The look of disbelief on his face gradually transformed into a faint smile. “Actually, I was thinking about it.”
“Well, think about my knee kissing your balls. Think about that.”
The belt hit the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She touched the sink to steady herself. For a moment it was hard to breathe. What was wrong with her? She just couldn’t do this. She couldn’t casually play this lover’s game, and she hated that he could. None of this was affecting him the way it was affecting her. He wasn’t vulnerable, wasn’t shaking inside the way she was.
“I came here with you,” she said. “I agreed to that, but I never agreed to make out with you.”
He nodded slowly, as if he was just coming to understand some things about her. “You don’t even want me close to you, do you?”
“I guess it must be hard for you to grasp that a woman exists who wouldn’t want you close.”
“Jesus, Alison, I’m just trying to get clear on what you want.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she said. “Let’s do what we came to do and leave this place. I don’t want to be here.”
There was a moment when she thought he was going to say something, do something besides pick up the belt and drop it on the counter.
“You’re calling the shots,” he said as he left the room.
She shut the door behind him, wondering why she couldn’t have talked to him in civil terms, why she’d had to be so cutting. And why she was so angry still. The solution was simple. If they had to act like lovers in public, that was one thing, but there was no reason to keep up the pretense in private. She didn’t want sham intimacy from a man who was pretending not to be repulsed by her.
It was five after seven when Alison and Andrew walked out onto the terrace off the living room. The slate deck swept out over the ocean, and in the distance the horizon was as silvery bright as the setting sun.
The terrace was beautiful, almost beyond Alison’s ability to describe. Billowing ferns and banana trees shaded the wrought-iron furniture and the ornamental arches. Fountains splashed from deep pools of mosaic tiles set in swirls of blue and green. But Alison had no idea whether she was supposed to remember it or whether it was part of her mother’s massive renovation.
Only Rebecca was there to greet them, and she seemed flustered as she rushed over. “Julia’s running a little late,” she explained. “Can I get you a pisco sour? We’re having Peruvian food tonight, and the sours are luscious. They’re made with grape brandy and lime juice.”
“Make mine a virgin,” Andrew said.
Rebecca looked surprised, but he didn’t explain.
“Make mine a double,” Alison said, surprising her again.
As Rebecca went over to the bar, she gestured toward a granite-topped sideboard laden with bowls of seviche, colorful salsas and platters of mussels and other seafood. “Help yourself.”
Andrew waited, letting Alison go to the sideboard by herself. They hadn’t spoken two words since their face-off in the bathroom. Silence was the norm in their relationship. She’d even thought of it as a conspiracy of silence, but they rarely fought, and that had put a different edge on things. She had no idea what to expect, but she wasn’t backing down.
She tried a chunk of braised grouper with some spicy salsa that brought tears to her eyes. Luckily, Rebecca returned quickly with a tray of drinks. She served Alison a foamy, pale yellow sour, and then gave Andrew his virgin. The sour tasted like limeade with a donkey’s kick.
“How do you like the terrace?” she asked Alison.
“Breathtaking.” Alison went to admire a graceful iron crane that was taller than she was. “This sculpture in particular. I wonder where my mother found it.”
Rebecca hesitated. A nervous smile surfaced. “Oh, but that piece isn’t actually new. It’s been in the family for years, I believe. It may even be an heirloom.”
Alison gasped. “Oh, of course. I must be conf—Everything’s so different.”
Andrew wandered over and looked at the sculpture from another angle. “Why does it remind me of the iron piece in the foyer?” he said. “Does Julia collect Oriental cranes?”
“Well, yes, she does.” Rebecca set down the tray of drinks and helped herself to one. “Her mother did, too, I believe.”
Alison shook her head, embarrassed. “I should know these things. I still get confused.”
Rebecca’s smile was gently reassuring. “Well, no wonder. It’s amazing you survived such a terrible accident.”
Andrew broke in again, explaining that Alison suffered from a condition called transient amnesia. “But it could all come back to her in time,” he said. “We’re hopeful that it will.”
“Ah, yes, how very convenient.”
The sarcastic comment came from the terrace doors, where Bret Fairmont stood, looking flushed and disheveled. Alison didn’t know if it was a fashion statement or if he’d been in a scuffle, but he looked a mess. His hair was a blond rag mop, and his jacket was off-kilter.
He squinted at her. “My God, look what the tide dragged in. Is it really my long-lost sister? Rebecca, get me a drink. Chop chop!”
Look what the tide dragged in. It was a terrible joke. Delayed shock seemed to paralyze everyone there.
Alison and Andrew said nothing. Bret leaned against the door frame, as if to steady himself. Finally, Rebecca moved, going to the bar to get his drink, which was the last thing he needed.
“You must remember me,” Andrew said. He boldly walked over to shake Bret’s hand. “I’m the guy she married.”
Bret glanced at Andrew’s hand, but didn’t take it.
Andrew slapped Bret’s arm rather vigorously and continued to make conversation. “What did you mean by ‘how convenient’?”
Bret’s eyes took on the gleam of a hungry rat’s. “Oh, nothing, just thinking how convenient it would be to have an unreliable memory.”
Alison brought the sour to her lips, wincing at the sudden pungency of the lime. She could tell by Bret’s behavior that he was drunk, but it was hard to believe anyone would put on such a pathetic display. If she’d had any doubts about the abject hatred she and her brother were supposed to have felt for each other, she could put them to rest. He was an obnoxious boor, and he’d obviously had it in for her since he was old enough to say her name.
What was it he’d called her when they were growing up? Alisuck. How mature.
“I see we’re all here. Isn’t that wonderful!”
Alison turned as her mother walked onto the terrace. She’d changed into a silk Emilio Pucci print in bright pink and turquoise, and her mood seemed to have lightened with it.
“Forgive me for holding things up. Does everyone have a drink?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Bret said.
“You look like you’ve had plenty, Bret,” Julia said sharply. “Sit down and sober up.”
Bret’s bloodshot eyes widened. He looked good and rattled, but got himself to the nearest chair and sat down.
Alison caught the twinkle in Andrew’s eye. Was he thinking the same thing she was? Possibly the dragon lady of Sea Clouds had some redeeming qualities.
“Alison, don’t you look beautiful. I love what you’ve done with your hair.”
Julia