepy, don’t you think?”

  “Doesn’t sound that creepy to me, but we can avoid him. It definitely didn’t sound like he was interested in having dinner with us.”

  “Thank God for that,” Abigail said, then reminded Bruce that she was supposed to go swimming with Jill this morning, and they began the walk back to the resort. They didn’t talk again about Eric Newman on the walk, but Abigail was acutely aware that she had just actively lied to Bruce for the first time, that she’d laid the foundation for further lies, if it came to that.

  She didn’t get to the grotto pool until eleven thirty-five. There was no one there, and Abigail was relieved that she hadn’t kept Jill waiting.

  She slid into the warm water of the pool, pushed herself from the side, and skimmed along the surface. After she had swum back and forth a few times a staff member mysteriously appeared, the same man who’d been there the day before, and Abigail asked him if there’d been a woman here earlier. He told her no, and Abigail ordered a Greyhound.

  At noon Abigail gave up on Jill. She drank the dregs of her drink and stepped out of the pool, leaving a trail of water as she walked to the dressing room.

  CHAPTER 17

  At dinner that night Abigail kept looking toward the door to the dining room, hoping to see Jill and Alec.

  “Who are you watching for?” Bruce said, slicing into his rabbit.

  “Oh, sorry,” Abigail said. “Jill. I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “You going to let her have it for standing you up?” Bruce smiled.

  “No, I’m just worried, I guess.”

  “What are you worried about? She’s on her honeymoon, too. She’s probably just spending the day inside with Alec.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Abigail’s main course was a vegetable tart, now all gone, and she was nervously scraping up the remnants with her fork.

  “And don’t forget. They’ll bring you your dinner to your room if you want. That’s probably what they did.”

  “Right,” Abigail said. “That’s probably what they did.”

  Abigail saw Eric Newman in the dining room, eating by himself at one of the corner tables. He’d brought a book with him, and there was something pathetic about the way he was sitting alone at the table, the book propped open in front of him, but with his eyes nervously scanning the room. After their encounter on the beach Abigail felt a little better about the possibility that he would simply stop bothering her. He clearly hadn’t been prepared for being called by his real name, or for being questioned about his wife. Maybe he really was just a pathetic delusional man who believed that he’d found his soul mate. Maybe, by challenging him the way she had, Abigail had destroyed some of his illusions about her.

  “I’m tired tonight,” Abigail said as they ate their dessert. She didn’t want to linger in the hall after dinner, even though she was still hoping to see Jill and find out what had caused her to miss their swimming date.

  “Me, too. Straight to the bunk after this?”

  “That would be nice.”

  The air was cool as they made their way down the sloping lawn toward their bunk, holding their fake lanterns. When they were near their door something rattled
in a nearby shrub and Abigail jumped.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “Probably a raccoon, or maybe a fox,” Bruce said. He approached the shrub and they both heard something slink away.

  “It’s strange to think there are animals on this island,” Abigail said as she entered the bunk.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’d be stuck here. I mean, how’d they even get here in the first place? Birds I understand, because they can fly away, but where did the foxes come from?”

  “They came from other foxes. Do you need me to explain it to you?”

  Inside the bunk the fire had been lit. Abigail went to the hidden refrigerator and pulled out a wine-sized bottle that turned out to be a beer called King Titus. “Wanna split this?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Bruce said, and they drank the dark beer together on the couch near the fire, playing a game of backgammon. It was the closest to normal Abigail had felt since before Eric Newman had approached her in the lodge two nights earlier. After playing four games, and each winning twice, they agreed to go to bed, even though it felt early.

  Bruce fell asleep first, curled up in the fetal position, breathing deeply. Abigail lay naked under the covers, still awake, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few days. The fire was dying, but it still cast soft flutters of light across the walls and ceiling, and the occasional crackle broke up the oppressive silence of the bunk. She closed her eyes but found she wasn’t tired. She had a trick when she wasn’t sleepy. She didn’t count sheep, but she did count all the productions she could remember from Boxgrove Theatre’s history. It almost always worked. The first play she usually thought of was Deathtrap, then she went through the rest of that entire season: The Merchant of Venice, Blithe Spirit, Conviction, an early play by Eve Ensler, and there was one more that Abigail couldn’t remember. She knew it wasn’t another Shakespeare—they only ever did one Shakespeare over the summer—then she remembered that they’d actually done Into the Woods, a rare, and unsuccessful, foray into musical theater, or at least that’s what her parents had concluded.