Page 17 - WTP XII #3

forgive. How, still, he harbored blame as a reminder of his moral superiority.
“Are your Chicago friends here?” he asked.
“Not yet. Soon. Go outside and enjoy the view.”
Hank ordered a G&T from the bar, popped a lobster crostini in his mouth and checked to see that Cath- erine was still engaged. Out on the deck, small groups had formed according to some choreogra- phy indecipherable to Hank. Making the rounds, he greeted people he hadn’t seen since the last party, then leaned on the railing and gazed at the water. A seagull circled over the lawn. A dark green sloop’s mainsail and jib gleamed white against the blue sky. Someday Hank wanted a boat of his own to take Catherine cruising. He regretted the fight they’d had that morning. Although he’d blamed her, he knew he was partly responsible. His mother had rattled off lies so fast they swallowed the truth before it could be spoken, leaving Hank attuned to them like a dog to smell. Even a small one ignited a minor revolution inside him.
Behind him a woman, her voice rising above the oth- ers, cursed the one percent, in particular the owner of a McMansion that had spoiled her view. Listening to her rant made Hank think of Sam Richardson’s penthouse, recently featured in Architectural Digest, with its spectacular view of the harbor and valuable collection of modern art. The guy’s prices were soar- ing. Hank wasn’t sure whether he felt more envious or threatened. Catherine claimed Sam was happily married, but Hank had seen the way he’d ogled her at the opening of her show six years before, a show, admittedly, that he’d gotten for her at his gallery. It had led to more one-person shows in several cities, including New York and Chicago, as well as a piece in the Whitney Biennial. Thanks to Sam, she now made more money than Hank. He shook his glass, nothing
but ice, and fled to the bar to escape the conversation.
The Chicago people had arrived. Gene corralled Cath- erine and Hank and a couple of other guests and introduced them: Charlie, Gretel and their daugh-
ter, Katie, who was looking at colleges. The girl was dressed in a sleeveless sundress, orange sandals that matched the poppies on the dress, and a small silver heart she nervously slid up and down on its chain until her mother pointed to her own neck and shook her head. Katie was about Luca’s age, and Hank felt sorry for her and irritated that Luca, who’d promised to show up for a couple of hours, hadn’t arrived.
“We like Chicago,” Gretel said to Beth, “but we miss California.”
“I hate Chicago,” Katie said. “Only Dad really likes it.”
“The fires, they get to you after a while,” Charlie said. “Besides, we have family in Chicago.”
“You do,” the girl said.
“They’re your family, too,” Gretel said.
Hank frowned. The harshness in her voice brought back his fight with Catherine. After worrying about Luca for months because he was lonely at school, remote at home and, apparently, had no interest in girls or boys, Hank had spotted him walking to the beach with a leggy brunette and dared to interrupt Catherine while she was painting to give her the good news. At first, she’d been angry and evasive but final- ly admitted that she’d known about the girl for over
a month. Luca had sworn her to secrecy. Stunned and hurt, Hank had said,” I’m his father, and I would’ve told you.” He accused her of being up to her old tricks of secrecy and lying while she, in turn, called him a self-righteous ass who never could keep a secret. “I’ve kept yours for nineteen years,” he’d said, slamming the door. A few hours later, in a fit of contrition, he apologized and told her he loved her and was happy for Luca. Catherine had sighed. “Our last child,” she said. “I’ve always wished we had more.”
Gene led the group out to the deck where the air had become sharp and salty. A cool breeze fluttered, a mist crept over the water. “A change of weather,” Gene said. “We need it.”
“Do you have other kids?” Catherine asked Gene’s friends.
Charlie shook his head. “We were lucky to have this
one.” He smiled at Katie.
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