Barefoot (42 page)

Melanie heard voices in the living room. Blaine was awake. Melanie rose from bed and undressed. It was still hot, still 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 all means,” Peter said. He smiled triumphantly at Melanie and continued regaling Blaine with the plight of the Mallard 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 pulled 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 still, maybe he’d call 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 all 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 pulled up in front of Number Eleven. He smelled 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.

“Hello?” Josh said. He set the cup of pebbles in its customary place high up on the windowsill, 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, rolling 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 automatically, because shortly thereafter, Josh’s mind switched over to white noise.
Peter Patchen. Peter Patchen.

“Hungry?” Vicki said.

“Ummmm,” Josh said. “Ahhhh. Actually, not really.”

“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 tall, 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 Challenge 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 tell 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 still, 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 all 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 filling 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 all 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 all right if Peter comes?”

If Peter comes?
Josh thought. He should tell 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, umbrella, 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 pull it all together. Blaine was chomping at the bit, Porter was in a smiling mood; it should have been full-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 still 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.”

Still 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 umbrella slung across his back. The white shells 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.

“I see her.”

She was all decked out for power walking—the stretchy shorts, the white sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail, but she’d been sweating and curls fell around her face. Her cheeks were hot and pink. She took up stride alongside of them and reached for the handle of the cooler.

“Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.” Josh’s voice sounded angry, so he said, “You’re carrying your own load.”

“Josh?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to her. “What?”

Blaine stopped, too, and looked up. “What?”

They both looked at Blaine and continued walking.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I had no idea. It came as a total shock. You have to believe me.”

“What about last night?” he said. “Where were you?”

“I fell asleep.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Where did he stay? With you?”

“He said he was getting a hotel, but he couldn’t find a room, so he came back—this was after I fell asleep—and crashed on the sofa. When I woke up this morning, he was there. No one was more surprised than me . . .”

“Are you guys talking about Peter?” Blaine asked.

“No,” Josh and Melanie said together. The parking lot of the public beach was up ahead. “The beach is crowded today,” Josh said to Blaine. “Do you want to run ahead and save our spot before someone else takes it?”

“Takes our spot?” Blaine said, clearly worried. “Okay.” He dashed off.

“Be careful!” Josh called out.

Be careful.
To Melanie, Josh said, “I think we should end things.”

“No,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was thick; his throat felt like it was coated with a film or mucus. “It’s going to be over in a couple of weeks anyway.”

“But that’s a couple of weeks . . .”

“Melanie,” he said. “You’re going back to Peter. He came to take you back.”

“He came to take me back,” she said. “But I said no. I’m staying here until . . .”

“But you will go back to him eventually. When you leave.”

She was quiet.

“Right?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You’re going back to him. Just say it.”

“I don’t want to say it.”

Girls, women,
Josh thought. They were the same. Lure you in, trample your heart, but instead of letting you break away clean, there was all this muddling confusion, all this
talking
.

“I have feelings for you, Josh.”

“I have feelings for you, too,” he said. “Obviously.” He had called it love to his father and he might have used the word with Melanie if it hadn’t been for this morning.