The Perfect Couple Read online

  Greer summons Benji and Celeste to the Winbury apartment for dinner. She has made something called a cassoulet. Celeste is her dutiful self and replies that it sounds good, but in fact, Celeste is annoyed. She has no idea what cassoulet is. She hates constantly being confronted with these erudite dishes—can’t Greer just make meat loaf or sloppy joes like Betty?—and it turns out that cassoulet has duck, pork skin, and, worst of all, beans in it. Celeste manages two bites. Her lack of appetite goes largely unnoticed, however, because Greer’s real motivation isn’t to feed Celeste and Benji but rather to let them know that she would like to plan their wedding. They can have the entire thing at Summerland on Nantucket the weekend after the Fourth of July.

  Benji reaches for Celeste’s hand under the table. “Would that be okay with you?” he asks.

  “We don’t want you to feel railroaded,” Tag says. “My wife can be a bit forceful.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Greer says. “I want to offer my support and our resources. I hate to think of you having to plan a wedding while your mother is so sick.”

  Celeste nods like a marionette. “Sounds good,” she says.

  At first, Celeste stutters only when she’s talking about the wedding. She has a problem with the word caterer; it’s a stuttery word all by itself. Then reverend, then church. People pretend not to notice but the stutter grows gradually worse. Benji finally asks about it and Celeste bursts into tears. She can’t c-c-control it, she says. Soon, all hard consonants give her trouble.

  But not at work.

  Not on the phone with Merritt.

  Not alone in her apartment when she’s reading in bed. She can read entire passages from her book aloud and not trip up once.

  Celeste holds out hope that a big, elaborate wedding on Nantucket will prove to be a logistical impossibility—it’s too last-minute, every venue must already be booked—and so either the wedding will be postponed indefinitely or they can plan something smaller in Easton, something more like her parents’ wedding, a ceremony at the courthouse, a reception at the diner.

  But apparently, Greer’s influence and her pocketbook are mighty enough to make miracles happen. Greer enlists Siobhan at Island Fare, arranges for Reverend Derby to do the service at St. Paul’s Episcopal, finds a band and an orchestra, and hires Roger Pelton, Nantucket’s premier wedding coordinator—not that Greer can’t handle it all herself, but she does have a novel to write and it would be silly to have a resource like Roger on the island and not use him.

  The wedding is set for July 7.

  Greer asks Celeste what she would like to do about bridesmaids.

  “Oh,” Celeste says. This obviously isn’t something she can ask Greer to handle. “I’ll have my friend Merritt Monaco.” Merritt will be a good maid of honor; she knows all the rules and traditions, although Celeste shudders when she thinks about the bachelorette party Merritt might plan. Celeste will have to talk to her about that.

  She notices Greer is still looking at her expectantly.

  “And who else?” Greer asks.

  Who else? Her mother? Nobody ever asks her mother to be a bridesmaid; Celeste knows that much. She doesn’t have a sister or any cousins. There are no suitable choices at work—Blair is now not speaking to Celeste; Bethany is her assistant, so that’s too weird; and the rest of the staff are men. There is Celeste’s roommate from college, Julia, but Celeste’s relationship with Julia was utilitarian rather than friendly. They were both scientists, both neat and respectful, but they parted ways after college. There is Celeste’s one social friend from college, Violet Sonada, but Violet took a job at the Ueno Zoo in Tokyo. Is there anyone from high school? Cynthia from down the street had been Celeste’s closest friend but she dropped out of Penn State with a nervous condition and Celeste hasn’t talked to her since. Merritt has a bunch of people she knows in the city, but Celeste can barely remember who is who.

  She is a social misfit and now Greer will know it.

  “Let m-m-me think ab-b-bout it,” Celeste says, hoping Greer will assume there are too many young women to choose from and Celeste will need to whittle the list down.

  But Greer, of course, sees the humiliating truth. It’s because she’s a novelist, Celeste supposes. She is perceptive to a fault; it’s almost as if she reads minds.

  “I shouldn’t get involved,” Greer says, “but I do think Abby would love to serve as a bridesmaid.”

  Celeste perks up immediately. Abby! She can ask Abby Winbury, Thomas’s wife. She’s the right age; she is appropriately girly; she has probably been a bridesmaid twenty times before. Celeste relaxes even as she realizes that the Winburys are providing for her once again.

  Celeste tells Benji that she’s asking Merritt to be her maid of honor and Abby to be her bridesmaid and Benji gets a crease in his brow.

  “Abby?” he says. “Are you sure?”

  The nice thing is that Celeste doesn’t have to hide anything from Benji. “I c-c-couldn’t think of anyone else,” she says. “You’re marrying the most socially awkward g-g-girl in New York.”

  Benji kisses her. “And I couldn’t be happier about it.”

  “So what’s wrong with Ab-b-by?” Celeste asks.

  “Nothing,” Benji says. “Did she say yes?”

  “I was p-p-planning on e-mailing tomorrow f-from work,” Celeste says.

  Benji nods.

  “What?” Celeste says. Abby would be filling a glaring gap. And besides, as Thomas’s wife, wouldn’t Abby be insulted not to be asked? It’s true, Abby can sometimes be a bit off-putting—she was a sorority girl at the University of Texas and she has retained some shallow cattiness, and she is presently obsessed with getting pregnant—but she is family.

  “I get the feeling Thomas and Abby are on the rocks,” Benji says.

  Celeste gasps. “What?”

  “Thomas is always taking trips alone,” Benji says. “And going out with his friends after work. Not to mention his obsession with the gym.”

  “Oh,” Celeste says. She knows Benji is right. They have met Thomas and Abby for dinner a few times and Thomas is always the last to arrive, often straight from the gym, still in his sweaty workout clothes. Abby won’t even let him kiss her unless he’s showered, she says. He has to shower before sex, and sex is kept to a schedule since they are trying to conceive. But why try so hard for a baby if you’re not planning on staying together?

  “I’m not asking Thomas to be my best man,” Benji says.

  “W-W-What?” Celeste says. This shocks her even more than the news of Thomas and Abby’s supposed marital discord. “But he’s your b-b-brother.”

  “Something is going on with him,” Benji says. “And I want to distance myself from it. I’m having Shooter serve as my best man.”

  “Shooter?” Celeste says.

  “I’ve already asked him,” Benji says. “He was so happy. He teared up.”

  He teared up, Celeste thinks. So happy. “What are you g-g-going to tell T-T-Thomas?”

  “I’ll tell Thomas he can be an usher,” Benji says. “Maybe.”

  Saturday, July 7, 2018, 3:30 p.m.

  GREER

  At half past three, when all of the guests have been called and all of the friends and relatives back in England have been notified about the tragedy and all of the wedding preparations have been summarily undone—except for those that are part of the “crime scene”—Greer takes a moment to peek out the window at the second cottage, the one where Merritt was staying. It’s wrapped in police tape like a tawdry present, although the forensics men have left and no one is there to stop Greer from entering. She would love to go in and poke around, but she fears the Winburys are in enough trouble as it is; she can’t afford to cause any more.

  Tag took Merritt out in the kayak.

  Merritt, not Featherleigh.

  Greer needs to speak to Tag alone but he said he had to make a phone call, probably to Sergio Ramone, who is not only a friend but a brilliant criminal-defense attorney. Greer isn�
��t sure even Sergio can get Tag out of this mess. He took the girl out on the kayak and she shows up in the morning dead. Drowned in the harbor. Greer retreats to the master suite and perches on the sofa at the end of the bed, waiting for Tag, although she expects him to be led from the house in handcuffs the instant the police figure out this affair was going on.

  The boys handled the news badly. Benji exploded. “Did you kill her, Dad? Did. You. Kill. Her?”

  “No,” Tag said. “I took her out on the kayak, yes, I did. But I brought her back to shore safely.”

  He sounded like he was telling the truth. His inflection and tone were full of calm conviction, but Greer now knows he’s been lying to her for a long time—maybe for the entirety of their marriage—so how would she know for sure?

  Thomas hadn’t said anything at all. Possibly he, like Greer, had been too stunned to speak.

  The ring that Greer thought Tag had bought for Featherleigh he’d bought for Merritt. Greer had seen the ring on Merritt’s thumb—she had seen it!—but she had one thing so firmly lodged in her brain that there hadn’t been room for any other possibilities.

  The ring had been Tag’s only misstep. Greer had gone in to see Jessica Hicks, the jeweler, about wedding bands. Greer thought it would be a nice touch for Benji and Celeste to have rings fashioned by a Nantucket jeweler. The instant Greer entered the shop, Jessica’s brows had shot up. She said, Did your daughter-in-law not like the ring, then?

  Daughter-in-law? Greer had said.

  The one who’s pregnant? Jessica said. Did she not like the ring?

  The ring? Greer had said.

  Your husband came in… Jessica said.

  Oh, right! Greer had said enthusiastically, although a bad feeling had started to seep through her. Tag had said nothing about getting a present for Abby. And Tag wasn’t known for thoughtful gestures where the kids were concerned; he left that to Greer.

  He told me about it but we’ve been so busy he hasn’t had a chance to show it to me, Greer said. And he wouldn’t do a proper job describing it anyway. What did it look like?

  Silver-lace pattern, Jessica said, embedded with multicolored sapphires. Like this one. It’s meant to be worn on the thumb. Jessica had then shown Greer a ring that sold for six hundred dollars. So it wasn’t a fortune, wasn’t like a trip to Harry Winston for diamonds, but Greer had been near certain she would never see Abby wearing that ring.

  Tag steps into the bedroom, closes the door behind him, and locks it.

  “Greer,” he says. He holds his hands up as if she might strike him.

  She would like to strike him. What has he done? The girl dead, the wedding canceled, their marriage, their life…

  And yet all Greer can think to say is “I thought you were having an affair with Featherleigh.”

  Tag’s eyes widen. “No,” he says.

  “No,” Greer says. “It was Merritt.”

  “Yes,” he says.

  Greer nods. “If you want me to help you, you had better tell me everything. Everything, Tag.”

  It started the night of the wine dinner, he says. They were both drunk, very drunk, and she came on to him. They slept together; it was unremarkable, regrettable. He thought that would be it but then he bumped into her again in the city, by accident, at a hotel bar, and she invited him to her apartment. He’s not sure why but he said yes. And then there was another time or two, but he finally demanded she leave him alone.

  “You bought her gifts?” Greer says.

  “No.”

  “Tag.”

  He sighs. “A trinket. It was her birthday a few weeks ago. That was when I ended it. She wanted to go away together. I said no. She persisted. I booked a room at the Four Seasons downtown…”

  The Four Seasons? Every detail pierces her.

  “She was late showing up and in the minutes that I was waiting, I came to my senses. I left the hotel and went home to you.”

  “So how many times did you screw her?” Greer asks. “Sum total.”

  “More than five, less than ten,” Tag says.

  Greer feels ill. She can see the allure, she supposes. Merritt was attractive; she was young, free, unfettered. Merritt had the whiff of a rebel about her. Who wouldn’t want to shag Merritt? What makes Greer want to vomit on her shoes is the thought of her own self while all of this was going on those six, seven, eight times. What had Greer been doing? Was she writing her perfectly mediocre novel or was she planning their son’s wedding? Whatever she was doing, she wasn’t paying attention to Tag. She hadn’t given Tag a minute’s thought.

  “And that was it?” Greer says. “Nothing more? You had an affair, you broke it off. She was upset about it. I saw her crying during the rehearsal dinner, in the laundry room, of all places. So when you talk to the police, you’ll tell them she was emotionally overwrought and that she threatened suicide if you didn’t leave me. You took her out on the kayak to try and talk some sense into her. You delivered her back to shore; you came to bed. She drowned herself.”

  “Well,” Tag says.

  “Well what?”

  “It’s a bit stickier than that,” Tag says. He clears his throat. “She was pregnant.”

  Greer closes her eyes. Pregnant.

  “You’re going to the gallows,” she says.

  Tag’s face crumples; Greer has landed the poison dart right between his eyes. The girl was pregnant. Pregnant with a Winbury bastard child. The thought is hideous, and yet it feels utterly predictable. Thomas Winbury the elder, known to most as Tag, has taken the family down. His poor judgment, his base urges, and his weak character have desecrated the Winbury name. He has committed murder, and he will be caught.

  Greer can think ill of Tag all she likes, but in the end, she knows, she will say and do whatever she needs to do to protect him.

  There’s a knock on the bedroom door.

  It’s Thomas.

  “The chief of police is back,” Thomas says. “He’d like to talk to you next, Dad.”

  Tag looks to Greer. She nods but is afraid to say a word in front of Thomas. Tag should stick to the story they came up with. She tries to convey this with her eyes but Tag hangs his head like a guilty man. Greer would like to go into the questioning with him. Let her talk, let her present the argument. She, after all, is the storyteller.

  But that, of course, won’t be possible. Tag got into this mess without her; he will have to go it alone.

  Greer is exhausted. It’s nearly four o’clock, the hour the ceremony was to take place.

  She lies down on the bed. She is so tired she could sleep until morning. Maybe she will sleep until morning.

  Merritt Monaco. She was twenty-nine years old. Pretty, but unoriginal. That was who Tag was screwing.

  Disgust courses through Greer’s veins. She is hardly naive; she has written scenarios this nefarious and more so. There wasn’t one original thing about it—a charming, rich, powerful older man with an indifferent wife seduced or was seduced by a young, beautiful, silly girl. It practically described the history of the entire world—from Henry VIII with Anne Boleyn to an American president with his impressionable intern. But it feels brand-new, doesn’t it? Because it is happening to Greer.

  Pregnant.

  When Tag is charged with murder, the papers will have a field day. Their wealth and the fact that Greer writes murder mysteries will make the story positively irresistible. The New York Post will cover it, then the British tabloids. Greer will be cast as an object of pity; her fans will either cringe or rage on her behalf. The thought is horrifying—so many middle-aged women writing indignant Facebook posts or penning sympathetic letters. Thomas’s and Benji’s lives will be ruined. They’ll become social outcasts. Thomas will be fired; Benji will be asked to resign from his charitable boards.

  Greer sits up. She can’t sleep. She needs a pill.

  She goes into the master bathroom and eyes Tag’s sink—his razor, his shaving brush, his tortoiseshell comb. She couldn’t bear to walk into this bathro
om and find Tag’s side empty. They have been together too long, endured too much.

  Greer opens her medicine cabinet, and as she does so, she gets a peculiar feeling of déjà vu, as though she watched herself go through these exact motions a short time ago—and so a part of her knows that when she looks, her sleeping pills will be missing.

  Wait, she thinks. Wait just a minute!

  The pills were prescribed by her GP, Dr. Crowe. Dr. Crowe is doddering, nearly senile; he has been Greer’s “woman doctor” since she moved to Manhattan. The pills are “quite potent,” as Crowe likes to remind her, some cousin to the quaaludes everyone was taking in the seventies. “Quite potent” isn’t just some humble-brag; the pills knock Greer out immediately and lock her in an obsidian casket for a full eight hours. Greer doesn’t keep her sleeping pills in a prescription bottle but rather in a round enamel box decorated with a picture of a young Queen Elizabeth II. Greer received the box as a present from her grandmother on the occasion of her eleventh birthday.

  The Queen Elizabeth box always sits in the same spot on the same shelf and Greer knows why it’s gone. Or at least she suspects she does.

  She closes the medicine cabinet and stares at herself in the mirror. She needs to think this through. But there’s no time. She needs to talk to the Chief immediately. She needs to save her husband, that bastard.

  Saturday, July 7, 2018, 4:00 p.m.

  NANTUCKET

  Marty Szczerba is sitting at the bar at the Crosswinds restaurant in the Nantucket airport finally eating his lunch. He likes the Reuben, loves the coleslaw; he has gained thirty pounds since Nancy died, which isn’t helping in his quest for a new girlfriend. A not-unattractive woman in her early to mid-forties suddenly takes the seat next to his. She points at his sandwich and says, in a posh English accent, “I’m having what this chap’s having. And a glass of chardonnay. A large glass.”

  Marty fumbles with his knife and fork in an attempt to flag down Dawn, the bartender, who is watching Wimbledon on the TV in the corner. “Dawn, this young lady would like to place an order.”