Chapter 44
WILLIAM
The knife did not weigh as much as William had expected.
It knocked against his thigh as he left the gas station.
The men had barged in from the road, asking Red if he was really serving mainlanders before them.
One had asked William if he liked the coffee in a way that made him wonder if there was something wrong with it, especially with how they laughed when he said yes.
But it seemed they were just bored old men.
His presence was the joke, one they quickly forgot as they began gossiping about the poor catch of another fisherman.
It made the theft simple. Though it wasn’t theft, not really.
He had left his last few dollars in the terra-cotta pot of cigarette butts by the door.
Shay would be getting ready at the Pruitts’.
Her dress had been sent there, Mrs. Pruitt had said last night at dinner, and they’d make sure to keep Andrew from catching a glimpse of her before the ceremony.
The rooms in the hotel were too small, and she’d want her friends with her, her mother with her.
A bride should never be alone, Mrs. Pruitt had said.
It had seemed almost medieval then, but now it brought William comfort.
He walked to the docks, where the fishermen had seen the woman speaking to someone—perhaps another wedding guest, which would be for the best, if someone else also had their nose to the ground—but all he found was a passel of children chasing seagulls and an empty rowboat teeter-tottering in the shallow water.
Like a policeman on patrol, he wove through houses and yards, out to the shore and back again, his T-shirt sodden with sweat.
At every distant movement, he felt a thump of fear, but he found no one but women watering their roses, toddlers ripping up long stalks of grass.
He hated that he’d harmed anyone on the island, and he hoped all the teenagers from last night were still asleep, that their parents couldn’t pick him out from the rough sketch their children might have shared on their penitent walks home.
That no one could see the bulge of the blade in his pocket.
When he wound back to the hotel, a golf cart sped past him on the narrow road.
A woman with a long, dark braid was in the passenger seat, a leather bag in her lap.
William recognized her from the beach—she’d been with Joel, and he wondered why she was leaving before the ceremony. Her face was drawn and inscrutable.
“Where the hell have you been?” Oscar yelled from the hotel’s porch. His cousins reclined in the rocking chairs. Another golf cart idled in the drive, a young man drumming his fingers against the wheel.
“Just on a walk.” His voice sounded defensive.
“Since last night? You never showed up to the bar. We thought maybe you’d drowned.”
“I was still hungover from the night before. I couldn’t really drink again.”
He ascended the stairs and leaned against the railing, shoving his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t see the knife handle straining against his jeans.
Vivian would be horrified. Scott as well, especially given everything he’d witnessed in Vietnam, and Oscar would insist that he be the one to hold it, that William was too soft to brandish anything more than a stick.
Vivian’s head was tipped back, and she held two spoons beneath her eyes. A cigarette dangled from her mouth.
“What are you doing?” William asked.
“De-puffing.”
Oscar and Scott shook their heads. It was clear they did not understand and did not care to. William brought one of his hands to the delicate skin beneath his lashes, which felt inflamed in the heat. He imagined the cold metal would be a balm.
“You missed out on some grade-A drunkenness,” Oscar said. “Shay left early, and Andrew kept asking if she left with someone, which didn’t make much sense, and then he vomited on Scott’s shoes.”
“My wedding shoes,” Scott lamented.
The front door opened, and William’s mother emerged. She was wearing a crisp purple dress with sleeves that ran down to her elbows. Her shoes looked like they were made of the same silk, the heel a modest inch. The cousins straightened up in their chairs.
“You look beautiful, Aunt Bridget,” Vivian said, lowering her spoons.
“Thank you,” his mother said. “I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint Andrew’s mother. She called me several times this spring, asking what color I was going to wear, but I kept putting her off. I think she wanted to match.”
“Are you going to the Pruitts’?” William asked.
“Yes. I thought I was going over with Shay, but she must be there already.”
“I can’t wait to see her dress,” Vivian said.
“I haven’t a clue what it looks like. They wanted us all to get dressed at the house, but that felt a bit absurd. I wasn’t going to sit around in a slip with a gaggle of twenty-six-year-olds.”
“Well, you look lovely,” Vivian said.
William’s mother didn’t acknowledge the compliment. He could tell she was on edge, that she’d had coffee but no breakfast, by the way she kept clearing her throat. His hand was still in his pocket.
“I’ll walk you to the golf cart,” he offered, and his cousins bid her farewell.
He ran his thumb along the knife’s smooth handle, rubbing the edge of the switch. There was something about the knife that made him feel in control. Like he had at least made one decision, even if he did not know where the woman was or if Shay wanted her there.
“Have you talked to the Pruitts yet?” he asked.
She glanced behind her shoulder, as if to gather if his cousins were out of earshot. Her voice was low, and he thought of how Shay had spoken the night before. All of the whispers that had made it difficult to hear himself think. “I told you I’m taking care of it.”
“But what does that mean?”
“I’m going to try Eleanor one more time today. She can be so stubborn, it’s infuriating.”
“Even if she picks up . . .” The words strained his throat. He would tell her, but not on Shay’s wedding day. “. . . It’s still too late.”
“Just leave it, William.”
His mother briskly closed the distance between them and the golf cart, and he felt the same frustration and hurt as when she’d pull away from him as a boy.
When she’d pry his fingers from her skirt and close her bedroom door because she needed to lie down, just for a moment.
The man started the engine, and although he did not want to be near his mother, William wondered if there was any possibility that Shay was not there—his mother had said they were supposed to drive together.
He felt that thump of fear again. Unless he went to Haven House, he wouldn’t know if she was safe.
“Wait,” he said, jogging to the cart’s backseat. “I’m going to come too.”