The food on the boat is delicious—lamb lollipops, lobster-corn cakes, gougères, deviled eggs. Tabitha helps herself judiciously—Ramsay was kind enough not to mention the fifteen pounds she’s gained over the past three years—as she scans the crowd for eligible men to talk to. Ramsay wasn’t wrong about her lack of business sense. What she needs, more than anything, is to either hit the lottery or find a sugar daddy.
Pickings on the boat are slim. All the men are older and seem well off, but they’re also married—and most of them are from Tallahassee, which rules them out immediately.
Tabitha has the bartender fill her glass of champagne, then she heads out to the bow of the boat alone. They are just rounding Brant Point Light, coming upon a vista so magnificent it takes Tabitha’s breath away despite the hundreds of times she’s seen it. She leans her elbows on the railing and holds her champagne out with both hands. She closes her eyes.
She is not a piss-poor parent. Ainsley is merely at a trying age, and she is rebellious by nature. But if you were to strip Tabitha down to her starkest, most honest thoughts, the ones she would never dare share with another soul, she would admit that where Ainsley is concerned, she has created a monster. After Julian died, Tabitha poured all her energy into raising Ainsley. She was a helicopter parent—a second-generation helicopter parent—controlling Ainsley’s every move the way Eleanor had controlled hers. But when Ainsley grew up, she did it fast. Ainsley was a runaway mustang, and Tabitha felt the reins slipping through her hands. The way Tabitha chose to keep Ainsley close was to aid and abet her in her quest to be the most popular, most sophisticated child at Nantucket High School. Tabitha bought the makeup and the two-hundred-dollar jeans; Tabitha extended the curfew. The fact that Ainsley is now such a powder keg is nobody’s fault but Tabitha’s.
Being out on the ocean always brings up these thoughts. Tabitha should have stayed on land.
Suddenly there’s a man standing next to her. He’s wearing a uniform.
He offers his hand. “I’m Peter,” he says. “The captain.”
“Tabitha Frost,” she says. “If you’re the captain, then who’s driving the boat?”
Peter laughs. “My first mate. I asked him to take over for a second so I could come down here to chat with you. Would you like to help me steer this beauty?”
As they stand side by side at the ship’s wheel—any time a crew member happens to wander in, Peter sends him off to fetch Tabitha more champagne or another plate of hors d’oeuvres—he unreels his life story. Coast Guard at nineteen, married by twenty-two, two boys (named PJ and Kyle), divorced by age thirty, ex-wife number 1 lives in Houston.
Tabitha wonders how many ex-wives there are in total. The music, she can hear, has changed to Top 40—the stuff Ainsley listens to when she’s in a good mood—and Tabitha envisions the champagne going to everyone’s head and the Tallahasseeans contorting their bodies in awkward, embarrassing ways that approximate dancing.
“Go on,” she says to Captain Peter.
Married again at age thirty-two. The daughter from that marriage is a shooting star, nineteen years old and a sophomore at Northwestern; ex-wife number 2, the mother, runs a glamorous campground on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
Then, at age thirty-five, Peter had a bit of a midlife crisis. He moved to Maui, captained a whale-watching ship for ten years, lived with a local girl named Lupalai, and had another couple of kids—a boy and a girl, ages fourteen and eleven—although he and Lupalai never married. He sends checks, he says, but he hasn’t seen the kids since he moved east five years ago. He has been the captain of the Belle for five summer seasons, and in the winter, he goes down to the Bahamas and runs a bareboat charter.
“I just celebrated my fiftieth birthday in April,” he says. “How about you?”
“I’m thirty-nine,” Tabitha says.
Captain Peter laughs. “All women are supposed to say that, I guess.”
“No,” Tabitha says. “I actually am thirty-nine. I turn forty in December.”
“Oh,” the captain says. He’s caught by surprise, and Tabitha’s spirit flags. She looks older; she acts older. She’s wearing a white linen shift with an obi belt. It’s the cornerstone of her mother’s collection and has been for thirty years; it’s called the Roxie. It’s meant to convey a classic timelessness, and while it may certainly do that, it is neither youthful nor sexy. Tabitha should have worn the Haute Hippie sequined miniskirt with the hot-pink Milly blouse, but she had worried that would make her look like she was trying too hard. Instead she looks like she’s headed to the early bird special before making a fourth for bridge.
The captain says something, but Tabitha doesn’t hear him.
“I’m sorry?”
“Would you like to go get a drink after we dock? I’m about to turn this old gal around now, so you’ll have to go down to the deck.”
Tabitha tugs on her obi. She feels pursued and dismissed at the same time. Does she want to go for a drink with the captain? She’s not sure. It’s obvious he’s bad news. He probably preys on every halfway decent-looking woman who boards the Belle. He’s a fifty-year-old man who still plays the seasonal back-and-forth game. He either rents a cottage somewhere on island or he lives in employee housing provided by the Westmoor Club. He likely doesn’t own any real estate; he may drive a small pickup truck. That kind of life is okay until one turns… Tabitha randomly picks the age of twenty-eight. After twenty-eight, it’s time to grow up. And how many children does Captain Peter have to support? Tabitha lost count. Four? Five? If Eleanor were here, she would veto Captain Peter immediately. Eleanor had disapproved of Wyatt because Wyatt was a housepainter, and Eleanor wanted Tabitha to marry a professional man—a lawyer or someone in private equity. Now that Wyatt owns a painting contracting business that covers the entire Cape and the South Shore from Plymouth to Braintree, Eleanor is more favorably disposed toward him. She adores Ramsay, who works for his family’s insurance business on Main Street. Ramsay wears a tie to work, and his family belongs to the Nantucket Yacht Club.
This guy, Captain Peter, isn’t the kind of guy Tabitha would ever hook up with. He’s the kind of guy… Harper would hook up with! Harper has no standards. Harper’s bar—for everything in life—isn’t just low; it’s lying on the ground.
Tabitha should say thank you but no thank you.
“Have you ever lost anyone?” she asks.
“Lost anyone?” Peter says. He seems confused and anxious to get back up to the controls.
“We can talk about it later,” Tabitha says. “I’d love to go for a drink.”