Silent Witness (19 page)

Turning, she looked back at Sam. ‘Do you really want to go home?'

He shrugged. ‘For me, the party was pretty much over. By now a bunch of them have headed for the golf course, or the beach. Waiting for the sun to come up.'

Sue looked down. ‘Do you want to do that, with me? Wait for the sun to come up, I mean.'

Tony hesitated, glancing over at the silent hammock. ‘Are you okay with that?'

‘Uh-huh.' Looking up, she smiled a little. ‘We're supposed to stay up late, remember? I don't want to miss out on everything.'

Tony would not drive to the beach until dawn, he told Sue – he could not imagine being near Taylor Park at night. The only other place Sue knew was a grove of abandoned maple trees; all that she wanted from the next few hours, she told him, was to be where she did not have to explain Sam to anyone, or even think of him very much.

Tony knew this was not possible. The maple grove was where she had gone with Sam the night that Alison died; the blanket they spread before them was his; the picnic basket – orange juice, fruit, breakfast rolls, a bottle of cheap champagne – was what Sue had prepared for them; the dress she still wore as she walked in the dewy grass, barefoot now, was the one she had wanted Sam to admire. Tony was quite certain that even he was a reminder of Sam, just as Sue had made him think of Alison.

She sat next to him on the blanket, pensive. The dark was streaked with moonlight, the night warm and clear and windless, the only noise the rise and fall of crickets chirring. ‘Last year,' Tony told her, ‘if we'd tried to imagine this, Sam would be with you, Alison with me. Since the night she died, everything changed. Including Sam.'

Sue was quiet. ‘You've changed too,' she said at last.

Tony shrugged. ‘I guess I've never really been sad before. Now I'm sad most of the time.'

She turned to him. ‘Not just sad, Tony. It's as if you've already left here – Lake City, Sam, me. Like you've started thinking a lot of things you don't say and we don't have any idea about.'

This seemed right to him, although Tony could not define the changes. ‘You sound like Sam,' he told her.

‘I don't mean to.' Rearranging her dress, Sue seemed to sort through her thoughts. ‘I can deal with whoever you are, Tony. But I think it's harder for Sam.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘That you're moving away from him.' Sue paused, voice filling with doubt. ‘I'm not sure, exactly. Maybe as long as Sam thinks you both want the same things, like Athlete of the Year or to be the home-town hero, he doesn't have to be jealous. In Lake City he can beat you. But if what he wants more than anything doesn't mean that much to you, maybe
he
doesn't mean that much. . . .' Abruptly, she stopped, as though her thoughts embarrassed her.

‘Go on,' Tony said.

She faced him. ‘This may sound funny, but he hates himself for feeling that. Because Sam really loves you, Tony. I think that's what the fight was all about – he was trying to say he was your friend no matter what, and he didn't feel it coming back to him.' She turned away. ‘Does any of this make sense to you?'

It was the first speech Tony had ever heard from Sue; it seemed to him that she was trying to explain Sam to herself. ‘Maybe,' Tony answered. ‘But what about tonight?'

Sue exhaled. ‘That's simple. He's always thought I liked you, more than I should. Now that Alison's gone, he thinks I'm closer to you than he is.'

‘Trying to put yourself in my place, Sue, was a nice thing to do. God knows Sam didn't.'

Sue fell quiet. ‘That's me,' she said. ‘Nice.'

He could not identify the note in her voice. Suddenly Tony felt selfish – so much of this had been about Sam, or Tony, so little about Sue herself. It struck him that he, like others, took the sunny, sensible girl they saw for the whole of her. ‘Is that why you put up with Sam when he drinks like that? Because you're too “nice”?'

‘I don't think anyone's that “nice” – not Sam, or you, and certainly not me.' Turning, Sue looked up at the stars. ‘I stay with Sam because he feels more than he can always say. And because I need other people to need me, and Sam always will.'

‘But is that what you want?'

Idly, she brushed back her hair. ‘I don't have a clear picture yet. Sometimes all I want is to be part of someone's life and help make our life a good one – I think that I could be happy, or miserable, anywhere. Other times, I wonder what it might be like to be more like you.' She turned to him. ‘Do you understand how I mean that?'

‘I think so. . . .'

‘I mean, Sam will talk about marriage, or Lake City, and that will sound just right to me. And then I'll lie in my bed and not think of him at all. Instead I start imagining all the places I've never been, and maybe never will be.' She shook her head. ‘I've never really
been
anywhere.'

‘Neither have I.'

‘But you think about it, don't you? You always have.'

‘Yes.'

She tilted her head. ‘Where would you go?'

‘Other than jail?'

‘Other than jail.' Her voice was softer now. ‘You're going to have the life you want, Tony. They don't put people in jail for things they didn't do.'

As before, this touched him. ‘Then let's drink your champagne, and I'll consider it.' He smiled again. ‘After all, it's our prom night.'

Reaching into the basket, Sue pulled out the bottle of champagne. Tony twisted the plastic cork; it rose into the night, vanishing with a soft pop, and then he poured champagne in two paper cups.

‘To Italy,' he said.

Smiling, Sue took a swallow of champagne. Only then did she ask, ‘Why Italy?'

‘For one thing, Sophia Loren lives there.'

Sue looked dubious. ‘We're drinking to Sophia Loren?'

Tony shook his head. ‘I saw this article. In
National Geographic
, just last summer.' In truth, Tony had forgotten this; now, as he talked to Sue, the photographs came back to him. ‘There was an island called Capri, with grottoes and fishing boats and beaches, and water so blue but so clear it looked like you could see your hand in it. . . .'

Sue seemed to consider this. ‘That sounds nice,' she allowed. ‘Where else?'

‘Well, there's Venice. Imagine being in a city built entirely on canals, with churches and spires and no cars anywhere. It has all these boats, and sidewalk cafés by the water. I'm going
there
for sure.'

Sue tilted her head. ‘I've seen pictures. But I think I want more choices.'

This made Tony smile. He took off his tuxedo coat, poured more champagne. ‘There's always Tuscany. It's one of their wine regions, the article said. Very sunny, with a lot of hills with villas or old castles on them.' He grinned. ‘A lot of full-breasted women on them too, from the pictures. The good old
National Geographic
never misses a chance. . . .'

Sue gave him a skeptical look. ‘Are you sure this isn't still about Sophia Loren?'

‘Of course not.' Tony tried to appear wounded and then realized that, in truth, he had begun to imagine a future which, for months, had extended no further than Harvard or, in his fears, the call he dreaded from Saul Ravin. ‘No,' he said softly. ‘It's about freedom. And choosing.'

Sue fell silent again. ‘Then maybe I can go too. If I won't be in the way.'

‘I'll break it to Sophia gently.' Tony poured champagne again. ‘So does any place sound good to you?'

Sue watched his face; Tony sensed that she saw that his worries had returned, and wished, for his own sake, to keep him in Italy. ‘Capri,' she said.

‘Why?'

‘Because I like beaches, and warm water.' She hesitated. ‘If that's all right with you.'

Tony looked at her face, suddenly serious. Softly, he answered, ‘Capri would be fine with me.'

For a time, they were quiet. They sat closer in the dark now, immersed in their separate thoughts, neither wanting to talk. Then it came to Tony, swift and quiet as a heartbeat, that he no longer felt alone.

It took him by such surprise that all he could do was stare at her.

For an instant, this was safe; she was gazing down at the paper cup in her hand, seemingly far away. That she was aware of him showed first in her new stillness. But Tony could not look away. It was as if, he suddenly realized, he had just discovered her.

Her eyes rose to his, filling with questions. At first, the questions were for Tony, he sensed, and then, as she watched him, for herself.

Tony put down his paper cup.

She gazed at it a moment and then, still silent, placed her cup beside his.

As she looked into his face, Tony reached for her. Her eyes were still open.

Her mouth was soft and warm. Tony did not wish to stop; he felt Sue move closer, so that he would not have to stop. When he cupped her breasts, she did not move. And then, gently, she pulled back, looking into his face again.

‘We're not in Italy, Tony.'

‘I know.'

Tony found that he could not ask her. Time seemed in suspension. A few seconds earlier, Tony had not known he wanted her; now, silent, he ached to have her close.

A moment passed.

Still watching his face, Sue reached behind her, unzipping the back of her dress. Her shoulders were bare in the moonlight.

‘Yes,' Tony whispered. ‘Please.'

Gracefully, she stood. As her dress fell, rustling softly on the blanket, her eyes did not leave his. They did not leave as she unhooked her stockings; it was as though, with each new step, she asked the same question of Tony, of herself.

In silent response, Tony stood and took off his shirt and slacks. Still watching him, Sue unfastened her bra.

Her breasts were round and full. Just as, Tony realized to his surprise, he had imagined them. As she did the rest, his throat caught.

Sue Cash, his friend, was beautiful.

They went to each other. Her breasts were warm against his chest. She leaned her face on his shoulder.

He held her close to him, torn between sheltering Sue and wanting her. Then her mouth found his, and their second kiss was deep and long and sure. He felt her quiver with her own desire.

Slowly, mouth grazing her breasts and stomach, Tony slipped to his knees and, by instinct, did for Sue what he had never done. Her soft cries seemed to come from far away. He could feel his own readiness, and yet, what was also new, this lack of haste.

All at once, Sue knelt and put her mouth to his. The rest, somehow, they knew without speaking – that Tony should lie on his back, that she would bend her face to him and then, raising her head, move her hips to take him inside her.

For Tony, the night became the warmth of her, the look on Sue's face.

She was with him, but not with him; first smiling down at him, then with her head back, her eyes half shut, cries caught in her throat. Tony felt his own surge begin. He caught himself, straining to hold out. Then, quite suddenly, Sue's eyes flew open and the cry, long and thin and very soft, was freed from her throat at last.

In the instant before he felt his own shudder, Tony knew what had happened to her, and that it was new for them both.

Sue bent forward and kissed him.

‘Don't move,' he said softly.

‘I don't want to.'

When she did, finally, they lay together, each touching the other, not needing to talk.

Gently, Tony broke the silence. ‘We did that all right, didn't we.'

Sue gazed back at him. ‘Yes,' she said softly. ‘We did that all right.'

Leaning his face to hers, Tony kissed Sue again.

She looked at him, eyes full of wonder. And then, to his surprise, she rolled over on her back and spoke to the stars with a hushed vehemence.

‘God, Sue Cash, you are such a
liar
. . . .'

Tony propped himself on his elbow, placing a hand on her stomach. ‘Why a liar?'

She rolled her head to see him. ‘Isn't it sort of obvious? I told Sam I didn't care for you, except as a friend. I even tried telling myself that. So here I am, the American Red Cross in action.' She gave him a rueful smile. ‘If this is what friends do, Tony, what do we get to do next?'

Even as he smiled back, Tony felt the world, kept at bay for these few moments, intruding on their deep pleasure in each other. ‘I don't know, Sue. Do we have to know right now?'

Lying against the blanket, Sue moved her head from side to side. ‘No,' she said. ‘I don't even want to.'

After a moment, Tony took her hand and lay next to her, gazing up at the stars. Between them, he felt something proprietary growing – this night was theirs, and whatever happened in its protection belonged to them, forever. Her next question, though unexpected, did not really surprise him.

‘Do you think you'll win Athlete of the Year?' Her voice seemed almost casual. ‘Does it still matter to you who wins?'

The question was not an idle one, he sensed it – it carried shades of Sam, and of Alison, and the knowledge that, in their new closeness, Sue Cash and Tony Lord could avoid neither.

‘It doesn't matter,' he answered. ‘Because I won't win.'

Sue was quiet. ‘I think you deserve to,' she said at last.

‘I used to think so. But I lost that Stratford game single-handed, after Sam had almost won it.' His fingers tightened around hers. ‘Anyhow, they don't award Athlete of the Year for murdering the senior class president. I'd say that gives Sam the edge.'