Tigers in Red Weather (31 page)

Since then, he couldn’t get the episode out of his head. Whether it was the murder, or the heat, Hughes could see cracks in his wife’s very polished exterior; a chink in her armor. Something fallible, almost unbearably real. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

He was riveted. Touching her was like touching an exposed wire. And the shock, along with the soaring temperature, was making him feel like he was suffering an insane kind of heat stroke. Yet, despite all that, some part of Nick still seemed far away, out of reach.

One morning Hughes woke to find himself alone in their bed. Even though it was early, the air had no freshness to it and his pajamas clung to his damp skin. Out the window, he could see the sun tipping over the harbor, and the house was quiet as he made his way downstairs. He found Nick sitting in the dining room, a list dangling forgotten in one hand, a pile of invitations for the party in front of her. She was reading from a book of poetry, one he remembered from the early days of their marriage when she would read to him in bed. She had one elbow propped on the polished walnut of the table, and her lips were mouthing the lines, her hair falling in her eyes. The back
of the house faced west and was darker at this time of day, but he could still see the sweat gathering around her neck and the damp edges of her nightgown. He stood in the doorway, wanting to go to her, but she seemed so perfectly complete that he felt like an intruder. He watched her for a while before going back upstairs to bathe.

He was the loneliest he’d ever been, as if not having rediscovered Nick would have been better. Whatever her own thoughts were, she hid them in a frenzy of party planning. She sat at her desk, writing out menus she would end up discarding, making schedules and cataloguing things from some kind of master list, shaking out her hand every so often. He would offer his help, and she might send him on an errand, to the post office, say, for extra stamps, but it nonetheless left Hughes with an irrational animosity toward the party, or the post office, or the stamps, as if all these things were rivals devising obstacles to his wife’s affections.

So, Hughes turned his attention to
Star
, spending his afternoons in front of the boathouse, sanding and repainting the hull a dark green and trying not to think of Nick.

The dinghy didn’t really need any work after everything he had done in June, but he found that the repetition soothed him; the chipping and sanding, the lost hours spent drenched in sweat, running his hand over the wood as he looked for any rough spots, the acrid smell of primer. It was hot work, but when it got too much, he could just jump off the end of the dock into the cool harbor, the shores of Chappy in front of him, his eyes watering from the sting of the salt and the sun.

Then one afternoon, as he was about to start on the second coat of paint, the sky opened up and it began to rain, big, heavy drops. Cursing, Hughes hurried to drag the dinghy into the boathouse, pulling the two sawhorses in after him. It was a flash storm, the kind that swept over the Island, only to clear almost as suddenly as it had begun. Hughes decided to wait it out. He took one of the beach towels
hanging in the boathouse and began to dry the dinghy’s hull. He was anxious to see the results of his labors.

The patter of the rain on the roof was broken by a tap on the side of the boathouse, and then Nick appeared wearing a red bathing suit and carrying a small hamper.

“Hello.” She smiled that wide smile of hers. “I thought you might want a break,” she said, gesturing to the rain that was falling on her. “I brought lunch.”

Hughes wiped the damp off his forehead with the edge of his shirt, trying to think of something to say. He didn’t know why he was so surprised to see her, but she was like an apparition his own mind had dreamed up.

“Are you shocked that I walked all the way down here in only my bathing suit?”

It did have something to do with the bathing suit, but also with the wet hair curving around her ears, the long, brown legs disappearing into red cotton and her bare feet with damp flecks of grass sticking to the delicate arches.

“No,” he said, stupidly. “Seems pretty sensible.”

“That’s what I thought,” Nick said, putting down the basket. “It reminded me of Florida, after the war and that yellow one-piece I used to tease the neighbors with.”

Hughes had no idea what she was talking about. Florida was like a bad dream that he could no longer entirely remember, but her comment brought vague outlines of it back. He pushed the thoughts away; he didn’t want to think about Florida or his sadness or Eva right now. He wanted Nick to take off her bathing suit so he could see her naked.

Instead, she unpacked the basket and produced two cheese sandwiches with mustard, and a shaker of martinis.

He watched as she pulled a boat cushion off the wall and sat down, tucking her legs neatly underneath her. Hughes sat next to her, but
not too near. Nick poured the martinis into a couple of plastic cups and handed one to Hughes.

They sat in silence, Nick munching on her sandwich. Hughes looked at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what she was thinking, wondering what had brought her down here to the boathouse, with her picnic and her red bathing suit and her bright smile. He had a strange vision of cracking her open, like a nut or a crab, to find out what was going on inside.

“Do you think the rain will break the heat?” she asked.

“No,” Hughes said. “I don’t think it’s that kind of storm.”

The chilled vodka sent a shiver over him. It was a perfect martini and he sat there thinking about that and about Nick and about the smell of the paint.

The boat winked in the stormy light, catching shades of the water off the harbor. Nick rose, her cup in one hand, and walked over to the dinghy. Gently, she pressed an index finger against the hull and, evidently finding it dry, ran her hand over it, as Hughes had done only minutes before. She sipped from her martini, her lower lip rising to meet the rim. Then she sat down again, resting her head against the wall. The rain had begun to ease, but the soft rap of the drops against the roof was still audible.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Nick said, after some time. “How much you hated being on that ship during the war, and how much you hated having to do all that work on it afterward. And here you are, spending all your afternoons working on a boat, all by yourself.”

Hughes looked at her, but she was staring out at the harbor. He wanted to tell her something, but the language escaped him. As he struggled for the words, she rose and brushed the crumbs off her brown legs.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She picked up the basket and the cups and, without even a glance backward, walked out, the white soles of her feet flashing against the gray floorboards.

And just like that, Hughes found himself sitting alone again in the boathouse, with nothing to say.

Hughes sweated into his freshly laundered shirt as he dressed for dinner that evening. They had a long-standing date with the Pritchards at the yacht club, and although he had tried to get Nick to break it, she had been adamant.

“Oh, Hughes, we can’t. I know it’s hotter than Hades, but we really do have to go. They have some tiresome houseguest staying with them, and I promised Dolly we’d take some of the burden off her. It was either the yacht club or here.” She was sitting at her dressing table, wearing a yellow dress he had never seen before.

“Well, I suppose at least this way I won’t have to restock the liquor cabinet again,” Hughes said, looking away. “Helena’s bar tab is about all I can manage right now.”

“Don’t be unkind,” Nick said sharply. “There’s nothing wrong with Helena that a good divorce wouldn’t fix.”

“You know it’s not just that.” He was feeling irritable.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Nick said, adjusting her earring. “She’s just tired.”

Hughes didn’t really want to talk about it either. He knew it had gone beyond the whiskey and the heat; several times since he’d arrived, he’d seen Helena slip a pill from a silver box in her purse and swallow it when she thought no one was looking.

Nick picked up a bottle of her perfume, only to put it back on the dresser.

“It’s too hot for perfume,” she said, catching him staring at her in the mirror.

Hughes walked over and brushed his palm across her collarbone, watching her watching him in the reflection. Her skin was soft and slightly humid to touch.

Nick sat completely still, barely breathing, her green eyes like wet grass, before pushing his hand away. “Don’t,” she said.

The yacht club was buzzing with the sound of clinking forks and laughter, a sea of blue blazers and rep ties.

“There they are,” Nick said.

Dolly Pritchard was standing and waving, a look of mock pain on her face.

“Poor Dolly,” Nick said as they headed toward the table at the back of the room, which looked out onto the harbor.

“What’s his name, this guest?”

“Henry? Hank? I can’t remember, he’s someone from Rory’s work.”

“Another scintillating evening discussing the Pritchard family firm.”

Nick laughed, and then quickly covered her mouth with one gloved hand. “Oh, I know. If I hear one word about investments I might have to throw my drink in his face.”

“You throw the drink and run. I’ll hold them off.” Hughes lowered his voice as they approached the table.

“My hero,” Nick whispered into his ear, and the soft heat of her breath made him hard.

Hughes guided her in front of him as they made the introductions, shifting his weight carefully.

“Nick, you look smashing,” Dolly Pritchard said, clasping Nick’s hand. “And Hughes, as dashing as ever.”

“Hello, Dolly,” Hughes said, kissing her cheek.

Dolly Pritchard always reminded him of Eleanor Roosevelt, tall and horsey, with an open manner and straightforward mouth. Admittedly, she was more attractive, but she was one of those keen, no-nonsense types of woman for whom cheerful curiosity was a kind of dogma. Hughes enjoyed her immensely. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rory, but he lacked his wife’s zest. Rory Pritchard’s father, Rory
Sr., had started an investment firm that at first had handled only his family’s money. Rory Jr. had expanded it to include the kind of families that his father would have approved of. He was a smart fellow, there was no doubt about that, but he could also be long-winded when he got on the topic of the business.

“This is Harry Banks,” Dolly said, putting her hand on their guest’s shoulder. “Harry: Nick and Hughes Derringer.”

“Harry’s helping us design our new offices,” Rory said, pulling out his wife’s chair.

“One of architecture’s bright young things,” Dolly said.

Harry Banks looked a little young for an architect, even for a bright young thing.

“You’ll make me blush, Dolly,” he said, smiling at his hostess.

“Tish,” Dolly said. “You don’t fool anybody, Harry. I doubt there’s much that could make you blush.”

Hughes suppressed a smile, but Nick laughed. “Oh dear, is this what you’ve had to put up with all weekend, Mr. Banks?”

“Harry, please.” The architect smiled at Nick, and Hughes noticed the man’s eyes taking in his wife, her yellow, strapless dress, the curve of her breasts rising slightly from the foamy fabric. “And yes, Dolly excels at putting me in my place. It’s a pleasure to watch her work.”

“Smooth, Harry,” Dolly said. “Now, what will everyone have to drink?”

Hughes ordered a gin and tonic for himself and a martini for Nick, thinking of the cold shaker she had brought down to the boathouse. He didn’t know what he was trying to offer, some kind of apology or signal of shared intimacy, and he looked at her face to see if she’d pick up on it. Her lips were parted in a slight smile, the white of her teeth barely showing. But as he watched her, her gaze slid over his shoulder and he saw her face harden.

Hughes turned and saw Frank Wilcox crossing the main dining room, steering his wife by the elbow. Etta Wilcox’s mouth was set in
a thin, hard line. Her husband, on the other hand, looked like he was doing an impersonation of himself, smiling widely, bestowing jovial glances on no one in particular.

The whole table had gone quiet and everyone was staring at the approaching couple. Everyone except Harry Banks, who had the expression of a man who had missed the joke.

Hughes felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, Hughes, Rory.”

Hughes looked at Frank and tried for a smile. “Frank.”

“Ladies,” Frank Wilcox said, his smile deepening.

Nick just stared at him.

“Hello, Frank, Etta,” Dolly said.

“Hello.” Etta’s voice sounded hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.

No one bothered to introduce Harry Banks. Frank stood there in the building silence, and finally nodded his head and continued toward his table, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hughes saw him lean in and whisper something in Etta’s ear, but her face remained unreadable.

Hughes looked down at his menu. “The sole looks good.”

“Well, well …,” Dolly began.

“Dolly, don’t.” Rory cut her off. And then: “I’ve never been that fond of sole, for some reason.”

Harry Banks was looking around the table, a half smile on his face. “I seem to have missed something awfully exciting.”

“You haven’t,” Hughes said.

“You two are so buttoned up,” Dolly said, and then turned to Harry. “Their maid was recently found murdered. It’s caused quite a stir, as you can imagine.”

“Dolly.” Rory’s voice had an edge of warning.

“Oh, well. I suppose it’s not polite dinner conversation. How boring.” Dolly turned her attention to the menu.

Hughes looked at Nick, who had remained silent. He saw she was still looking at the Wilcoxes, now seated a few tables away from them. She pulled a cigarette out of her bag and Hughes leaned in to light it for her. Her hand trembled and he steadied it with his own.

Nick pulled her hand away and picked up her menu. “The Chateaubriand is always good,” she said in a cheerful voice that broke his heart.

After dinner, the conversation, predictably, turned to the weather.