The Tailgate by Elin Hilderbrand Read Free Book Online

the A&P parking lot, to the Straight Wharf. At the end of the Straight Wharf she gazed at the harbor. There was Jack Copper, working on his charter fishing boat; in another few weeks, summer would arrive in all its crazy glory. Jack waved and Dabney, of course, waved back. She knew everyone on this island, but there was no one in the world she could tell about this email. It was Dabney’s to grapple with alone.
    Hello.
    Dabney could see the Steamship, low in the water, rounding Brant Point. In the next hour, the Chamber office would be inundated with visitors, and Dabney had left Nina all alone. Furthermore, she had left the office without “signing out” on the “log,” which was the one thing Vaughan Oglethorpe, president of the board of directors of the Chamber, absolutely required. Dabney needed to turn around right this second and go back to the office and do the job that she had been doing perfectly for the past two decades.
    Subject line: Hello.
    Â Â 
    Three hours later, she opened it. She hadn’t planned on opening it at all, but the urge to do so mounted until it was physically painful. Dabney’s back and lower abdomen ached; knowledge of this email was tearing her up inside.
    Dear Dabney,
    I wanted to let you know that I am on my way back to Nantucket for an indefinite period of time. I suffered a pretty serious loss about six months ago, and I’ve been slow recovering from it. Furthermore, it’s monsoon season, and my enthusiasm for writing about this part of the world has dwindled. I’ve given the Times my notice. I never did get assigned to the Singapore desk. I was close several years ago, but—as ever—I pissed off the wrong person simply by speaking my mind. Singapore will remain a dream deferred. (Big sigh.) I’ve decided that the best thing is for me to come home.
    I have respected your long-ago mandate to “never contact [you] again.” More than a quarter century has passed, Cupe. I hope that “never” has an expiration date and that you will forgive me this email. I didn’t want to show up on the island without giving you advance warning, and I didn’t want you to hear the news from anyone else. I will be caretaking the house of Trevor and Anna Jones, 432 Polpis Road, living in their guest cottage.
    I am afraid of both saying too much and not saying enough. First and foremost, I want you to know how sorry I am for the way things ended. They didn’t have to be that way, but I categorized it a long time ago as an IMPOSSIBLE SITUATION: I could not stay, and you could not go. Not a day has gone by—honestly, Cupe, not an hour—when I have not thought of you. When I left, I took a part of you with me, and I have treasured that part these many years.
    I am not the same person you knew—not physically, not mentally, not emotionally. But, of course, I am ever the same.
    I would very much like to see you, although I realize this is almost too much to hope for.
    I am writing this from my layover at LAX. If all goes well, I should be back on Nantucket tomorrow morning.
    432 Polpis Road, cottage in the back.
    Ever yours, Clen
    Dabney read the email again, to make sure her addled brain had understood.
    Tomorrow morning.
    Couple #1: Phil and Ginger (née O’Brien) Bruschelli, married 29 years
    Ginger:
It would have been presumptuous of me to call myself Dabney’s best friend, because even in 1981, freshman year, Dabney was the most popular girl in the school. When I say “popular,” you might be thinking she was blond, or a cheerleader, or that she lived in a big house on Centre Street. No, no, no—she had straight, thick brown hair cut into a bob, and she always, always wore a headband. She had big brown eyes, a few freckles, and a smile like the sun coming out. She was about five three and she had a cute little body, but she never showed it off. She either wore cable knit sweaters and kilts, or a