Indiscretion

“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 that 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.”

It’s true. We have known each other since we were children. I live next door.

“Hello, Claire,” I say. “I see Maddy’s already dragooned you into service here at the Winslow bar and grill. I refuse to lift a finger unless it’s to join the other four wrapped around a glass tinkling with ice.”

I fancy myself to be both witty and slightly indolent. I am not really either, though. It’s a persona, one I use to protect myself. In fact, I am quite boring and lonely.

“I don’t mind. I don’t really know too many people here, so it’s nice for me to help,” Claire says.

“You’re lucky,” I say. “I know far too many of the people here. That probably explains why I’m hiding out in the kitchen.”