And Christabel gave it over just like that. The frown was gone and here came the megawatt smile, the attraction mutual and all the social niceties spread out on the board. “Nice to meet you too. And I’m looking forward to meeting your son.” A pause. Was she actually licking the corner of her mouth? “Sara’s told me so much about him.” A laugh. “All about him, in fact.”
Chitchat followed—she’d heard he was retired and he’d heard she was a teacher’s aide, and she was, at Brookside Elementary, up in Willits, Special Ed, must be a tough job, oh, yeah, it was, but rewarding, you know?—and then the screen door pushed open and Carolee was standing in the midst of them, her arms encircling the last of the boxes. Sara saw the neck of a ceramic lamp with a staved-in shade poking out of the top, along with what looked to be a sheaf of children’s drawings on paper gone yellow with age and a blue cloche hat with a pheasant’s tail feather knifing out of it.
Carolee was sweating, though it wasn’t hot out at all—in the low seventies, if that. She’d tucked her hair behind her ears to get it out of the way and the skin at her temples glistened. She gave everybody present a sour look. “Don’t tell me,” she said, homing in on Christabel, “—not another one?”
“Here,” Sten said, “let me take that,” at the same instant Sara heard herself say, “You need any help?”
Carolee didn’t need any help. She was the mother and this was her mother’s house. She didn’t need any more introductions and she absolutely didn’t need to be wasting energy on social amenities or even being civil. Half a beat, then the box was in Sten’s arms and the two of them were heading down the steps and out the gate. Sten called “See you later” over his shoulder, and then they heard the slamming of the rear hatch and the two car doors, followed by the sucking whoosh of the car starting up and the stony protest of the gravel as the tires rolled on over it.
“Well, that was nice,” Christabel said. They were both still standing there on the porch, Sara with a half-empty margarita in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, Christabel in her black heels that were already floured with dust, looking to the empty space in the cement-block wall as the aroma of the baking potatoes wafted out through the screen.
“Yeah,” Sara agreed, hardening her voice despite the fact that for some unnameable and untouchable reason, she felt like crying. “But really, what do I care?”
“It’s just a fling, right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “That’s all it is.”
The cordon bleu was done and set atop a trivet on the counter in the kitchen and she and Christabel were sitting at the table on the porch drinking the last of the margaritas preparatory to getting into the wine, when they heard a noise from inside the house, a thump, then the wheeze of a door on its hinges. “That’ll be Adam,” Sara said, feeling relieved, though she wouldn’t let it show on her face. He was late and she’d begun to worry that tonight of all nights would be the one he wouldn’t show. She’d told him she was thinking of having a friend over for dinner one night—a girlfriend, her best friend, somebody he was really going to like—and though he hadn’t reacted she couldn’t help getting the idea he wasn’t all that excited about the prospect.
Christabel turned to look over her shoulder. “What is he, a ghost? I thought this”—pointing across the yard to the metal door, which still stood open—“was the only way in? Or what, has he been hiding under the bed or something?”
She felt a tick of irritation. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know: catty. Superior. And don’t you go talking down to him either.” There was another thump from inside and Kutya, who’d been lying at her feet, raised his head, moderately interested, before letting it drop again. “If you want to know, he just goes right up and over the wall—like Jackie Chan in that movie? It’s part of his training. Keeps him fit.” And then she turned her head too and called out, “Adam? Adam, you in there?”
No response. All the sounds of the world came crowding in, the birds, the insects, the soft rush and gurgle of the river that wasn’t much more than a stream this time of year, though it kept on dutifully flowing through all its bends and pools and on down to the harbor below.
“Training for what?” Christabel raised her eyebrows.
“I don’t know, just training. He likes to keep fit.” And then she called his name again: “Adam, we’re out here.” A pause, listening: still nothing. “I thought we’d eat out on the porch tonight—”