Anne Korkeakivi - An Unexpected Guest

She just hoped Jamie’s girl was a nice girl. And that being in love for the first time, if that’s what they were talking about, wouldn’t compel him to pull any more stunts like faking his mother’s signature and hopping on planes without permission. And all the rest. Barrow strictly forbade bringing girls on campus, outside of the specific events to which they might be invited.

“Well,” she said, “let’s start from the beginning. I gather this was the Ryan you mentioned?”

Jamie didn’t say anything.

“I guess Ryan can be a girl’s name, too?”

“Mom!”

“Okay, okay.” She sighed. “Do you like her?”

He rolled his eyes and pointed to the clock on the bedside table. “Hadn’t you better get ready? Won’t Dad’s dinner be soon?”

“You’re going to have to tell me everything eventually. It’s not like you’re just going to stay home from school a week and then go back without any discussion.”

She got up and opened the door to her wardrobe. Her outfit for the evening hung inside, the top part still wrapped in paper, as the dry cleaners did it in France.

“Rian,” he said softly, pronouncing it with just a hint of a lilt. “R-i-a-n.”

R-i-a-n, she thought to herself. R-i-a-n.

She stopped, her hand on the suit. Edward had said Barrow had sent the girl away. Not that they’d “sent her home” or “sent her back to her own school” or even “sent her packing.” If she wasn’t a Barrow student, how could they have sent her away? Unless he meant fired.

“Jamie,” she said carefully, “was Rian a student? I mean, what was she doing at Barrow? Was she just visiting?”

“What’s the difference?” he mumbled and said nothing more.

She turned to face him, putting her hands on her hips. “Listen, James, you are going to have to talk about it whether you want to or not. You are just making things worse for yourself with the way you are behaving.”

He shook his head again.

“Jamie.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “No, she isn’t a student. I mean, she is, but obviously not at Barrow. It’s all boys, Mom.”

“You don’t need to take that sarcastic tone with me,” she said. “I’m not the one who’s been acting the fool here.” She heard herself and thought: If that’s not the biggest lie on earth.

“Right, whatever. Sorry. ” Jamie crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his lips shut.

“Rian.” She swung her dry cleaning off the rack, selected a fresh package of pantyhose from a shelf within the armoire, and carried them into the bathroom. She left the door ajar, just enough so she could still hear him. “Okay. Where was she a student, then?” she said. Her sweater and pants fell away from her body. Underneath, her skin felt cool. His knee next to hers. She turned on the tap, dampened a washcloth, and turned the water back off so Jamie could hear her. “At another boarding school? At a school in London? One of the Catholic schools?”

When Jamie didn’t answer, she widened the opening of the door and looked out. He was kneeling on the floor, whispering into his cell phone. She hadn’t heard a ring, but maybe a call had come while the tap was on. “Whom are you talking to?”

Jamie frowned and cupped his hand over the phone. “Not her, if that’s what you mean.” He looked away, from her, from the phone. “I don’t even have a number to reach her now.”

She pulled her head back into the bathroom. She knew as much as she needed for the moment. If the girl was staff, there would be all hell to pay at Barrow. No wonder they weren’t expelling Jamie. They were the ones responsible. But the main thing was, she had him here now, safe, away from any immediate trouble. Like all kids should be.

She closed the door and peeled off the rest of her clothing. She drew the washcloth across her cheekbones, and around her neck, careful not to touch her hair, then gently smoothed in cleanser. How warm the sun had felt on her and Niall’s heads as they sat beside the statue of Andrieu. The sun was gone by now. She dipped the washcloth under the tap and slid it across her face. Then she dabbed at her skin with a clean dry towel.

“Don’t,” he said the morning after they’d stayed in that seedy motel, when she’d gone to open the back of the camper.

She felt as though the horrible night still hung to her. “I’d like to change my clothes. My bag’s back there.”

“We’re going to the beach today. You don’t need to wash.” He pointed to the cab of the camper. “I’ve put your suit and a towel in front already.”

Towel, he’d said. Singular. She climbed into the driver’s seat. There was, indeed, only one towel bunched up against the dashboard.

She decided not to ask any questions about it. Niall never swam. Maybe he didn’t plan to get wet at the beach.

“Can we stop for breakfast?”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you.”

They drove north until the motel was well behind them. After about forty minutes on the road, he indicated a diner with big glass windows.

“Leave the car right in front of the window, by the door,” he said.

They sat down by the window that gave out over their rental camper. He kept his sunglasses on, and instead of slipping into the side of the booth facing her, pushed into her side after her. He threw an arm over her shoulder and drew her into him.

“Coffee, black,” he told the waitress. “My wife will take hers with cream. You fancy pancakes? With a wee bit of sugar on them?”

Once, while sitting around her aunt and uncle’s kitchen on a Saturday morning, her aunt cooking up breakfast for all of them, her cousin had started teasing her for eating her pancakes with sugar on them instead of maple syrup. Niall remembered how she liked her pancakes.

He’d never touched her, not even her arm, in front of another human being before. Now he was calling her “my wife” to this waitress.

“What are you having?” she asked.

If he had next announced that they were going to visit a justice of the peace, she would have said yes without hesitation. She didn’t even care what had happened at the motel. She didn’t want to know what he’d been doing.

Niall laughed and nodded to the waitress. “She’ll have the pancakes, no syrup. I’ll have the eggs and bacon super, the toast.” He smiled. “Honeymooning makes you hungry.”

The waitress smiled back at him and tucked a bleached lock behind one ear. She was just a girl, about the same age as Clare but with an already tired-looking face and a creamy bosom and round bottom. While Niall watched it sway back behind the counter, Clare made a boat out of her napkin. She reminded herself he didn’t like heifers.

“You planning to sail away on that?” he asked her.

“Never,” she told him. And she meant it.

When she came out of her bathroom fully dressed, her hair combed and lip gloss applied, Jamie was asleep on the bed, his phone clutched in his hand. She checked her watch. His flight over from London this morning would have left very early, and who knew when all this had happened? In his room, in the dark, he’d have opened his computer to write the fake e-mail from Clare granting him permission to leave, packed up some things — the novel by Philip Roth, his passport — and slipped out before his roommate was even awake. Maybe he’d even slept in the airport. She checked her watch again. Edward wasn’t scheduled to be back with the P.U.S. for another twenty-four minutes. She’d give Jamie fifteen minutes to nap then shepherd him back to his own room, where Edward would be unlikely to venture during the course of the evening. Jamie could eat later, after all the guests were gone. He could go back to sleep in between times, and even if he woke before the dinner party ended, he’d know better than to wander out into his father’s evening.