Every Vow You Break - Peter Swanson Page 0,23

there’s no electricity?”

“There’s some electricity. For a hair dryer, for example, and if there’s an emergency.”

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Abigail said, laughing. They were driving north in Bruce’s electric Tesla.

“It’s all part of the experience. No phones, no television, no computers.”

“I’m fine with all that.”

“You’re just worried about your hair?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“There are plugs in the bathrooms,” Bruce said. They had just crossed into Massachusetts. The day had begun in bright sunshine, but now there was a thin haze of clouds building across the sky, and the temperature was dropping. The forecast for the week was for heavy winds and occasional showers. Bruce had claimed that it would make the honeymoon more romantic.

“What about lamps?”

“They have them there.”

“Real ones?”

“Most everything is lit by candles at night, and they give you lanterns when you need to walk somewhere. They look just like old-fashioned oil lanterns but they’re actually battery-powered. They’re really beautiful. Trust me, a week of living this way, you’re never going to want to go back to the real world.”

“When were you here before, again? I know you told me, but I forgot.”

“A few times. The longest trip was three years ago, right after Chip opened it. I was one of his first guests. He originally envisioned it as a place for people who work in the computer industry, a place to reconnect with nature, take your eyes off the screen. That sort of thing. There are a lot of corporate retreats there, brainstorming sessions, that sort of thing. And now it’s actually become popular with honeymooning couples, for some of the same reasons. No distractions. Plus, the food’s amazing.”

“What do people do there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are there activities?”

“There are great walks on the island. There’s an indoor swimming pool that you have to see to believe. There’s a spa, but most of the activities are supposed to be like camp activities but for grown-ups. You don’t have to do them, but if you want to, there’s archery, and sailing on the pond, and a whole art studio. You can paint pictures and do pottery.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. All voluntary, though. Personally, I like the main lodge. You can sit by the fire and read. They bring you drinks. It’s pretty sweet. And it’s not going to be filled with corporate types, I promise you. Chip told me it’s going to be relatively empty. It has a Gothic feel, you’ll like it.”

Abigail was worried that she’d made him a little defensive about his choice of a honeymoon spot, so she said, “It sounds awesome, Bruce. I can’t wait to see it.”

They stopped for lunch in southern Maine, eating in the basement tavern of a seaside inn near Kennewick Harbor. Abigail, who’d been starving herself just a little bit in preparation for the wedding, ate a cheeseburger with fries and declared it the best she’d ever had. Bruce had the lobster roll and they shared a bottle of Sancerre.

“I keep having these moments,” Abigail said, “when I suddenly realize that I’m married, that we’re married. It’s kind of mind-blowing.”

“No regrets?” Bruce said.

“Not yet,” she said, and instantly saw something change in his eyes, even in the dim lighting of the tavern. “I’m kidding,” she added.

“I know.”

“How about you? Any regrets?”

“No. I feel ridiculously lucky, like I don’t deserve you. If I feel anything, it’s a form of guilt.”

“You totally deserve me,” she said, then added, “That didn’t come out right. We deserve each other.”

“Okay,” he said. “No more guilt. Let’s start our honeymoon.”

There was a small airport about twenty miles north of Portland. Abigail was nervous about taking a plane to the island, but Bruce had assured her that it was totally safe.

“I feel like I read about small planes crashing all the time.”

“Mostly because of bad weather, and there’s no bad weather today. And it’s only about a twenty-minute flight.”

They walked into the departure lounge and were greeted by a tall, wide-shouldered man who looked like he was ex-military. He stood behind a desk embossed with the words CASCO AIR, and a logo that showed a plane above a lighthouse. He looked at them both and said, “Heart Pond Island, right?”

“Right.”

“Got a good day for it. Is that all your luggage?”

“There are two more bags in the car,” Abigail said.

“No worries. I’ll send someone to get them. Chip told me that you’re his special guests and I was to pull out all the stops, so just take a seat, and I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.”

They were