“Am I wrong?” Vicki said. Her tone was more curious than judgmental, but that would change if she knew how far things between Melanie and Josh had progressed.
“Just please don’t mention it to Josh, okay?” Melanie said. “Please keep Peter’s visit between us.”
“Feelings feelings,” Brenda said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Brenda,” Vicki said.
“What? You’re the one who said it.”
The front screen door slammed. The women al turned. Peter said, “Oops, sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
There was conversation at dinner—Melanie may even have participated in it—but afterward, she didn’t recal a thing that was said. Her mind was whol y occupied with the enormous mess she’d made of things. It was a bal of yarn, tangled in her lap. Slowly, she thought, she would have to unravel it.
After dinner, Peter did the dishes. Vicki excused herself to give the kids a bath, read them stories, and put them to bed. Brenda lingered in the kitchen for a while, finishing up the bottle of wine, watching Melanie a little too closely. Final y, she gave up, much to Melanie’s relief. Melanie and Peter were polite to each other—washing the dishes, drying them and putting them away, wiping down the Formica, wrapping up the leftovers—
they were too boring for Brenda.
“I’m going to read,” she said. “Good night.”
It was nearly nine o’clock. Dark outside, now that it was August.
“Want to go for a walk?” Peter said. “I’ve been here al day and I haven’t seen the beach.”
“Have you cal ed for a hotel room?” Melanie said.
He walked toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist. “No.”
“You’re not staying here, Peter.” Melanie tried to lean back, away from him, but he hugged her tight. She held her body rigid, resisting. In an hour, she would have to sneak out to see Josh.
“You have two beds. I’l just sleep in the other bed. Al very innocent.”
“No,” Melanie said. “The answer is no.”
“I love you, Mel.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He bent down and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry about Frances.”
“I can’t even stand to hear her name, you know that?” Melanie said. “Thinking about her makes me want to vomit. It makes me break out in a rash.”
Peter held Melanie apart so he could look at her. “What I did was wrong. I was confused and angry and frustrated with you, Melanie, and with the whole process you were putting us through. The only thing that seemed to matter to you, at al , was having a baby. There were times, lots of times, in bed and otherwise, when I was pretty sure you didn’t even see me, I mattered to you so little. We lost each other, Mel, and I’m not blaming you for what happened because it was my fault. I did the wrong thing. I take ful responsibility and I am now asking you to forgive me.”
“Now, because I’m pregnant.”
“That’s not it.”
“Wel , why now, then? Why not my first week here? Why not when I cal ed you sixteen times?”
“I was angry that you’d left.”
Melanie laughed. “That is so rich.”
“I was confused. Did you know you were pregnant when you left?”
“I did.”
“See? I could be furious with you, too. But I’m not. I forgive you and I want you to forgive me.”
“What if I can’t forgive you?” she said.
“Ah, but I know you, Mel. And I know that you can.”
“Except every time you cal to say you’re working late, or have to stay in the city . . .”
“Frances is leaving New York,” Peter said. “When I ended things, she put in for a transfer. She’s going to California to be closer to her sister.”
“There wil be someone else,” Melanie said. “Even if Frances goes, there wil be someone else.”
“Yes,” Peter said. “There wil be you. There wil be our child.”
Melanie sighed. She heard the crunch of tires on shel s out on the street and she cocked her head. Josh? She looked out the window. The car moved along down the street.
“You have to go,” Melanie said. “To the hotel. I’m not wil ing to let you stay here.”
Peter whipped out his cel phone. “Fine,” he said. He sounded angry and officious. “I’l just cal the cab and have him take me someplace.”
“Good idea,” Melanie said. “I’m going to bed. I’l pack your things and set them outside the door.”
“Wil I see you tomorrow?” Peter asked.
“Maybe just for a minute,” Melanie said. “Cal me in the morning and tel me where you’re staying. I’l come to you. But you should go home tomorrow, Peter. Ted comes on Friday and this house is too smal for . . .”
“Come home with me tomorrow,” Peter said.
“No,” Melanie said. “I’l be home in a few weeks.”
“You’re staying because of your . . .”
“I’m staying because I’m happy here.”
“Happy with him?”
“Happy here.”
“But you wil come home?”
“Eventual y, Peter . . .”
“I love you. What can I say to make you believe me?”
“Wil you get out of here, Peter?” Melanie said. “Please?”
Peter stood on the flagstone walk until his cab pul ed up, but by then it was nine-thirty. Melanie watched him from her bedroom window. Josh: She had to tel Josh. Melanie lay back on her bed. She was exhausted. Josh would not take the news wel , even though they had both acknowledged that theirs was a summer romance. He was going back to Middlebury right after Labor Day; the story of Josh and Melanie ended there. To take it any further was comical. Melanie pictured herself and her newborn baby bunking with Josh in his dorm room. Absurd. Ridiculous. They had two and a half weeks left. Then it was over. Melanie closed her eyes. It would have been better if Peter had waited, she thought. Why he felt compel ed to come now . . .
But, she thought, the heart wants what it wants.
When Melanie woke up, soft light was peeking in around the edges of the shades and the damn wren was chirping. She sat up in bed and checked the clock. Six-thirty. Her feet tingled, and it felt like she was suffering from an irregular heartbeat. She had missed Josh, again. And on the worst possible night. Melanie fel back against her pil ows; she was stil in her clothes, and hence, her body had that stiff, grungy, slept-in-her-clothes feeling. She would have to corner Josh this morning somehow. But she would have to be so, so careful because of Vicki and Brenda. Vicki knew, or thought she knew, but how? Did cancer give a person a sixth sense, or was Melanie simply transparent to her best friend? It didn’t real y matter.
Melanie would deny it—and certainly Josh would deny it. But they would have to redouble their efforts to keep it a secret.
Melanie heard voices in the living room. Blaine was awake. Melanie rose from bed and undressed. It was stil hot, stil muggy; even with open windows, her room was a roasting pan. She put on a robe. Outdoor shower, she thought. Talk to Josh, go to Peter’s hotel (meet him in the lobby, where it was safe), get Peter to the airport.
Melanie stepped out into the living room. Her bare feet hit the buttery floorboards at the same time that Peter cleared his throat and launched into Make Way for Ducklings in a soft but charming reading voice. No, Melanie thought. Not possible. But yes—Peter was sitting next to Blaine on the blue sofa, reading. Melanie stopped in her tracks. Peter’s overnight bag sat open behind the sofa; he was wearing his light-green pajamas. Had he slept here? Not possible. Melanie had stood at the window until the cab whisked him away.
Melanie approached the sofa. Peter’s voice was engaging and whimsical as he recited the names of the ducklings: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack. . . . For someone who claimed he had never wanted children, he was doing a remarkable job.
“What are you doing here, Peter?” Melanie said.
He looked up, as though astonished to find
her there. “Good morning!” he said. “We’re reading.”
“I told you . . . you said that . . . I thought . . .”
“No hotel rooms,” Peter said. “Every room on the island, booked.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“So did I. But it was true. Because of the heat wave on the East Coast, I guess. So I came back. The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I do mind,” Melanie said.
Blaine’s facial expression was pained; he looked like he was going to burst. “I want Peter to finish reading,” he said. “Please?”
“By al means,” Peter said. He smiled triumphantly at Melanie and continued regaling Blaine with the plight of the Mal ard family.
Melanie stormed out to the shower.
When Melanie emerged, clean and dressed and ready to take Peter to the airport—because this was where they were going, most immediately, before Josh showed up—Blaine was at the kitchen table eating his Cheerios. It might have been any other morning, except for the presence of Peter’s overnight bag, which was as unsettling as a dead animal in the room. Melanie smiled at Blaine; the poor child had been through enough this summer, he did not need to witness the decaying insides of Melanie’s marriage.
“Where’s Peter?”
“At the beach,” Blaine said. “He wanted to see it. And he was wearing his bathing suit. He’s going swimming. I wanted to go with him but he said I had to stay put.”
Melanie sank into a kitchen chair. It was seven-fifteen. She could take the Yukon to the beach, pick up Peter, bring him back to shower and change and get him out of here. But could she do it in forty-five minutes? Would Peter sense urgency and wonder about it, and resist? Would Vicki or Brenda wonder why Melanie was so eager to get Peter out of the house by eight o’clock?
She took a breath. This is all going to blow up in my face.
“Blow up?” Blaine said.
“Did I say that aloud?” Melanie asked.
“What’s going to blow up?” Blaine said.
“Nothing,” Melanie said. “Nothing.”
B e careful. That was the best advice his father had to offer, and the more Josh considered things, the more he realized these were the only words anybody could offer to someone in Josh’s position. Josh wrote the words in his journal: Be careful.
Melanie had pul ed a no-show again last night—so that was twice now. Josh had only waited around until ten-thirty, and he, pointedly, did not drive past Number Eleven on his way home. He had better things to do with his evening hours than track Melanie down. Maybe tonight he would be the one to stay home. Or better stil , maybe he’d cal up Zach and some of his other buddies from high school and go to the Chicken Box. Drink beer, check out the summer girls, dance. But as ever, Josh gave Melanie the benefit of the doubt. She was pregnant after al and, hence, legitimately tired. Or maybe there had been some kind of medical emergency—maybe she had pains, maybe something happened with Vicki.
Melanie wouldn’t stand him up on purpose; she wasn’t like that.
Josh pul ed up in front of Number Eleven. He smel ed bacon and his stomach rumbled. The paper cup of pebbles was in the middle of the flagstone walk. Josh picked it up on his way in.
“Hel o?” Josh said. He set the cup of pebbles in its customary place high up on the windowsil , out of Porter’s reach.
“Hi, Josh,” Vicki said. Her back was to him, she was at the stove, but her voice sounded different. It sounded strained, stressed, stretched. Josh looked over and saw a man at the kitchen table eating a stack of blueberry pancakes.
“Hi,” Josh said. Porter was in his high chair with his bowl of mush, and Blaine was in the seat next to the unfamiliar man, rol ing a Matchbox car along the edge of the table.
The man seemed eager to stand. He bumped the table, and his napkin slid off his lap to the floor as he reached over Blaine and Porter to shake Josh’s hand. The man had extremely long arms.
“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing? I’m Peter Patchen.”
“Josh Flynn,” Josh said.
He was grateful that his name came automatical y, because shortly thereafter, Josh’s mind switched over to white noise. Peter Patchen. Peter Patchen.
“Hungry?” Vicki said.
“Ummmm,” Josh said. “Ahhhh. Actual y, not real y.”
“No?” Vicki turned around.
Josh shook his head, or he meant to shake his head, but he was too busy staring at Peter Patchen, who was very tal , who was eating blueberry pancakes that in other circumstances would have been meant for Josh. Peter Patchen’s hair was wet, his hair was very black, it was Chinese-black. The man was Asian. So this couldn’t be Peter Patchen because Melanie had never mentioned that Peter Patchen was Asian. Though why would she? Peter Patchen was wearing a white T-shirt with writing on it, some kind of event T-shirt, Corporate Chal enge or some such. And shorts.
Regular khaki shorts. He was in bare feet. So he was staying here, he had stayed here, he had showered here. Josh cast his eyes around the room
—he was a detective, looking for clues, and too, he was looking for Melanie. Where was Melanie? He wanted to see her. She couldn’t keep a secret and she didn’t know how to lie, so her face would tel him what was going on. But come on! Josh told himself. It was apparent what was going on—Peter Patchen, the cheating husband, was here on Nantucket, here in this house, eating pancakes meant for Josh and buddying up to Blaine—asking him about his Matchbox car, which, it just so happened, was a miniature Shelby Cobra that Josh had bought for Blaine when Vicki was so sick with her fever. Peter was holding the car now, turning it in the light, whistling with admiration.
It was very, very hot in the kitchen.
“Hey, Josh.” Brenda passed by him, lightly touching his back, on her way to her coffee. “You met Peter? Melanie’s husband?”
“Yep,” Josh said. Be careful was flashing in neon lights behind his eyelids, and this flashing was accompanied by a high-pitched ringing, like an alarm. But stil , he couldn’t help himself. He said, “Where is Melanie, anyway?”
Both Vicki and Brenda turned to look at him. He could feel them looking, but his eyes were trained on Peter Patchen, Melanie’s husband.
If he answers, Josh thought, I will beat the shit out of him.
But everyone was quiet—extra quiet?—and al Josh could hear was bacon sizzling in the pan, hissing and spitting like it was angry.
Blaine looked up. “She went for a walk,” he said.
What to do? Josh had taken care of the boys for seven weeks, and yet he stood in the kitchen with Vicki making breakfast and Brenda fil ing her thermos with coffee, and Porter and Blaine, and Peter Patchen, who was devouring pancakes like some kind of hungry animal—and Josh couldn’t imagine what his next word or deed should be. Continue on as normal? It was impossible.
Vicki brought a plate of bacon, draining on paper towels, to the table. “Josh, are you okay?”
“You look sick,” Brenda said. “Do you feel al right?”
“Fine,” Josh said.
“Do you want to get stuff ready for the beach?” Vicki said.
“Beach!” Blaine shouted. He looked at Vicki, then at Josh. “Is it al right if Peter comes?”
If Peter comes? Josh thought. He should tel everyone he was sick. He should go home.
“I just went to the beach,” Peter said. “And I have to leave today.”
“Leave today?” Blaine said. “You just got here.”
“This was a quick visit,” Peter said.
“To see Melanie?” Blaine said.
“To see Melanie,” Peter said.
One more word, Josh thought, and I’m going to kill him.
Vicki took Josh’s elbow. “Why don’t you get stuff ready for the beach,” she said. Her voice was kind and indulgent.
She knows, he thought.
“Okay,” he said. “Right.”
Towels, cooler with lunch, snacks and juice, lotion, umbrel a, blanket, orange shovel,
pacifier, buckets, change of clothes, extra diapers. Josh knew the routine by heart, he could do it in his sleep, and yet it took him forever to pul it al together. Blaine was chomping at the bit, Porter was in a smiling mood; it should have been ful -steam ahead. But Josh dragged his feet. He was waiting for Melanie to get home. Where was she? He tried to surreptitiously peer into the black overnight bag behind the couch. This was Peter’s bag? Josh felt grateful that it was behind the couch and not in Melanie’s bedroom. Josh wanted to say something to Peter before he left—but what? Peter was stil at the kitchen table yapping to Vicki about this person and that person, friends and enemies back in Connecticut and “the city.”
Josh stood at the front door. He tried to hoist an arm. “Okay, we’re going.”
Vicki looked over. “Okay.”
Peter did not acknowledge Josh’s impending departure. You’d better not be here when I get back, Josh thought. Or I will kill you.
“Do you need anything from the market?” Josh asked. “On the way home?”
Vicki smiled mildly. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” Josh said. Where was Melanie? “See you.”
Stil no flicker of interest from Peter. Peter thought of Josh as the help. A servant, a slave. Whereas Peter was the husband, the neighbor, the peer, the equal, the chieftain in Melanie’s real life. But Peter Patchen was also a genuine crumb who cheated and lied— that was Melanie’s real life.
Josh trudged down the street, Porter in one arm, his pack-mule load in the other, beach umbrel a slung across his back. The white shel s of the street reflected the sunlight in a way that hurt Josh’s eyes. The glare made Josh squint and gave him a headache; he’d had nothing to eat and his stomach was sour, and he was transporting a hundred pounds at least. He felt weak and shaky in the knees. He was stupid, an idiot; he should have declared himself sick when he had the chance. He encouraged Blaine to walk in the shade.
Josh found Melanie waiting for him at the rotary. She was leaning against the railing outside Claudette’s, where he couldn’t miss her. He saw her and flooded with relief and love, but this was replaced with a rush of fury and suspicion. Be careful blinkered in his mind.
“There’s Melanie,” Blaine said.
Barefoot: A Novel Page 33
