Page 19 - WTP XII #3

small strawberry birthmark below her right ear, but she blocked hm with her arm, knocking him away.
It was then, while Gene was herding people into the house and Catherine and Luca and Katie were climb- ing the steps and the first drops of rain were begin- ning to fall, that he remembered. As if nineteen years had collapsed, he was back in San Francisco, in bed with her at the hotel, the two of them drunk at the end of the second day of a three-day conference. His fury at Catherine for refusing to stop seeing Sam had shimmered inside him like the heat haze of a mirage, matched only by Penny’s fury at her husband for his almost non-existent sperm count. How they’d snick- ered at the irony over Hendricks martinis at the hotel bar: One of them didn’t want a third child, the other couldn’t conceive a first. For two nights, reckless beyond caring or sense, they’d made passionate love, too exhausted in the mornings to attend any presen- tations. Early Sunday morning, while he was asleep, she’d left without saying goodbye.
He’d never told anyone what he’d done, not even his therapist. Over time, the guilt had settled into him like a bone that had healed crooked. For ten years, he’d avoided any professional gathering west of Chicago.
Gretel stepped so close to him he could smell the whiskey on her breath. He hoped no one was look- ing. “It meant nothing,” she said, her voice so low he could barely hear her. “A drunken mistake.” Her eyes were cold. “Maybe you told your wife, but Charlie
has no idea. I want to keep it that way.” Silent, Hank thrust his hands into his pockets and watched her walk inside. Oblivious to the rain, he stared at the ocean, the waves stronger now, the water dark. Gretel scared him. She seemed angry and off-kilter, the kind of woman who could imagine blackmail. Thank god that weekend she’d been using her diaphragm. Or had she?
There was a tap on his shoulder and Catherine stood beside him, holding a magazine over her head. “Come inside,” she said. “You’re drenched.” Rain dripped down his cheeks and under his collar, his shirt clung to his chest. “You look like a wet mutt. Go upstairs and dry off. Put on one of Gene’s shirts.”
Relieved to be told what to do, Hank willingly obeyed, towel-drying his hair and borrowing a blue and white checkered shirt from Gene’s closet before going back down. He sat on the floor beside Catherine and Luca and glanced at Gretel. She was danger incarnate,
a threat to all he loved. While his gut told him she wouldn’t rat on him, he knew it was only because she didn’t want Charlie to find out. If he did, Hank
“He’d never told anyone what he’d done, not even
his therapist. Over time, the guilt had settled into him like a bone that had healed crooked.”
(continued on page 19)
12