Indiscretion Read online

  “You’re a riot, Clive. I just had it done and it wasn’t cheap.” A light wind gusts and blows off her hat. “Shit! Larry!”

  She glares at her husband, who goes scurrying after the hat.

  “What did I tell you?” she says when he returns. It is all his fault. He is the man. He should have been protecting her. Larry grimaces and says, “Clive, can you drive us back to the house? Jodie really doesn’t want to stay.” Jodie stands a few feet behind him, victorious, her arms crossed against her torso.

  Irina, who has been lying on a towel, says, “I want to go too. I am getting all sand everywhere.”

  “All right,” says Clive, throwing up his hands in mock defeat. “Sorry, love. Day at the beach cut short.”

  Claire hesitates. “Can I stay?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’d like to stay. It’s just so beautiful, and I haven’t seen the beach in so long. Do you mind? I could take a taxi back if it’s too much trouble. I just really want to go for a walk and a swim.”

  “Water’s bloody cold for swimming,” says Clive, looking at his watch and then toward the parking lot, where his other guests are now waiting. “Look, I didn’t plan on spending the day playing chauffeur, but I could come back for you in half an hour or so, after I’ve dropped off this lot. That do?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He is surprised, she can tell. It has probably been a long time since a woman failed to go along with his plans. In his world that sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen. It’s a black mark against her. She can tell he is already thinking who he should invite out next weekend. The others are almost back to the parking lot. He turns and follows them, lugging the cooler and the chairs. She feels lighter now.

  With a sigh, she looks down the beach and removes her shirt and shorts until she is standing only in her bikini. The sun and wind feel good on her exposed skin. Although it is crowded here, she can see that farther down it thins out. That is where she wants to be, and she starts walking. The sand crunches pleasantly between her toes. The afternoon sun warm against her face. A wave bigger than the others crashes to her left, sending foaming surf rolling up over her feet. Involuntarily she lets out a little shriek and leaps aside. She had forgotten how cold the water could be, but after a few moments she becomes used to it.

  When she was a child, her family would go to the beach every summer. The water was always cold there too. Maybe even colder. They would rent an old, thin-walled house on the Cape, near Wellfleet, for a week. There would be lobsters and sailing and sand in the sheets, her father playing tennis with his old wooden racket and a smell of mildew that saturated the whole house that always made her think of summer. That had been a long time ago, before her parents’ divorce.

  She passes several surfers bobbing like seals in the small waves and watches them for a while. One of them starts paddling and gets up unsteadily as the wave begins to crest. He manages to stay upright for a few seconds before falling. A pretty girl with long sun-bleached hair claps her hands and whistles. Claire thinks it would be wonderful to know how to surf. If only there was time. She thinks she’d be good at it. She is a good skier and used to dance in high school, so she knows her balance is good and her legs are strong.

  Crossing over a seaweed-covered stone jetty that juts out into the ocean, she comes to a stretch of beach that is almost completely deserted. Up ahead in the distance is another jetty, and beyond that what looks like a large lagoon. There are signs posted on hurricane fencing that warn against disturbing a breed of bird called piping plover. Imposing mansions occupy the dunes behind her, but for the moment she feels as though she has the beach all to herself.

  The sun is strong and she decides to cool off by going swimming. It is too cold to wade in. She waits for a moment at the water’s edge, timing the waves, gathering her courage. Seeing her chance, she runs in, lifting her legs awkwardly out of the foaming water, and dives into a breaker. The cold shocks her, but she kicks hard and comes out beyond the swells. As she treads water, tasting the salt on her lips, her body feels strong and clean. She starts swimming a breaststroke, but the current is stronger and pushes her back, and she realizes she isn’t making much headway. For a moment, she is anxious, concerned that she might not be able to get back to shore. Knowing that to fight the current would be to risk exhaustion, she swims parallel to the shore until she has escaped it. When she no longer feels its pull, she bodysurfs back to the beach, stumbling wearily out of the water.

  “You should be careful out there.”

  She turns to see a man of about forty standing beside her. He is good-looking and well-built, with sandy hair slowly turning gray. There is something recognizable about him. It is a face she has seen before.

  “There’s a powerful riptide there,” he says. “I was watching you when you went in, in case you got into trouble. But you looked like you could take care of yourself.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t so sure for a moment.” She takes a deep breath and realizes her fear has passed. She smiles at him. He is an attractive man. “I didn’t realize this was a full-service beach. Are you lifeguards salaried or do you work on commission?”

  He laughs. “We work strictly for tips.”

  “Well, that’s too bad. As you can see I’m not carrying any money.”

  “You’d be amazed how many times we lifeguards hear that. Maybe I should go into a more lucrative line of work.”

  “Well, you could start a line of bikinis that come with pockets.”

  “That’s a great idea. I’ll bring it up at the next lifeguard convention.”

  “You should. I hate to think of all those starving lifeguards, saving all those people for nothing. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, we don’t do it for the money but for the glory—and for the gratitude, of course.”

  “In that case, thanks again for almost saving me.”

  He makes a little bow. “It was almost my pleasure. Well, so long. Stay out of riptides.”

  He walks down the beach in the direction of the lagoon. She watches him get smaller and sees him join a group of people by some canoes. A chill runs through her. She shivers, wishing she had brought a towel. She has to head back anyway. It is getting late. Clive will be waiting.

  That night they are in the kitchen, ready to go out. “Where are we going?” Claire asks. She is wearing a simple white dress, low cut over her small breasts. Jodie appears serene. She has forgiven Clive.

  “There’s a party. Writer chap I know. Gorgeous wife.”

  “I want to go to nightclub,” pouts Irina, applying lipstick while staring at the mirror in her compact. “My friend say they are very good here. You take me, baby?” This to Derek, whom she towers over, caressing his thinning hair. He grunts in assent. “ ’Ere, what about a nightclub then?”

  “Things don’t really get going at the clubs until midnight,” answers Clive. “We’ll have plenty of time.”

  “What’s he written?” Claire asks.

  “Who?”

  “Your writer friend. What’s he written? Would I have heard of it?”

  “You may have done. He wrote something that came out the other year. Won a big prize too, I think. I never got around to reading it.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Winslow. Harry Winslow. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes. He wrote The Death of a Privileged Ape. It won a National Book Award. I loved it.”

  “I didn’t like it.” It was Jodie. “You remember?” she says, turning to Larry. “I tried reading it in Anguilla? Bored the crap out of me.”

  “Yes, well, my taste in literature runs toward Dick Francis and Jackie Collins, I must say.” Lowbrow Clive to the rescue, but Claire doesn’t give up so easily.

  “How do you know him?”

  “Harry? He’s a lovely chap. Terribly funny. Wife’s smashing. Not sure how I know them. Just do. Met them at parties, I suppose. They have a house out here. Been in her family for years apparently, thou
gh I think that sort of thing means rather less here than in England.”

  “And after we go to nightclub, yes?” puts in Irina.

  “Absolutely. After we’ll go to a nightclub, and you and Derek can boogie until dawn.”

  The house is charming. Lived in, loved. It’s small, two stories, the shingles brown with age, the trim white. Cars line the drive, some parked on the grass. A little boy, the son of the family, armed with a flashlight, helps direct them. Through the tall trees, an open field is barely visible in the twilight. The air smells of salt water, the sound of the ocean just audible. Claire wishes she could come back in the daylight. She can tell it would be marvelous.

  Inside is the detritus of generations. Family treasures cover the wainscoted walls. It is as though the contents of several larger houses were spilled into one. Old portraits and photographs of men with mustaches and high collars, women with straw boaters and chignons, captains of industry, forgotten cousins; paintings of prized, long-dead horses; posters; books everywhere, on shelves and stacked in piles on the floor; and model airplanes and Chinese porcelain foo dogs and old magazines and fishing rods and tennis racquets and beach umbrellas jammed in the corners. Overhead a dusty, oversize hurricane lamp bathes everything in a soft glow. Children’s toys, scratched tables and scuffed chairs and piles of canvas sneakers, moccasins, and rain boots. The whole place smells of years of mildew, the sea, and woodsmoke.

  Claire is the last one in. The noise of the party pours out from other rooms. Clive puts his hand behind her back and brings her up to introduce her to a man with sandy hair. He is shaking hands with the rest of their group.

  “It’s my lifeguard!” He is taller than she remembers. He wears an old blazer with a button missing and frayed cuffs. “Saved anyone tonight?”

  “Just a few. They were dying of thirst.”

  Claire giggles. “Clive, I met this man on the beach this afternoon. Apparently, I went swimming somewhere I shouldn’t have and could have drowned.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “It was my good deed for the day, Clive,” the man says. “Good thing she’s a strong swimmer. I was afraid I was going to have to go in after her. Last year a teenage boy drowned there.”

  “So you’re Harry Winslow?” Now she knows why he looked so familiar.

  “I am. Who are you?” He smiles broadly. There is an old scar on his chin. His eyes are gray. A faint trace of wrinkles. He holds out his hand, the nails clean, the fingers tapered. Golden hairs curl around his thick brown wrist.

  His hand envelops hers as she introduces herself, a little less confident now. She is surprised that it would be so callused. He is no longer the same man she met on the beach. He has taken on substance in her eyes.

  “Well, Claire, welcome. What can I get you to drink?”

  “Excuse me,” says Clive. “I see a chap over there. I’ll catch up later, hmm?” Without waiting for Claire to answer, he is gone, smelling money.

  “How about that drink, then?”

  Claire follows Harry inside a small living room with an old brick fireplace, painted white. She notices large, worn sofas and comfortable reading chairs. He walks to a table piled high with bottles, glasses, and an ice bucket. On the floor, a faded Oriental carpet. The rest of the party is on the porch and the grass out back. She accepts a glass of white wine. He is drinking whisky on the rocks from a chunky glass.

  “I read your book.”

  “Did you?” he responds. “I hope you liked it.”

  He is being modest. It is an act, she can tell. One he has repeated with varying degrees of sincerity. He has had this conversation before. Many people have read his book. It has won prizes. Thousands, maybe millions of people have liked it, even loved it. The success for him is a shield, a gift. It lends him an enviable objectivity.

  “I did, very much.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles truthfully. It is like a parent hearing about the achievements of an accomplished child. It is no longer within his control. It has taken on a life of its own.

  He looks around. He is the host. There are others to attend to, other drinks to fetch, introductions to be made, stories to be shared. But she wants him to stay. She tries to will him to stay. Wants to ask him questions, know more about him. What is it like to have your talents recognized, to have your photograph on the back of a book? To be lionized by friends and strangers, to have your face, your hands, your body, your life? But she cannot find the words and would be embarrassed if she did.

  “Where are you from?” He sips his drink. He asks the way an uncle asks where a young niece is at school.

  “Just outside of Boston.”

  “No, I meant where do you live now?”

  “Oh.” She blushes. “In New York. I’m sharing an apartment with a friend from college.”

  “Known Clive long?”

  “Not long. We met at a party in May.”

  “Ah,” he says. “He’s supposed to be very good at what he does. I must admit I don’t know the first thing about business. I’m hopeless with money. Always have been.”

  Other guests come up. A handsome man and a beautiful woman with exotic looks and dark hair pulled tightly back. “Excuse us,” says the man. They know him. “Darling,” she says, leaning in to offer him her cheek. “Great party. I wish we could stay. Sitter,” he explains. “You know what it’s like.”

  They laugh with the intimacy of a private joke, the way rich people complain about how hard it is to find decent help or the expense of flying in a private plane.

  The couple leaves. “Excuse me,” Harry says to her. “I need to fetch more ice. Enjoy the party.”

  “I always do what the lifeguard tells me,” she says, making a mock salute but looking him in the eyes and holding his gaze.

  He turns but then, as though realizing he is leaving her all alone, says, “Wait. You haven’t met Maddy. Let me introduce you. Come with me.”

  Reprieved, she follows him happily through the crowd to the kitchen. Unlike the living room, it is bright. Copper pots hang from the walls. Children’s drawings decorate an aging refrigerator. A checked linoleum floor. There is a small, industrious crowd here, some sitting at a long, heavy table, others chopping, washing dishes. On a scarred butcher block table sits a large ham. It is an old kitchen. Worn and welcoming. She could imagine Thanksgivings here.

  “Sweetheart,” he says. A woman stands up from the oven, taking out something that smells delicious.

  She is wearing an apron and wipes her hands on it. She is taller than Claire and strikingly beautiful. Long red-gold ringlets still wet from the shower and pale blue eyes. No makeup. A patrician face.

  “Maddy, this is a new friend of Clive’s.” He has forgotten her name.

  “Claire,” she says, stepping forward. “Thank you for having me.”

  Maddy takes her hand. A firm grip. Her nails are cut short and unpainted. Claire notices she is barefoot.

  “Hello, Claire. I’m Madeleine. Glad you could come.”

  She is dazzling. Claire is reminded of Botticelli’s Venus.

  “She liked my book,” he says. “Must be nice to the paying customers.”

  “Of course, darling,” she says. And then to Claire, “Would you like to help? As usual one of my husband’s cozy little get-togethers has turned into an orgy. We need to feed these people, or they could start breaking things.” She shakes her head theatrically and smiles at him.

  “The world’s greatest wife,” he says with an ecstatic sigh.

  “I’d be happy to,” says Claire.

  “Great. We need someone to plate the deviled eggs. They’re in the fridge and the platters are in the pantry. And don’t worry if you drop anything, nothing’s that good.”

  “You’re a wonderful field marshal,” says Harry, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek. “I need to get ice.”

  “Check the wine too,” she calls out as he leaves. “We’ve already gone through two cases of white. And where’s th
at other case of vodka? I thought it was under the stairs.” She begins to plate the canapés from the oven onto a platter.

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Claire brings out the deviled eggs.

  “Yes. Phil,” she says to the man with the dish towel, “let Claire do that for a while. Take these out and put them on the sideboard.” She turns to Claire. “Is this your first time out here?”

  Claire nods. “It’s very beautiful.”

  “It’s much grander now than when I was a kid,” she says, slicing a brown loaf of bread, using the back of her wrist to push her hair away from her face. “Back then most of the land around here was farms. The place across the road was a dairy farm. We used to go help with the milking. Now it’s a subdivision for millionaires. Hand me that plate, would you?”

  “You’ve always lived here?”

  She nods. “We came in the summers. This was the staff cottage. My family owned the big house up the drive.”

  “What happened?”

  “What always happens. We—my brother, Johnny, and me—had to sell it to pay estate taxes, but we kept this place. I couldn’t bear to part with it entirely. Isn’t that right, Walter?”

  This is where I come in. Every story has a narrator. Someone who writes it down after it’s all over. Why am I the narrator of this story? I am because it is the story of my life—and of the people I love most. I have tried to be as scrupulous as possible in my telling of it. I wasn’t a participant in everything that happened, but after I knew the ending, I had to fill in the missing pieces through glimpses that meant nothing to me at the time, memories that flash back with new significance, old legal pads, sentences jotted down in notebooks and on the backs of aging photographs. Even Harry himself, though he didn’t know it. I had no choice other than to try to make sense of it. But making sense of anything is never easy, particularly this story.

  I walk over, plucking up one of the canapés and popping it into my mouth. Bacon and something. It is delicious. “Absolutely, darling. Whatever you say.”

  “Oh, shut up. Don’t be an ass.” Then to Claire, “Walter is my lawyer. He knows all about it. Sorry, Walter Gervais, this is Claire. Claire, Walter. Walter is also my oldest friend.”