Five Tuesdays in Winter(7)

I speed-read through the life of a green sea turtle. I agreed to let them nap together in Stevie’s bed. I shut the door and ran to my room, as if I could prevent what had already happened.

I’d left my notebook on the window seat, closed, beneath my paperback of Jane Eyre. But now it was open, turned to a drawing of Hugh’s long, thin figure alone in the field where he was married. I flipped through my notebook with his eyes, trying to gauge just how incriminating it all was. A drawing of his car from my window, a poem about him touching my leg on the stairway, which hadn’t happened. And if there were any doubt at all, my most recent entries to my letter to Gina spelled it out with great drama, as if from the moors of England: You cannot know these blistering feelings—you have not yet met your Rochester. But believe me, they are so powerful that now every novel, every line of poetry, makes perfect and vivid sense. And: Like everyone else in the family I am swept up in the tide of him, but he is good and kind and funny and that tide is where I want to hang suspended always. And: At the pool he lies on his back on the concrete with his arms spread like Christ on the cross and I want to ravish him. I did not know exactly what ravish meant. I didn’t think it could mean anything as boring as sex.

Nearly two hours later, Stevie called out for me. I hadn’t moved from the window seat. My legs were stiff and barely held my weight as I crossed the room. I’d have to quit. I had another five days left, but I would have to leave. Hugh had probably already told his sister and mother. I couldn’t bear the humiliation.

The kids were flushed from heavy sleep, their hair damp at the temples. I kept them entertained in their rooms for as long as I could, but eventually they wanted to go see Thomas and Margaret in the kitchen and eat the cubes of cheese she served them and play out on the grass. I imagined that everyone in the house knew by now, that Hugh had already had a good laugh with each of them, quoting from the notebook as my father would have if he’d ever found such a document. I expected him to give me a pleased, knowing glance that would harden if I didn’t see the humor.

But he did not. He barely looked at me when I followed Stevie out onto the patio, Elsie on my hip.

The three Pikes were out there with their drinks, sitting on matching wrought iron chairs painted white to make them look more comfortable.

“Does she want to stay in Florida?” Kay said to her mother.

“Her stepchildren won’t let her sell the house. They all own it together and they like going down there for vacations.” Mrs. Pike pursed her lips on the rim of her cocktail.

“But they hate her.”

“She moves out for those weeks.”

“Why doesn’t she sell them her share of the house?”

“They don’t want that either. They want her to pay for the upkeep and the taxes.”

“But if they all have equal shares—”

Mrs. Pike held up her hand. “I have the same conversation with her every week at bridge. They have got her wrapped around their little fingers. I think she likes it. I think it keeps her close to William.”

“That’s very astute of you,” Kay said.

“You sound surprised.”

It was the most I’d ever heard Kay talk to her mother. It was forced, but they were both giving it a lot of effort. They were each trying to hide from the other the fact that Hugh wasn’t talking, wasn’t mocking them or the people of their youth, that he was sitting in his wrought iron chair slack and wan, holding then releasing big breaths without realizing the racket he was making. Kay had advised him to absolutely not mention the situation with Raven to his mother, but Hugh might as well have had a T-shirt printed up. I relaxed a little, understanding that as usual the adults were not thinking about me, and the words in my notebook were meaningless to them.

The children were playing in the garden below the patio, chasing each other around the rosebushes.

“Cara, please, have some salmon.” Mrs. Pike built me an hors d’oeuvre of a cracker, smoked salmon, chopped onions, and capers. I carried the little tower of it carefully to my mouth. It was delicious. So many sharp flavors at once.

Hugh watched. “The Education of Cara—what’s your last name?”

My mouth was too full to answer.

“Hyeck,” Mrs. Pike said. “And she hardly needs an education from us. She lives a half mile down the road.”

“She does?”

“Where did you think she came from?”

“I don’t know. She seems a little sophisticated for Ashing.”

“You’re not making any sense, Hugh.”

“Big vocabulary.” His expression did not change but his white-green eyes flashed at me, straight on, the pupils tiny because he was facing the sinking sun.

“I suppose she does,” Mrs. Pike said, not at all agreeing.

“Would you make sure they don’t fall in, Carol?” Kay said. The kids were edging toward the fountain at the end of the garden.

“Charlie just cleaned it, so it’s fine if they want to dip their toes in,” Mrs. Pike said.

I was relieved to be sent off. I soared across the grass with my arms out, flapping, tilting, and when the kids looked up they screeched at the great hawk angling at them.

Behind me, Hugh laughed. I scooped them each up in my talons and spun them toward the fountain. I lowered them gently near the edge of the basin and they stayed pressed against me, laughing, their tummies bouncing against me.