And on that day, as Gail drove from the tennis court to lunch with friends, then to the Galleria, she’d check her lipstick in the rearview mirror, only mildly annoyed that Ron had shown such alacrity as a tour guide for the orphaned Chase girls. It was, after all, better than having them alone in the house all day. So while Gail purchased gifts for her husband and son, and even herself, Mary was coyly biting her lip as she snapped pictures of Ron with her Polaroid camera. So Hannah and I can remember our trip.
So it went for the next few days—the accidental meetings of feet and ankles under the table, the playful stretches that exposed a swath of smooth belly. Gail couldn’t really be blamed for not noticing. Mary was so careful, so subtle. As it was the holiday season, Gail had plenty of excuses to get out of the house away from her burdensome houseguests, so Mary’s most overt advances were timed with Gail’s frequent absences. But Mary made no such accommodations for Tim, whom she often caught looking at her as if she were something mesmerizing but terrible.
Ron played his part well, too, lingering after breakfast when he would have typically departed for work, coming home early and offering to take the girls for a ride on the golf cart—all under the guise of being a good host.
“They’re going to want to stay,” Mary heard Gail whine on Christmas Eve; she listened outside Gail and Ron’s bedroom door while they finished wrapping gifts. “You mark my words; they’re living high on the hog here, and this visit is going to end up being longer than a week.”
“Oh, please, Gail,” snapped Ron.
“I just think giving them that kind of gift is going to make things worse!” Gail’s voice whistled like a kettle. “It’s inappropriate!”
“You can tell me what is and what is not appropriate when you earn a fucking dime, Gail!” bellowed Ron. “Because until then, every cent that is spent in this house is mine, and I’m the only one fit to deem what is and isn’t appropriate.”
And on Christmas morning, when Mary and Hannah opened their matching gold lockets, Mary beamed and let her eyes go wet. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a sob-suppressing whisper. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
Gail gave Mary a tight smile and took a sip of her mimosa, her crossed leg bouncing while Ron beamed. “You’re welcome,” he said.
“Isn’t it pretty, Bunny?” she asked Hannah, who was staring at her own golden oval. “It’s a necklace.”
Mary pulled Hannah’s from the box and draped it over her neck, watching as Hannah brought the locket close to her face for inspection.
“Can someone help me put mine on?” asked Mary, her eyes moving between Gail and Ron.
After a moment, Ron spoke up. “Sure,” he said, in a manner that was intended to mask his eagerness, but Mary saw his pleasure as he started to stand. She walked over and handed him the box with a Bambi smile, then turned and lifted her silky black hair to reveal the curve of her bare neck.
And as Ron fastened the gold clasp, his fingertips brushing her skin, Mary stared across the room at Tim, who appeared to be the one person who might have fully understood just what Mary Chase was playing at. But no one could have been more helpless to stop her.
Ron was in good spirits the rest of the day, his mood having an inverse relationship to his wife’s. They both downed drink after drink, moving from mimosas to Bloody Marys to vodka tonics, but as Ron grew jovial, Gail became dark. She remained perched on a stool in the kitchen for much of the day, watching as her foolish husband openly flirted with her very young cousin. Maybe Gail thought she’d have a serious talk with him about it later. Maybe she thought she’d nip this transgression in the bud and put an end to his nonsense. You’re making a fool of yourself! she’d say. You realize that you’re old enough to be her father? She had no idea how close Ron was to the precipice.
Tim had disappeared to his room as soon as the gifts were opened and only resurfaced briefly for dinner, where he took a few bites of the beef Wellington and scalloped potatoes that his mother had purchased from a local caterer and heated in her professional-quality range. Gail went to bed soon after dinner as well, disgusted and annoyed by her husband’s display but thinking it nothing more than a middle-aged man’s pathetic diversion and taking two sleeping pills that night to tamp it from her mind. Mary put Hannah to bed, and then it was just she and Ron.
He was sitting on the sectional when she came back downstairs, his arm resting on the seatback. Mary’s lip gloss was freshly applied, her hair was brushed, and in her hands was her Polaroid.
“I want to take some more pictures,” she said. “This place is so pretty.”
Ron patted the seat next to him. “Come sit.”
Mary obliged and took the seat next to him. She stretched her long tanned legs out over Gail’s cream leather as she looked about the room. “Gail has such good taste.”
Ron looked down and exhaled at the mention of his wife’s name. “Gail has expensive taste,” he said, and then he looked at Mary, this sugar-sweet young beauty who had never run up his American Express bill, had never insisted on private school for his pussy son, or made him go to couple’s therapy.
Mary sunk down lower into the couch and rolled onto her hip to face him. Then she snapped another photo. “Merry Christmas,” she said, with a giggle, as he leaned forward, rubbing his eyes and blinking against the surprise of the flash.
“Give me that,” he teased, as he groped for the camera, his eyes still closed. Mary tried to hold the camera above her head as he blindly reached for it. Mary let out small playful shrieks and laughed as she maneuvered away from his grabs. But then came the inevitable moment of their tussle when his body found its way on top of hers, their faces inches apart, and she smelled the liquor on his breath. And from the quick flash of doubt that crossed his face, Mary saw that she might lose him, so she adjusted her hips and bit her lips and let out a barely audible little moan. Then she loosely aimed the camera that she still held extended out in her arm to point the lens at Ron and herself. “Say cheese,” she said, with a coy smile, as she hit the button. His mouth fell on hers to the mechanical sound of the print being pushed from the camera.
And though Mary felt reflexive arousal at Ron’s gyrations, she was able to judge his state of mind with near scientific clarity. At that moment, he was thinking of nothing besides being with her. He would have fucked her right there on his wife’s nine-thousand-dollar sofa.
“Come on,” she whispered, her voice baby soft. “Let’s go to your office.” And she twisted out from under him, camera still in hand, and ran giggling to his office as he staggered after her, drunk with want.
Mary put the camera to good use that night, using the nine remaining photos wisely, pretending it was all a playful little game. And when Ron flipped this beautiful girl onto her knees and had her from behind, she was sure that he had never before in his whole life been quite so happy.