Elin Hilderbrand - The Love Season

The Marguerite sitting next to Renata now had a short, shaggy haircut (truth be told, it looked like she’d cut it herself) and she seemed much older than she had in the pictures. She was wearing a pink silk kimono, an article of clothing that intrigued Renata; it was exactly the kind of thing Action would have picked out of a vintage shop and boldly made her own. The kimono looked like it had history, character; if Suzanne Driscoll owned such a kimono she would have stored it in the attic, pulling it out only for costume parties, Halloween. But here was Marguerite wearing it to dinner. Despite the haircut and the aging, Marguerite had style. And more important, most important, the thing Renata had counted on, was that she exuded generosity, tolerance, acceptance. Renata felt she could confide everything, just from the way Marguerite had said, Can you tell me what happened? Just from the way she said, Darling?

“Well,” Renata said. “I ran away. Again.”

Marguerite nodded, and gave a little smile. “So I see.”

Renata wondered what kind of scene was enacting itself back at Vitamin Sea. Had her father arrived yet? Had anyone noticed she was missing? How long would it be until the phone rang? By leaving, Renata hoped she had made herself clear: She wasn’t going to marry Cade. She wasn’t going to conform to Cade’s idea of her, or the Driscolls’ idea, or her father’s idea. She was going down another road entirely.

“I cheated on my fiancé today,” Renata said. “I had sex with someone else.”

Marguerite’s eyebrows arched. The secret smile faded. Renata felt a wave of regret. Did Marguerite disapprove? Renata felt guilty about Miles, but mostly because she had been up in the dunes with him when Sallie had her accident. The act of sex bothered her less-though there were Cade’s feelings to consider, and now Nicole’s. The sex had seemed predestined, somehow, the inevitable result of the bizarre circumstances she found herself in today.

“If I tell you about it,” Renata said, “you won’t judge me, will you?”

“No,” Marguerite said. “Heavens, no.” She sipped her champagne, nibbled a mussel, and nodded her head. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m listening.”

The clock ticked; it ding-donged out quarter till the hour, then the eight strokes of the hour. The number of mussels diminished as the number of used toothpicks piled up on the side of the platter. When the mussels were gone, Marguerite brought Renata a hunk of bread to wipe up the aioli. The girl remembered her manners from time to time, placing her hands daintily in her lap-then, as she got swept away by her own storytelling, she would forget them, downing her champagne in thirsty gulps, polishing the inside of the aioli bowl to a shine. Meanwhile, Marguerite tried to predict the girl’s needs-more champagne, more bread, a fresh napkin-while trying to keep track of the tale she was spinning. Renata started with the engagement only a week earlier-a diamond ring in a glass of vintage Dom Perignon at Lespinasse. Impossible to say no to, Marguerite had to agree. Then Renata moved on to the house on Hulbert Avenue, and the boy’s parents, Suzanne and Joe Driscoll. Did Marguerite remember them? Marguerite couldn’t say that she did. Renata described the mother, Suzanne, very carefully: the red hair swept back and curled under the ears, the big blue eyes, the skinny forearms jangling with gold bracelets. Marguerite didn’t remember anyone like this-or rather, she remembered too many people like this, so many years in the business, so many nights in the summer, it was impossible to keep track. Marguerite felt like she was letting Renata down by not recalling the couple who were to be her in-laws, but then Renata smiled wickedly and it became clear she was glad Marguerite didn’t remember them.

“How about the Robinsons?” Renata said. “She’s short with dark hair, weighs about eighty pounds. His first name is Kent; he wears half spectacles.”

“No, darling. I’m sorry. If I saw them, maybe…”

Again, the look of someone who had just won a secret point.

Marguerite heard about Renata’s jog to the Beach Club, the discovery of Suzanne’s wedding list, the conversation in which Renata told her father of her engagement, followed by the decision to go with this boy, Miles, to Madequecham Beach.

“I can see how that would be hard to resist,” Marguerite said.

“You don’t even know,” Renata said.

And then there was a change in Renata’s tone. Her voice grew somber; the words came more slowly. Marguerite heard about a girl named Sallie, decorated like a Christmas tree with tattoos and piercings. Sallie had a surfboard in the car; it got loose and smacked Renata in the jaw, hence the bruise. Renata disliked Sallie. But then came the discovery of the cross Marguerite had fashioned so long ago (she could remember pounding it into the ground with a mallet meant for tenderizing meat, her bare hands freezing) and Sallie was there, next to Renata as Renata knelt before the cross and kissed it. Next Marguerite heard about heavy surf Sallie handing Renata her sunglasses, Sallie kissing Renata on the jaw. Marguerite heard about the volleyball game, sandwiches smushed by beer bottles, Sallie and Miles sitting on either side of Renata, making her feel, somehow, like she had to choose sides. Marguerite heard the girl Sallie’s words, Will you keep an eye on me? And, Don’t go getting married while I’m gone .

“I said I’d keep an eye on her,” Renata said. “But as soon as she was back in the water I disappeared into the dunes with Miles.”

Marguerite nodded.

“And she went down. Hit her head on her board and went under and when they found her, when they brought her out, she wasn’t breathing.”

“Oh,” Marguerite said.

“It was like I caused the accident,” Renata said. “I said I would watch her and then I didn’t, I was off doing this other horrible thing, and I feel…not only like I was negligent, but like it happened because of me.”

“You feel responsible,” Marguerite said. “Guilty.”

“God, yes,” Renata said.

Marguerite stood up to slide the asparagus into the oven. Guilt, responsibility-these were topics Marguerite knew intimately. She should be able to offer some words -things just happen; we don’t have any control; we can’t blame ourselves for the fate that befalls others- but Marguerite didn’t believe these words to be true. Guilt lived in this house with her; it was as constant as the clock.

“I understand the way you must be feeling,” Marguerite said. She cut two pieces of tart and set them down on the table.

Renata blinked her eyes; tears fell. Marguerite replenished their champagne and touched Renata’s hand.

“Is the girl all right?” Marguerite said. “She went to the hospital?”

“She went to the hospital here,” Renata said. “Then they flew her to Boston in a helicopter. I don’t know if she’s all right. I have no way of knowing.”

Marguerite sniffed the air, as if she were a witch, or an intuitive person, capable of divining things.

“She’s all right,” Marguerite said. “I can feel it.”

“Really?” Renata said.

For a second, Marguerite felt cruel. The conversation with Dan seemed like aeons ago, but she did recall his words: You’re like Mata Hari to her, Margo. She’s going to listen to what you say .

“Really,” Marguerite said. “But if it makes you feel better, we can call someone. We can call the hospital in Boston and ask.”

Renata searched Marguerite’s face. More tears threatened to fall and Marguerite panicked. She wasn’t prepared for any of this. But then Renata’s features settled and she picked up her fork. She gazed at the tart. “This looks delicious,” she said. She took a bite, then eyed the dark glass doors that led to Marguerite’s garden, as though she expected the bogeyman to appear.