Indiscretion

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, though 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 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.”

“Walter’s a big snob. I don’t think he’s made a new friend since he was in prep school,” Maddy says.

“You know, I think you’re right. I already knew all the people worth knowing by then anyway.”

“Claire came with Clive.”

“Right, see? There you go. Just met him. Don’t like him.”

“You don’t know me,” says Claire.

“You’re right. I don’t. Should I?”

Here’s the thing about Claire: she is actually quite beautiful, but there is something else about her that makes her stand out. In this world, beauty is as common as a credit card. I will try to put my finger on it.

“That’s up to you. But we didn’t go to prep school together so it looks like I don’t have much of a shot.” She smiles.

I smile back. I like her. I can’t help myself. I tell Maddy to stop working. Maddy is always working. She is a fiend for activity.

“All right.” She puts down the knife. “That’s all the food we have in the house anyway. Just about the only thing left is the bluefish in the freezer.”

“And those are only any good if you pickle them in gin. Just like me.”

Why do I always play the bloody fool around her? It can’t be that I am showing off. No, it is Claire I am showing off for now.

“Walter, stop standing around sounding like a moron and go get Claire and me something to drink.” Maddy turns to Claire while I’m still in earshot. “You wouldn’t know it, but he’s actually a hell of a good lawyer.”

I could have left this out but I didn’t. It appeases my ego. My education was very expensive, and I am a good lawyer. I make a lot of money at it too. I don’t really like it, though. Other people’s problems at least keep me from thinking too much about my own.

I come back carrying a wine bottle. “Let’s go outside and get away from this crowd,” I say to Claire. “You come too, Maddy.”

The three of us go out the kitchen door. We stand on the damp grass. Claire has removed her shoes now too. Madeleine lights a cigarette. She is trying to quit. The party is roaring on the other side of the house. It is darker here. A large tree with a swing looms in shadow in front of us. The moon and millions of stars fill the night sky. In the distance we can see the lights of a much bigger house.

“Your parents’ house?” asks Claire.

Madeleine nods. “And to the left is Walter’s. We grew up next door to each other. But he still owns his.” It’s too dark to see my house through the thin brake of trees.

“The law may not be as glamorous as writing books, but it is more consistently remunerative,” I say.

“Don’t believe it,” says Madeleine. “Walter’s rich as sin. Even if he wasn’t a lawyer.”

My great-grandfather was a founder of Texaco. Unlike many other families, though, we were able to hold on to our money.

“Don’t give away all my secrets, Maddy. I want Claire to fall in love with me and not my money.”

“Too bad your money’s the most lovable thing about you.”

Claire says nothing. She is enjoying herself, I can tell. It is like standing next to a fire; she feels warmed by our friendship and grateful we are sharing it with her. She feels she could stay here all night listening to our intimate banter, not wanting to let it go and return to the world that exists outside this house.

But what is she really thinking? It is always so easy to know what’s on Maddy’s mind. There isn’t a deceptive bone in her body. This one, though, is more difficult. She is more concealed.

MIDNIGHT. THE CROWD HAS THINNED OUT. A SMALL GROUP has gathered on a cluster of old wicker furniture in the corner of the porch. Harry is in the center. Also, a couple named Ned and Cissy Truscott. Ned was Harry’s roommate at Yale. A big man, a football player. Now a banker. I have expensively represented his firm on several occasions. In spite of that, we get on quite well. I am fond of them both. Claire is with them, listening like an acolyte. Laughing loudly, showing pretty teeth. She has a lovely laugh. It reminds me of silver bells. Harry is talking. He is a very good storyteller, unsurprisingly.

Clive approaches. He hovers before them, maybe a bit unsteadily, waiting for an opportunity. By this time everyone’s had plenty to drink.

“Hello, Clive!” Harry roars. “Come sit down.” Harry is drunk now too, but he handles it well. Always has. Tomorrow he’ll be up at six, whistling in the kitchen.

“No thanks,” says Clive. “Thanks for the party. Claire, we have to go. I promised this lot we’d go dancing, remember?”

“Oh, can’t we stay? A few more minutes. I’m having such fun.”

“C’mon, stay for one drink,” calls Harry. “What do you want to go dancing for? You can dance here.”

“Thanks,” says Clive with a forced smile. “Houseguests. They want to see all the hot spots. Do the Hamptons properly.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Come along, Claire.”

Reluctantly, she rises. “Thank you very much, Harry. Please tell Maddy how much I enjoyed meeting her.”

Harry stands up too. “Of course. Glad you could come. Watch out for riptides.”

They depart, and Harry begins to tell another funny story.

2

SEVERAL WEEKS PASS. IT IS SATURDAY MORNING. CLAIRE HAS rented a car. She is driving out to Clive’s house. She hasn’t seen him since that weekend. He’s been away, in the Far East, he told her. Or was it Eastern Europe? To her surprise, he has invited her out again. She almost declines, but then he tells her that they’ve been invited for dinner at the Winslows’. How do I know this? I was also invited. What’s interesting is I think that it was my idea.

“You don’t need to rent a car,” Clive had protested. It was a lot of money for her, but she had insisted. She didn’t tell him why. She told me later that she hated feeling dependent on him, had wanted to be able to go where she wanted, when she wanted.

As she got closer to Southampton and Route 27 became increasingly congested, she began to regret her decision to drive out. The sun is high over the barren scrub pines that line the highway, and it reflects off the roofs of a thick stream of expensive cars heading east, blocking her way. They inch forward past gas stations and motels, car dealerships and farm stands. None of the glamour is visible from this road. Cars speed past in the opposite direction on the other side of the median. Claire is hot and irritable. Even the radio is annoying her.

When Clive’s call came, she had almost stopped thinking about him and was ready to move on. Her roommate, Dana, said she was crazy to dump a rich, handsome Englishman with a house in the Hamptons during the summer. She should at least wait until the fall.

She asks herself, not for the first time, why she is doing this. She knows she will have sex with Clive. He is an exciting if selfish lover, but she is no longer interested. It will mean nothing, a small price to be paid for admittance. She will spread her legs for him, and then, when he is finished, she will close them up again and go to sleep, both having gotten what they wanted. I can imagine her. She will make the noises required, rake her nails across his back, gasp appropriately, sigh appreciatively. She is not what she seems.

Who is she exactly? She is half French, she will later tell me. Proud of the fact. It makes her more exotic. Her father was an American officer with an Irish name, a graduate of an undistinguished college, dashing in his uniform and generous with his small paycheck. Her parents had met while he was on furlough in Paris from his base in Germany. Her mother was younger, barely out of convent school. An only child, the daughter of older parents. The father a professor at the École Normale Supérieure. They lived in an old house in Asnières-sur-Seine, a suburb that is perhaps best known for being the home of the Louis Vuitton family. I have been there. It is surprisingly bourgeois.

Her mother married her father shortly before his discharge. It was a small ceremony held in the local Catholic church. Another soldier was best man. It had been a hasty affair, the small bump that was to become Claire barely noticeable under her mother’s dress. Afterward they came to live in his hometown in Massachusetts, near Worcester. Before long there was another baby, Claire’s younger brother. But her mother could never adapt to the harsh winters or reserved inhabitants of New England. The language had been difficult for her. Her accent too strong, too foreign. Claire remembers her mother withdrawing to her room for hours, days, when the long, dark months enfolded their town. She began to smile again only with the return of spring. Meanwhile, Claire’s father strove. He worked as a salesman, then a stockbroker. They bought a new house, a large Victorian in a dreary neighborhood. He had prospered but never became rich. There had been good years and bad. A green Jaguar that once adorned the driveway was replaced by a Buick. Claire had her own room, as did her brother. She went to school, earned high marks, learned how to ice skate and kiss boys. Their mother taught them French and on Sundays took them to Mass.