There were only about a dozen people mingling in the hall, most standing near the fireplace or sitting in overstuffed chairs.
“Bar?” Bruce said, and together they walked across the stone floor, covered here and there by expensive-looking rugs, toward a fully stocked bar made from dark wood carved to look like vines growing up columns. The bartender was middle-aged, with a graying mustache that flared a little on either end. Like Paul, the man charged with taking care of their bunk, the bartender was dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt.
“Bruce, my man,” he said in an indecipherable accent.
“Welcome back.”
“Hello, Carl. I’d like you to meet Abigail, my wife.”
“I heard. I heard. Congratulations. What can I get you? A champagne cocktail?”
“I think we can do better than that,” Bruce said. “I don’t suppose you remember that Manhattan you made me last time I was here?”
“Of course I do.”
“How about two of those?”
Abigail turned and looked at Bruce, a little surprised he’d ordered for her. It was not something he’d ever done, not something that anyone she’d ever dated had done for her. He met her eye and immediately said, “You like Manhattans, don’t you?”
“I do. Sorry. I was just surprised.”
“That I ordered for you? It’s a onetime thing, I promise. You have to try this drink. It’s perfection.”
“WhistlePig Rye and Punt e Mes,” the bartender said.
When she tasted the drink, she had to agree that it was delicious, the best Manhattan she’d had. She was still a little annoyed, though, not because he’d ordered the drink for her, although that was part of it, but because it was increasingly obvious that Bruce had spent a lot of time at this resort, and that he’d brought her to a place that felt like his place. She wondered if the honeymoon would have been more special if they’d gone to a place that was new to both of them. It was a little thing, though.
She focused on the taste of the drink and the majesty of the lodge.
“Mingle or stay put?” Bruce asked.
“How about we stay put for the length of this drink, at least?”
she said.
“Good choice.”
Two men approached the bar, and Carl asked them what they wanted. The men were young and hip, both dressed in jeans and casual sweaters, both bearded, and Abigail thought that they were probably young wealthy computer entrepreneurs like Bruce. She was surprised he didn’t know them. The men ordered something called Peeper on draft, then talked in hushed tones. Like everywhere else on this island, it was quiet in the lodge, almost eerily so.
As though he were reading her thoughts, Bruce said, “There’s music here some nights. Chip has bands flown in.”
“Like rock bands?” Abigail said, trying to imagine it.
“More like string quartets, but also a lot of experimental bands.
Electronic stuff.” He named a bunch of artists Abigail hadn’t heard of.
Bruce started talking about the dinner, the philosophy behind the food, what to expect. Abigail listened, but also thought about where she was, who she was with, and all that had happened over the past few weeks. Since meeting Bruce she’d had these little moments when she felt as if she’d taken a step away from herself and could see the surreal nature of her new life. It was partly the money, the fact that she’d suddenly gone from struggling to pay her rent to being with someone who was probably a billionaire （she didn’t know exactly how much money Bruce had, nor had he asked her to sign any kind of prenuptial agreement）， but it was also partly to do with Bruce. In these moments she would be suddenly acutely aware that he was a stranger. It didn’t last long, this feeling, and she’d remind herself how much they’d shared since they’d met. Not just experiences, but long conversations.
She’d heard all about his childhood as an only child of an unhappy marriage. When he was twelve his mother had left his father for another, more successful man. He’d told Abigail the whole story one night at his apartment, the two of them staying up until dawn, falling asleep just as the light began to enter the apartment. So why did he occasionally feel like a stranger? Why did he feel like a stranger right now, the two of them sipping Manhattans a little more than twenty-four hours after they’d gotten married? She knew the feeling wouldn’t last. It never did. Maybe it was just something she’d feel on and off for a few years. The only people in her life who didn’t feel like strangers were her parents, of course, and Zoe, who had always told Abigail everything she felt and experienced. Everyone else—her college friends, Ben Perez—all felt slightly mysterious to her, like she never knew precisely what was going on in their minds.