Indiscretion Read online

  I find her several hours later. She is sitting at the end of my dock, staring out over the pond, her feet dangling in the water. A family of swans swims by. A pair of Beetle Cats, the small, gaff-rigged sailboats popular with residents who live on the pond, tacks in the distance. It is very peaceful.

  “Where have you been?” I ask. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re going to play tennis.”

  Yes, I have a tennis court too. It’s an old-fashioned clay court. I know a lot of people prefer acrylic these days, but I actually still enjoy rolling the court. The preparation as important as the play.

  She looks up. Surprised at first and then disappointed, as though she were hoping for someone else. I am in my ratty old tennis whites.

  “I’m sorry, Walter. I needed to be alone for a while.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Did you know that Harry and Maddy are going to Rome?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.”

  “You have something against Romans? Did a principe ever break your heart, or did you trip and fall on the Spanish Steps?”

  I am trying to be light, but I can tell, too late, she is not in the mood.

  She shakes her head silently.

  “Anything I can do?”

  She shakes her head again.

  “Right. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”

  “Thank you, Walter. I just feel like being alone. Maybe I’ll wander up later and see how the tennis is going.”

  “I hope so. You owe me a rematch.” She manages a smile at that. The week before she leveled me, 6–4, 6–4.

  We don’t see her again until evening. After tennis, I tiptoe up to her room and see that her door is closed. At seven she comes down. I am in the kitchen, putting hamburger patties into a cooler. We are going to a cookout on the beach. It’s a Labor Day weekend tradition. There will be about fifty people there. Ned, Harry, and I had gone to the beach earlier to build a bonfire, digging a pit in the sand, filling it with driftwood.

  “Sorry I didn’t make it to tennis,” she says as she enters. “I wouldn’t have been any fun.”

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, thanks.” She looks beautiful. A low-cut pink dress. She is not wearing a bra. The sides of her breasts peeking out from behind the fabric. I try not to stare.

  “You look lovely, but you might want to bring a sweater or something,” I suggest. “It can get pretty cold on the beach at night this time of year.”

  “I could really use a martini, Walter. Do you think you could make one for me?”

  “With pleasure,” I say, washing my hands and going to the bar. It is a form of communion. I drop the ice cubes into an old Cartier silver shaker that belonged to my grandfather. Add Beefeater gin and a dash of dry vermouth. I stir it, twenty times exactly, and pour it into a chilled martini glass, also silver, which I garnish with a lemon peel.

  “Hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I want to pace myself.”

  “Oh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy, Walter.” She takes a sip. “Perfect.”

  Ned and Cissy come in. “Priming the pump, eh?” says Ned.

  “Want one?” I ask.

  “No thanks. Plenty to drink at the beach.”

  “Sorry not to see you at tennis today,” Cissy says to Claire. “Everything all right?”

  She nods her head. “Yes, thanks. Just a bit tired, that’s all. You know how it is.”

  “Just as well, I suppose. You missed seeing my man get his big butt kicked by Harry.”

  “Harry had a hell of a serve today,” I put in. “He could do no wrong. Don’t feel too bad, Ned. Pete Sampras couldn’t have beaten him today.”

  “Yeah, well. I’ll get him the next time.”

  “You’ll have to wait until next summer then, won’t you?” pipes up Claire. “Unless you’re going to go all the way to Rome to play a few sets.”

  We all stare at Claire, surprised by her tone. Then Cissy says, “Look at it this way, Neddy. At least you’ll have a whole year to practice.”

  Everyone laughs at that. “C’mon, Claire, drink up,” says Ned.

  We take my car, Ned in the front with me, the women in back.

  “Aren’t we going with Harry and Maddy?” asks Claire.

  “They’re going to meet us there,” says Ned. “They are bringing their houseguests.”

  A Dutch couple. Wouter and Magda. He is in publishing. They have just dropped off their daughter at boarding school and are passing through on the way back to Amsterdam. Their English is flawless.

  The sun is setting low over the ocean when we drive up. A finger of brilliant orange extends from one end of the horizon to the other, as far up and down the beach as we can see. There’s already a good crowd. I recognize many of the faces, some from the club, others from Manhattan, the rest a scattering of literary types, friends of Harry and Maddy’s. The fire is roaring. Tables have been set up. There are hurricane lamps and coolers full of wine and beer. Liquor bottles, ice cubes, and mixers. Plastic cups. Several large trash bins. There are a few children. Labradors. By the lip of the parking lot, piles of shoes.

  “Can you make me another martini, Walter?” Claire asks. I notice she didn’t bring a sweater after all.

  “Of course. But remember the old rule about women’s breasts.”

  “You have such a dirty mind.” She winks at me. “Don’t worry, Walter. This is the last big party of the summer, right? Loosen up. Let’s have some fun.”

  There’s no shaker, but I still make her a drink. “Not my best effort, I’m afraid,” I say.

  “You’re very sweet, Walter. Thank you.” She gives me a little peck on the cheek.

  “After this, though, you’d better stick to wine.”

  “When will Harry and Maddy be here?”

  “Haven’t a clue. Soon enough, I should think.”

  I excuse myself to drop off the hamburger patties. When I look around, I notice that Claire has moved. She is talking to three young men. They are about her age, tanned, slim-hipped as soccer players. The sons of rich men. I should know. I was one of them once, lifetimes ago. She is laughing. I can tell she is mesmerizing them.

  Harry, Maddy, and Johnny arrive with Wouter and Magda. “Sorry we’re late,” Harry says when I see him. “We’re still packing up. A year’s a long time to be gone.”

  I am already planning on spending Christmas with them in Rome.

  By nine o’clock the first stage of the party is winding down. It gets dark quickly this time of year. Parents carry sleepy children to their cars. Tables are folded. Empty wine bottles clink in recycling bins. The fire remains high, still being stoked by those who aren’t ready to go yet. For the young the night is just getting started. Flames shoot up into the night. Faces flicker in the firelight. The sand begins to feel cool underfoot. I am about to put on my sweater, but I look around for Claire, worrying that she might be cold.

  She is still talking with one of the young men, holding a drink in one hand, rubbing a bare arm with her hand. I go up to her. “Sorry for interrupting. Claire, are you cold? Would you like my sweater?”

  Claire looks at me, her face luminous, eyes glazed. She is drunk.

  “Walt,” she says. “That’s so sweet. I’d like you to meet Andrew. His parents have a house out here. He’s going to business school.”

  We shake hands. Andrew is wondering about me and where I fit in. I am possibly too old to be a boyfriend but too young to be a father.

  “I’m staying with Walt. His parents have a house out here too, but they’re both dead and now Walt lives there all alone.”

  Ignoring her, I repeat, “Are you cold?”

  “No, I’m fine. Feel great.”

  “So you don’t need my sweater?”

  “I have a sweater if she gets cold,” Andrew says pointedly.

  She ignores him and asks me, “
Have Harry and Maddy arrived?”

  “Yes. They’ve been here awhile.”

  She looks around and sees them. She frowns. “Oh yes, there they are.” She turns to Andrew. “I have to go say hi to some people. I’ll be right back.”

  She walks over and gives Maddy a hug. “I didn’t know you were going away. Harry told me this morning. I know I should be happy for you both, but it makes me sad.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be back before you know it. The summer’s over anyway.”

  “Well, that’s just it. I don’t want the summer to end. Just knowing that you won’t be here makes it so much more final.”

  Maddy squeezes her hand. “I know. I never want summer to end either.”

  “It was just such a surprise.”

  “I am sorry we didn’t tell you. It had all been settled last winter, and it just never occurred to us that you didn’t know too.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. You have both been amazing to me. I love you both so much.” She gives Maddy another hug.

  “We’ll miss you too.”

  Claire turns away and walks back to Andrew, who gets her another glass of wine. I am not sure this is such a good idea, but it’s not my place to say anything.

  “Everything okay?” Harry asks, munching a hamburger. He and I had stood aside while the two women talked, and now we rejoin Maddy. “You worried about something?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “Claire seems to be drinking rather a lot.”

  Harry laughs softly. “Yeah, well, she won’t be the only one at this party.”

  Maddy looks at him. “I think she’s taking the news of our trip hard. Why else would she be getting drunk? We’ve spent plenty of nights with her, and she’s never been like this. What was she like when you told her this morning?”

  “Well, I could tell it was a surprise. I felt like an ass because obviously she had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “I saw her down by the pond before tennis,” I add. “She looked pretty glum.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” says Maddy. “We sort of adopted her and now we’re dropping her.”

  “Oh, she’d have gotten tired of us before too long anyway,” says Harry. “I mean, she needs to spend more time with people her own age. We’re just a gang of middle-aged old farts with receding hairlines and expanding waistlines.”

  “Speak for yourself, fatso,” says Maddy, punching him playfully in the arm. Actually, both of them look great for their age. I, on the other hand, look every one of my forty-two years.

  We see Claire on the other side of the bonfire and watch as she stumbles and nearly falls. Andrew helps her, and she hangs on his arm, laughing. Have I said she has beautiful teeth?

  “She does look pretty sozzled,” says Harry. “Do you think we should do something?”

  “I’ll go over and talk to her,” says Maddy. “You two stay here.”

  Across the fire I can see Maddy speaking with her. The boy stands sheepishly off to the side. Maddy has a hand on Claire’s shoulder. Claire is shaking her head, attempting to back away. But it is very hard to say no to Maddy.

  They come back. “Harry, do you mind driving Claire back to Walter’s?”

  “Please,” protests Claire. “I’m fine. Please. I don’t want Harry to drive me back.”

  “Hey, what’s going on?” It’s Andrew.

  I step in and tell him in my most lawyerly voice that he should probably get the hell out of there.

  “Don’t make me,” Claire shouts. “Maddy, can you drive me instead?”

  “It’s okay,” says Maddy. “We need to help clean up.” Maddy hates driving at night. Her eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, and she dislikes wearing glasses.

  “Come on, Claire,” says Harry gently. He puts his hand on her arm.

  She pulls it away. “Leave me alone.”

  She starts walking unsteadily to the parking lot, Harry following. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

  By the car she is sick.

  “Oh god,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.”

  He tells her not to worry. We’ve all been there. He offers her his handkerchief, and then insists she wear his sweater when he sees she is shivering. “Are you all right, or do you think you’ll be sick again?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine,” she answers, her voice faint.

  On the way back, she is weeping softly, embarrassed and anxious. Harry asks if she’s all right. Why is she so upset? Claire says she doesn’t want to talk about it. He says that it’s all right, they’re friends. If it’s something he can help with, he’d be happy to.

  “I’m in love with you,” she blurts. “There, I’ve said it. I’m sorry.”

  He laughs and tells her that it’s only the liquor talking.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she says.

  He tries to reassure her. That he is not laughing at her.

  “Stop the car,” she says calmly. “I think I have to throw up again.”

  He pulls over, headlights illuminating the road ahead. The houses slumbering. She jumps out and instead of being sick starts running across a field in the dark. Harry curses under his breath, gets out and runs after her, yelling at her to stop. She is barefoot, and he catches her easily. Panicked like an animal, she tries to escape, twisting her body and swinging at him with her little fists. He grabs her wrists. She is gasping for breath and sobbing about how stupid she is, that he should go away. He tries to soothe her, telling her to calm down, saying what a wonderful, beautiful girl she is. She embraces him fiercely, still sobbing. He strokes her hair. She looks up at him, and he looks down at her.

  Her face rises to his, her lips on his, her tongue in his mouth. “Make love to me,” she pleads, placing his hand on her breast. Immediately she can feel him hardening. “I love you. I need you. Now. Here.”

  But he does not. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m married. I love my wife. Don’t do this.”

  “But what about me?” she asks. “Do you love me?”

  “You’re a beautiful girl,” he says. “You shouldn’t be doing this. I’m married.”

  “I can’t help myself,” she says. “I need you. Please.”

  “Claire, for God’s sake. Don’t make this more difficult than it already is. We should go. Come with me. Please.” He holds out his hand, but she refuses it, walking past him to the car.

  They drive in silence. There is nothing to say. He gets out of the car to open her door but she is already out and heading toward my house, the key under the mat. She says nothing.

  “Will you be all right?” he calls to her. At the door she pauses and looks at him before disappearing inside.

  The wax seal of a secret letter has been broken. Nothing can make it whole again.

  When he returns to the beach, everyone asks after Claire. He laughs and says he’s glad he won’t have her hangover in the morning.

  The next day they are leaving. It’s a time for last swims and the final packing of bags. In the morning, I find a note from Claire in my kitchen. She has caught an early train back, thanking us for our kindnesses. Harry’s sweater has been left folded neatly on the counter.

  Our lives will never be the same.

  Fall

  1

  The poet Lamartine wrote that a woman is at the beginning of all great things. It’s indisputable. After all, women give birth to us, so they are always at the beginning. But, whether they mean to be or not, they are also present at the beginning of terrible things too.

  The Winslows move to Rome. The latest in a long line of expatriate writers. Keats, of course, who died there. In no particular order, Byron, Goethe, the Brownings, James, Pound.

  Harry and Maddy live off the ecclesiastical version of Jermyn Street. In Rome, even the priests are fashion-conscious. During the daytime the street is full of archbishops and cardinals of every size, shape, and color, from Soweto and Ottawa, Kuala Lumpur and Caracas, shopping for cassocks, chasubles, zucche
ttos, and surplices. Garments of red, gold, white, and purple fill the shop windows. Painted wooden statues of saints and the Virgin. Gammarelli’s, it’s said, is the best.

  They live in a fine apartment. The piano nobile. The owners are on sabbatical. The ceilings are high, the furniture elegant, portraits of noblemen with perukes, cuirasses, and long noses hang on the walls. Every channel on the television seems to show women with bare breasts, and they decide to hide the set in a closet because of Johnny. There is an old woman, Angela, who comes with the apartment and speaks no English. Maddy tries to talk to her in rudimentary Italian, adding in schoolgirl French when she doesn’t know the word. It doesn’t matter. They like each other.

  Johnny can do no wrong in the old woman’s eyes. “Ma che bello,” she exclaims, pinching his cheek. She cooks and cleans. To his delight, Harry finds she even irons his boxer shorts.

  Rome in early autumn. The Tiber sparkles. People still eat outside. There is a café near the Piazza della Rotonda where Harry, Maddy, and Johnny go in the morning for caffe latte and sweet rolls. Johnny drinks fresh carrot juice. They read the International Herald Tribune and struggle through the Corriere della Sera, a dictionary at their elbows.

  Maddy sends me e-mails describing it all. As ever, I envy them their life. They spend the first weeks walking and eating, wandering through museums and churches, marveling at St. Peter’s Basilica. Every street is a history lesson. They follow in the footsteps of saints and vandals, poets and tourists. There are names of contacts, friends of friends. Bettina and Michaeli, Romans who live in a floor of a palazzo on the Piazza dei Santi Apostoli. One of her ancestors was a pope, which is a source of both great family pride and amusement. They have a large portrait in the dining room of the pontiff in question. Michaeli works at Cinecittà. Other friends. Mitzi Colloredo. The Ruspolis. The Robilants. English bankers. A Hapsburg and his wife.

  It doesn’t take them long before they are going to parties and making even more friends. “You only need to know one person in Rome,” Bettina says. “Then you know everybody.” Harry’s book has been translated into Italian and has already had three printings. One evening he does a signing at a bookstore near the Piazza di Spagna, and the store is packed.