Page 25

EDEN

It takes less than thirty minutes for me to realize how characterless West’s isolated beach house is.

It’s the kind of home that belongs in a glossy magazine, not in real life, and definitely not in mine. The silence buzzes in my ears as I wander through the glass doors in the open-plan livingspace, barefoot onto the polished patio, trying – and failing – not to feel like an intruder.

From here I can see the waves crashing against the shoreline below, and the steps carved into the rock that take you down to the shore. But it’s the scene to the left that draws my attention and makes me walk around to the side of the house.

The resort construction site is in the distance. Cranes rise like mechanical beasts, machinery crawling across the land like an alien invader.

The last time I stood on this northern tip of the island, I was a barefoot teenager, chasing Hudson down the dunes. And for a second I feel more alone than I ever have in my life. There’s a rumble of an engine in the distance and it’s like my body reacts before my brain does.

I don’t want to be excited and I absolutely don’t want to care. But I do.

The truth is, I’m already tired of the bickering. I have to do this for three months. Possibly longer. Maybe we should give each other a break. Work together. As a kid I loved West like an older brother.

Just because we have a piece of paper tying us together right now, doesn’t mean anything has changed.

I walk back into the house and down the hallway, my heart beating faster with each crunch of gravel from the tires. A moment later, his sleek black SUV comes into view, cresting the bend in the driveway like it owns the place.

I check my face in the glass. I look flushed but not sweaty, thanks to the shower I took half an hour ago. My hair is actually behaving for once, and I have a pretty dress on – one I found in the guest room closet, with a label that says it’s made from sustainable cotton. There were a lot of brand new clothes in there. I assume that’s West’s doing, and I haven’t stolen from one of his rich girlfriend’s wardrobes by accident.

The SUV rolls to a stop in front of the house and for a second, I actually feel nervous. Which is absurd. I roll my eyes at myself.

The driver’s side door opens and West steps out.

He has a phone pressed to his ear, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt – sleeves rolled, collar open – paired with a pair of navy pants that definitely weren’t bought off the rack. Gah, I hate the way this man is so stupidly handsome.

And I’m married to him.

He glances up and sees me. And then he keeps talking. “Yeah, exactly. File the motion, get them into rehab, and say nothing to the press.”

And then he walks right past me.

No ‘Hey, you look nice.’ No ‘Thanks for not burning the place down.’ Or ‘Sorry I was spying on you.’ He barely acknowledges that I’m here to greet him. He just raises his hand and carries on the conversation he’s having.

Still talking, he heads for his office with the phone still glued to his ear, unlocks the door, and disappears inside without a single word.

The click of the lock might as well be the punchline to the joke I made of myself.

God I’m an idiot. I’m not here to be his actual wife. I’m here to solve the problem we made in Vegas.

I turn back to the kitchen. Which is, of course, cold and spotless and full of the kind of ingredients that require knife skills and a culinary degree. But I need something to do, something to shake the awkward hum prickling under my skin. So I open the fully-stocked fridge and pull out some ingredients.

I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay but I can make a decent pasta sauce. I start chopping an onion because cooking is movement. And I hate not moving.

I’m halfway through sauteeing the sofrito when the doorbell rings. I wipe my hands on a towel and walk to the front door, opening it to find a delivery guy holding a huge gilded gift box.

I don’t recognize him. He must either be a new island addition or come over on the ferry to deliver it. Either way, he hands it over without a word before turning around and heading right back to his van.

The label says ‘To the newlyweds.’

I try not to laugh, because if anybody has seen this, we may as well give up now. But I don’t recognize the guy, and I know that delivery drivers rarely live on the island, so we should be safe from the local gossip. As soon as he heads back to the van, I glance at the closed office door that West is no doubt pacing behind, then back at the package. No, he doesn’t deserve to open it.

And I’ve always loved presents. So I lift the lid. Alone.

Inside is a bottle of vintage Italian champagne, two crystal flutes, and a very expensive—but unmistakably risqué—set of lingerie in lipstick red. There’s also a card:

To Mr. and Mrs. Abbott — May the sun always shine on your married life.