Only a half size off. I turned my new gold wedding band around and around on my finger. I was brimming with hope, worry, and trepidation. I thought our wild trip to the island might be the biggest mistake of my life.
“Kyra, come on.” Jacob is standing next to the truck at the Phelpses’ house, waiting for me to get out. Nancy rushes down the porch steps, and the next few minutes pass in a haze of hugs, greetings, and the dogs weaving around our legs, their tails wagging. Nancy introduces them as Salt and Pepper.
In the house, the dogs flop on the rug in front of the woodstove in the corner, their tails thumping.
In the spacious living room, Van’s tending the fire. He smiles at me, his expression betraying nothing of what we discussed when he visited. Nancy disappears into the kitchen and returns with a plate of deviled eggs and raw veggies. “Appetizers. Help yourselves.”
“Wine?” Van says, putting a bottle of white on the table and popping the cork. Wine? Red or white? He asked me here, in his house. Nancy and Jacob were standing outside on a warm summer evening, admiring the ocean view. I said, White, and he poured me a glass. This is the first time I’ve had any alcohol in months, I said to him. Feels warm going down. We both looked out the window at Jacob and Nancy, chatting about some childhood secret, no doubt.
Cheers, then, he said, and we touched our glasses together. Here’s to good friends.
Good friends, I said. Should we let them in on the toast?
Nah, leave them to themselves.
I felt it then, the twisting corkscrew of jealousy beneath my ribs. I knew Van felt it, too. No, let’s go out there and talk to them. I went outside onto the porch. Jacob and Nancy sat in wicker bucket chairs. The evening sunlight glinted off Jacob’s glass of beer. Nancy’s wineglass was empty. Jacob was nearly doubled over with laughter, Nancy giggling uncontrollably. Jacob summoned me to sit in his lap. I obliged, the setting sun in my eyes. Let’s get out of here, he whispered to me, holding me close. Nancy gave us a look. Then she got up, staggered over to Van, and fell into his arms.
“Wine?” Van says to me now, uncorking a bottle of white. Jacob has gone into the kitchen to get a cold beer from Nancy.
“You remembered I like white,” I say.
His left eyebrow rises. “Halfway, like before?”
“Halfway,” I say. “I figured out I get tipsy easily. Depends on the type of wine.”
“Mystic Vineyards Chardonnay,” he says. “We get a limited selection here.”
I pick up the bottle and read the hand-painted watercolor label. Organic, no sulfites, made by Eliza Penny of Mystic Thyme.
“Not the caliber you’re used to, I bet,” he says.
“Caliber?”
He nods toward the kitchen. “I can’t compete with that guy. I’m guessing you two drink some pretty good wines.” Do I detect a slight note of envy in his voice?
“We’re not that sophisticated,” I say, sipping the wine. “This is pretty good. Smooth and slightly sweet. Undertones of apple and berries.”
“You’ve got a sensitive palate. We should all go wine tasting.”
“I’m surprised there’s even a vineyard here.”
“We like to support local businesses. My buddy made this, too.” He points down at his T-shirt. The faded picture on the front shows an old-fashioned diving helmet and the words The Original Heavy Metal.
“Clever,” I say. “Maybe he could make me one.”
“I’ve got a better one. It says, Scuba Diver Evolution: Air, Nitrox, Trimix.”
“What does that mean?” I say.
“Nitrox is a breathing mixture made of nitrogen and oxygen,” Van says. “But with less nitrogen and more oxygen than air. You don’t need to worry about it. Nitrox is hardly ever used for recreational diving. You could get oxygen toxicity. Extra nitrogen could give you the bends, but too much oxygen isn’t so great, either.”
“And trimix,” I say, feeling suddenly a little woozy. The concentration of sugar in the wine seems to increase with each sip.
“You add helium to the mix. But trimix is only for the deepest dives, like over four hundred feet.”
“We wouldn’t have been diving so deep in the pass.”
He laughs. “Hell no. You’re at maybe forty feet in the pass.”
“Ready to eat?” Jacob carries a plate of asparagus and potatoes in one hand, his beer bottle in the other. “Nancy says we have to eat now or the food will get cold.”
“If Nancy says so,” Van says.
“I hate to rush us,” Nancy says, carrying out a plate of wild rice pilaf.
“It all looks wonderful,” I say as we sit at the large oak dining table. “You went to so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” Nancy says. “Harvest season always gets me in a cooking mood.”
“Nancy started cooking way back when with her Easy-Bake Oven,” Jacob says.
She laughs. “You remember that thing? I was, like, ten years old.”
“Who could forget?” Jacob says. “It was the ugliest thing on the planet.”
“It was Dual-Temp!” she says. “My best toy ever.”
“I didn’t play with ovens,” I say. “I was too busy doing ocean puzzles.”
“I played with guns,” Van says. “Toy ones.”
“Right,” Nancy says. “And he married a pacifist.”