The Love Season Part 15

"Marguerite Beale?" Mrs. Robinson said. "Marguerite Beale? The chef? From Les Parapluies?"

Suzanne smirked and nudged her friend's elbow. All of a sudden she seemed about to burst with pride and excitement, as if she'd just announced that Renata was related to the queen of England. "Her G.o.dmother."

"But why?" Mrs. Robinson said. "How?"

"She was my mother's best friend," Renata said. "Candace Harris Knox?"

"Renata lost her mother when she was terribly young," Suzanne said, clucking. "Joe and I used to go to the restaurant all the time, of course."

"Of course," Mrs. Robinson said. "So did we. G.o.d, that seems like ages ago."

"I think I remember your mother," Suzanne said. "Though maybe not. I only ever caught glimpses of Marguerite Beale. She used to sit down to eat with friends after everyone else went home, or moved into the bar. I have to admit, I wasn't really part of her crowd."

"Nor was I," Mrs. Robinson said. She sounded sad about this for a moment; then she cleared her throat. "So, Marguerite Beale. She's better then? You heard the strangest stories, right after the restaurant closed."

"Yes," Suzanne murmured. She sipped her wine and touched Renata's arm. "You must know all about it. Marguerite's trouble?"

Renata's face burned; her jaw pulsed. She sipped her drink and resolved to say nothing, to give nothing away. She glanced at Claire, who was staring at her again.

"It was rather like Vincent van Gogh cutting off his ear," Mrs. Robinson said. She t.i.ttered nervously. "At least that was what one heard. I'm sure she's better now; I'm sure she's just fine. Your G.o.dmother! That's simply extraordinary."

To keep from slapping Mrs. Robinson or telling her to f.u.c.k off, which was what the Action-voice in Renata's head was advising her to do, Renata made a move for the food on the coffee table. She had eaten nothing but the d.a.m.ned banana all day. She slathered a cracker with bluefish pate and shoved it in her mouth. She could hear Suzanne and Mrs. Robinson whispering behind her. She heard Claire say in an aggravated whisper, "Mother, please! You're a terrible gossip!" Cade appeared at Renata's elbow.

"Are you okay?" he said.

Vincent van Gogh? she thought. She hated Mrs. Robinson. But before Renata could express this sentiment to Cade, Nicole appeared with a tray of fresh drinks.

"Renata?" Nicole said.

Renata slammed back the rest of her spritzer, placed the empty gla.s.s on Nicole's tray, and took another.

"Thank you," she said to Nicole. "I think you're the only person in the room who knows my name."

"Oh, come on," Cade said. "I know your name."

She glared at him. Nicole walked away. The four adults mingled in a group and then strolled out to the deck. Joe Driscoll leaned on his wife; he was moving without his cane.

Renata took a pull of her wine spritzer. She was feeling more dangerous every second.

"What's wrong?" Cade said. "Tell me."

Burn it down, she thought. But she was too afraid. If she told Cade about what had happened with Miles, he might forgive her. That was her fear. If she told him and he forgave her, she would never be free; she would always be indebted to him.

"Nothing's wrong," she said. She picked up a handful of mixed nuts. "I'm just hungry."

"Are you sure?" he said. He was asking her, but his voice was revved up with a false playfulness; he sounded like he was acting. And then Renata realized why: Claire Robinson was standing a few steps behind them, alone, chuckling to herself over the witticisms needlepointed on Suzanne's throw pillows. LORD, DO NOT LEAD ME INTO TEMPTATION. I CAN FIND IT JUST FINE BY MYSELF. She was listening to every word they said, and now that the adults were outside it was rude not to include her in the conversation. Cade, with his brilliant breeding, should know that.

Renata turned, forced her stiff face into a smile. "So you and Cade went to Choate together," she said to Claire. "That's exciting. I never met anybody that Cade went to Choate with." This wasn't strictly true. There was a girl at Columbia who had graduated from Choate a year behind Cade. She wore black capes and a lot of eye shadow. She had dyed her hair white, and when she saw Cade and Renata on campus she wolf-whistled and yelled out, "Cade-dee! Cay-dee, bay-bay!" The girl, her name was Esther, scared Renata; Renata wondered if Claire knew her; maybe they were friends.

"Yeah," Claire said, twisting her dirty hair. "We've known each other a long time."

"A long time," Cade echoed. "My dad and Mr. Robinson went to business school together. And Claire and I grew up here together summers."

Claire smiled at Cade over the top of her mug of tea. "All those JYC dances."

"Right," Cade said.

Renata bent over for another cracker. She was picking up an awkward vibe. Claire had a crush on Cade; she'd probably suffered from it her whole life.

There was a burst of laughter from outside. Renata, Cade, and Claire looked out at the two couples. Suzanne and Joe were arm-in-arm, as were the Robinsons, all of them gazing at the water. From here, they looked like nice people. How difficult would it be to just play along with this fantasy-to indulge Cade and Claire as they reminisced and used acronyms she didn't understand, to drink more wine, to eat lobster drenched in lemon b.u.t.ter, to laugh and chat and revel in being one of the most privileged people on earth out on the deck of Vitamin Sea? Could Renata make herself do it? Could she pretend she was someone else entirely?

"So where did you go to college, then?" Renata asked.

"Bennington," Claire said, and this sounded right to Renata. There seemed to be a lawlessness to Claire, starting with a blatant disregard for how to dress for this dinner party. Claire wasn't wearing a bra; her nipples poked right through the threadbare white T-shirt. Action probably would have loved the girl, and Renata tried to love her, too-she was the exact opposite of her mother and Suzanne. But there was something about Claire that irritated Renata, a cool knowingness, a sense of superiority. She moved around the house with confidence, even a sense of ownership-as though, someday, it would all be hers. "Vermont's a long way from New York City," Claire said. "So I barely saw Cade at all during college. Except for the semester in London, spring before last."

"You went to London, too?" Renata said. By Cade's account, the semester abroad had been overrated, yet he went because that was what one did. One attended the London School of Economics and bought a closetful of hand-tailored shirts. Renata supposed that, being a married woman, a semester abroad would be out of the question for her, though she and Action were desperate to go to Barcelona. They wanted to stroll the Rambles at midnight, drink sangria, learn to flamenco dance. It would be so much better than Cade and Claire stuck in cold, fussy London. "That's a coincidence. Both of you there at the same time."

Cade and Claire just stared at Renata like she had two heads. She gingerly touched her bruise; it reminded her of Sallie.

"Claire and I went to London together, actually," Cade said.

"Huh?" Renata said. There was some meaning to be extracted from the way he said "actually." Renata looked at them, side by side now, as though they were standing at a front door, about to welcome Renata into their home. Then she got it. They had dated, been lovers. Really? It struck Renata as funny and sweet-almost. A part of her recognized how much they had in common: Their parents were friends; they had all that shared history. Cade could play the flaming liberal when he wanted; had he been antiestablishment when he was with Claire? Renata could picture him holding Claire in his arms. She was tiny, doll-like, featherlight; he could pick her up with one hand. Had he liked that? Mad he touched her nipples? Had he kissed her nose, with freckles so dark and distinct he could count them?

Renata twisted her ring to the inside of her hand; for the umpteenth time today it made her feel ashamed. And to make matters worse, Claire was staring at her again. What was her problem? Renata recalled the childhood retort: Take a picture, it lasts larger.

"I have to go to the ladies' room," Claire said. She disappeared into the front of the house.

Cade took Renata's arm a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

Somewhere in the house, the phone rang. Renata wrested her arm free and snarfed another handful of nuts. Manners of a barnyard animal, but she didn't care. Nicole rushed from the kitchen to the deck with a significant glance at Renata. Even Nicole knew about Cade and Claire; that was why she had suddenly been so friendly. It was amusing to see Renata made a fool of. Nicole fetched Suzanne from the deck and Suzanne sailed past, leaving Joe to plop in a teak chair.

"Renata," Cade said. "Listen to me."

"You dated her?"

"Renata-"

"She's your ex?"

He sighed. "Yes. We were together, off and on, for a long time. Since we were freshmen in high school."

Renata did the math. "Seven years?"

He nodded. "We broke up after London. But Renata-"

"But what?" Renata said; then she held up her hand. "On second thought, don't say anything. Don't explain. Please." She felt like Cade had just handed her something precious-a legitimate reason to be angry. She could be angry because at no time during the ten months of their courtship had Cade mentioned his seven-year relationship with Claire Robinson. There had been occasional references to a "girlfriend in high school" Renata thought there had been more than one. She could be angry because she had been tricked into giving up dinner with Marguerite so that she could stay here and suffer through lobsters with Cade, his ex-girlfriend, and his ex-girlfriend's parents. She could even be angry on Claire's behalf; this couldn't be pleasant for her, either.

There were murmurs about the phone call. Who was it? Was it Miles? Had Sallie died? Renata nixed this last thought; she wouldn't be able to bear it.

"You've got quite a bruise on your chin," Cade said. "Miles didn't...hit you, did he?"

"Go to h.e.l.l," Renata said.

"I was going to explain it all when I came upstairs earlier," he said. "But you told me to go away."

"Please," Renata said. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pursue this. I am not willing to talk about it right now."

Suzanne approached, holding a fresh gla.s.s of wine. Renata doubted she needed it; her eyes were bright and wild, and she seemed unhinged. Her always-perfect hair was mussed, which was to say a thick strand fell across her forehead, into her eyes.

"Renata?" she said.

Renata raised her eyebrows, a gesture that hurt, physically, because of her face.

"That was your father on the phone."

Renata's heart plummeted and skipped at the same time, like a stone scudding across the road.

"He's here, on Nantucket!" Suzanne said. "He's joining us for dinner!"

7:18 P.M.

Everyone was in a hubbub about Daniel Knox's arrival. Suzanne had given Nicole instructions to set another place at the table-thank G.o.d she'd had the foresight to order extra lobsters-and then make up the west guest room.

"He won't have much sun in the morning," Suzanne said. "But if we give him enough wine, he'll be grateful for that."

Cade was pacing. "We're going to have to tell him as soon as he gets here," he said to Renata quietly. "Maybe I should run out to the airport to get him myself; that way I could tell him alone. I should have asked him for your hand. People still do that, you know. If I hadn't been so sure he would say no-"

"He knows already," Renata said flatly. "I told him."

"What?" Cade said. "You told him when?"

"This morning," she said. "While you were sailing. I called him and told him."

"I thought we were going to wait," Cade said.

"I couldn't just have him not knowing. He's my father."

"So that's why he's here, then," Cade said. "He came to take you back."

"You may find this hard to believe," Renata said, "but I am an adult woman. A human being with my own free will. I'm not an object that can be handed over or taken back."

"I never implied you were," Cade said.

"You imply it all the time," Renata said. "Just because we're engaged doesn't mean you own me."

Claire appeared from the powder room. Her face looked dewy, like she had splashed it with water. "I finally figured it out," she said. "Where I've seen you before. It was today, at the beach. You were at Madequecham, right? You were there with Miles? When they pulled that girl out of the water?"

Now it was Renata's turn to stare. Claire had been at Madequecham? Claire had seen Renata there?

"Renata was there with Miles," Cade said quickly, as though he sensed Renata might deny it. "He kidnapped her for the afternoon."

"Lucky you," Claire said. "I've always thought Miles was hot."

"So what's the deal with that chick, anyway?" Cade said. "Is she going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Claire said, turning to Renata. "Did you know her?"

"My sunburn is bothering me," Renata said. "I may run up and put on some more aloe before Daddy gets here."

Outside, she heard Kent Robinson ask, "So what's this fellow Knox's business, anyway?"

"Insurance," Joe Driscoll said. "Or reinsurance."

"I'll be down in a few minutes," Renata said.

Once she was upstairs, she had to remind herself to breathe. She turned on the light in her room and threw all of her belongings into her duffel bag. She started whispering to Action, I am getting out of here. You could not pay me enough money to stay. She threw her damp bathing suit in, and the aloe mask, though she decided to leave behind the monogrammed beach bag, Miles's shirt, and Suzanne's list. Renata inhaled, exhaled. Her father, Claire, Sallie. On the one hand Renata couldn't believe the way things were turning out, and on the other hand it made all the sense in the world. She was going to get caught, but it hardly mattered. No one could tell her what to do.

She heard the Driscolls and the Robinsons below her on the deck. Suzanne said, "I've never had this happen before, at the last minute like this. He said he'd get a hotel-"

"But really," Mrs. Robinson said. "It's August! What was he thinking? We have extra room, Suzanne, if-"

"Oh, we have room," Suzanne said.

Renata did not hear Cade or Claire. They were, no doubt, huddled in the living room, where Claire was describing Renata's treachery. And then she followed Miles up into the dunes. They were gone for a while. Renata looked long and hard at her engagement ring. Three karats, twelve thousand dollars. She had owned it now for seven days, but not for a second had it felt like it was hers. The ring came off easily. Renata left it on top of the dresser.

Renata checked the hallway. Clear. She hitched the strap of her duffel bag up over her shoulder and took off down the hall toward the back staircase. A light was on in one of the bedrooms. Renata stopped and peered in. She was so nervous, so giddy with her crime-movie escape tactics that she nearly laughed. Nicole was in the room, making up the bed. She snapped out the fitted sheet and it billowed. Renata watched her for a second, studying her face. It was grim, disgusted, and melancholy. Renata felt like she had X-ray vision; everything that had once been hidden in this house was now crystal clear. Nicole and Miles shared the apartment above the garage. I have a roommate. But he never said who it was. Miles and Nicole were sleeping together. I'm sorry, Renata thought. I am truly sorry. She snuck past, her bag b.u.mping against her hip. At least she knew the kitchen was empty. She tiptoed down the back stairs (The Driscolls have servants, Action's voice said; they have slaves) and out the side door. Renata's sunburned skin puckered in the night air. She was standing in gravel by a row of trash cans next to the tall hedge that shielded Vitamin Sea from the western neighbors. Renata waited in the near dark until she heard the Range Rover start up and saw the headlights looping round.

Now, she thought. Now!

She heard a sound. Mr. Rogers was at the side door, mewing. He wanted to come with her, maybe.

"Good-bye," Renata whispered.

And she ran.

7:33 P.M.

Four gla.s.ses of champagne and nothing to eat-no wonder the room seemed off-kilter-and yet Marguerite couldn't bring herself to move. She poured another gla.s.s of champagne, already dreading the headache she would have in the morning. She should go get the mussels from the fridge, the aioli. She should tear off a hunk of bread; it might act like a sponge. The problem with having no sense of taste was that food held zero appeal and eating fine, beautiful food was an exercise in frustration. Marguerite would know, intellectually, that the mussels tasted like the ocean and that the aioli was heady with garlic and Dijon, and yet in her mouth it would be mush. She didn't dwell on the loss of this sense much anymore-after fourteen years it was a fact of life-though she often wondered what it felt like to be blind, or deaf. Was it as disheartening to imagine a painting by Brueghel or Vermeer, or a sunset on a winter's night, or your own child's face, but be trapped in darkness, even with your eyes wide open? Was it as ungratifying to remember the exultant tones of the "Hallelujah Chorus" on Christmas Eve, or a guitar riff of Eric Clapton, or the sound of your lover's voice, but be wrapped in baffling silence?

The grandfather clock went through its half-hour spiel. Seven thirty: the very moment this whole tumultuous day had been about. Can I feel sorry for myself now? Marguerite wondered.

There was a knock at the door. Surely not. But yes, Marguerite heard it: three short, insistent raps. She looked in the direction of the front hall but was too petrified to move. She sat perfectly still, like a frightened rabbit, well aware that if someone looked through the proper window at the proper angle, she would be fully visible.

Another knock, four raps, more insistent. Marguerite didn't fear someone trying to hurt her as much as someone trying to help her. She rose slowly, got her bearings with the room, eyed a path from her seat at the dining-room table to the front door. She cursed herself for not getting dressed; she was still wearing the kimono. She thought about all the brilliant minds who had written about drinking-Hemingway a master among them with his wine bags made from the skin of animals and the simple repet.i.tion "He was really very drunk." And yet no one had ever captured the essence of four gla.s.ses of champagne on an empty stomach. The way the blood buzzed, the way the eyes simultaneously widened and narrowed, but most of all the way one's perception of the world changed. Everything seemed strange, funny, outrageous; the situation at hand became blurred, softened-and yet so clear! Someone was knocking on the door and Marguerite, drunk, or nearly so, rose to answer it.