Belinda McKeon - Tender

“Daddy’s giving you the eye,” James said.

Catherine glanced at him. “What?”

“Your man, Catherine,” he said drily. “Not my poor old fella. Jesus Christ.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing. She looked down to the Frenchman; he was occupied with one of the children.

“No, he’s not,” she said, but as often happened whenever she became aware of a man’s attention, or even of the possibility of it, her hands went to her hair; she fixed her ponytail.

“Oh, yeah,” James said with a smirk. “And Maman is not too happy about it, I can tell you. Look at her, shooting daggers at those long legs of yours.”

Catherine blew out through her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous. Sure her legs are miles longer than mine anyway.”

“Look, look,” James said out of the side of his mouth, and it was true, the man was gazing up at her now, his hands on his hips. The woman spoke to him, and he busied himself with something on the side of the boat.

“Now, Reilly,” James said, nudging her. “Bloody home wrecker, that’s what you are.”

“Stop,” she said, laughing.

“You know, you don’t keep your eyes open at all, Catherine,” he said, and he sat back from the edge of the bank, pulling up his knees and leaning against them. “So you don’t.”

Catherine shrugged. “It’s not really worth noticing that kind of thing.”

“Is it not?”

“To be looked at by some old French guy I’ve never seen before and will never see again? Big deal.”

“It is a big deal, if you ask me.”

“How?”

James just stuck out his lower lip.

“How?” Catherine said again. “I mean, look at his wife.” She pointed down to the woman, who had dropped now to her hunkers and was winding the ropes, her legs brown and strong, her sunglasses pushed up on her blond hair. “I mean, if that’s what he’s into, then he’s not going to be into me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Catherine.”

“What? I’m nothing like her.”

“You’re a woman,” he said flatly.

“I’m not a woman.”

“You’re not a woman?”

“I’m a girl.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Makes no odds.”

“Well, I don’t agree.”

“Well,” he said, and now his tone seemed almost angry, “you have the luxury of not having to agree.”

Startled, she attempted a laugh. “What’s got into you?” She nudged him. “James?”

“Nothing’s got into me, Catherine,” he said, his voice thick with something. “Nothing at all.”

He got to his feet, and she followed him, confused and embarrassed; what had she done? Was he pissed off with her for being so naive, the way Conor had seemed so often during the year, making snide allusions to her virginity, giving her the full force of his derision when she had got something wrong? But James was not like that — but was he? What was he to her, really? she found herself worrying again, as she got into step beside him; what was this? Being down here with him had done nothing to quieten the questions that had been bothering her. She was alone with James. She had been alone with him several times that day. Now here they were again, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on a beautiful day, sunlight glinting on the water, the sky giving them its acres of blue — so was this something? She could not get a handle on it. Was this them? Suddenly she felt the urge to laugh, although nothing was funny. The word this was slamming itself against her consciousness; This! This! This! bouncing off the walls of her mind, and when James stopped, now, and began to turn to her, she stopped in her tracks, panicked. Was this how it happened? If he tried to kiss her, she thought, she would want to throw herself into the canal. It would be like one of her uncles, turning to her. And yet what else had she brought it to, this thing between them? Coming down here. Talking to him, confiding in him, the way she did. If this was happening now, who was she to refuse it? Who was she to dispute it? This must be how it happened.

“Catherine,” James said, and she jumped. He noticed, and burst out laughing.

“Are you all right?” He reached out and took her arm; she felt it twitch.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just…”

“Are you worried I’m going to murder you?” he said, and he moved his hands to her neck. “Oh, Catherine,” he said, grinning, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to have to do this to you—”

“Stop,” she said, managing to laugh; she felt paralyzed by the sensation of his fingers at her throat.

He moved away from her. “You’re very jumpy.”

“Am I?”

He sighed, putting his hands in his pockets. “Listen, Catherine. There’s something I need to say to you.”

She inhaled sharply, and he looked at her, his gaze suspicious — but something else in it, too; something like hurt.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “It’s just — it’s so fucking hot, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “It’s warm.”

“Well, I’m hot,” she said, almost panting.

“Catherine,” he said, hunching his shoulders high. “You know the way I was saying to you earlier, about my mother really liking you?”

She nodded; on the way down to the canal, he had told Catherine how taken his mother was with her, how she had really, really wanted him to bring Catherine as his guest to the neighbor’s wedding. Catherine had laughed it off, uncomfortable, but he had insisted; his mother was really crazy about her, he had said. It had been a relief to be able to change the subject to the French family and their boat, but then that, in turn, had become something uncomfortable, and now this, whatever it was. Under her arms and on the palms of her hands, Catherine felt sweat collect.

“Oh, your mother is so lovely,” she said, nodding eagerly. “Your whole family. I mean, the ones I’ve met, and I’m sure the others, as well—”

“And in her head, you know, Catherine, my mother will already have us married off.”

Something punched its way out of her, some incredulous, horrified noise. It sounded like a laugh, sort of, she told herself; it had not been a laugh, but it might pass for one. She might get away with it. The sky, the grass verge, the glint of the canal waters seemed, for a moment, to spin.

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, laughing more normally. She waited for James to return the laugh, but he just shook his head.

“I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I could hear the two of you downstairs this morning, chatting away a mile to the dozen.”

“It was just small talk, for Christ’s sake,” Catherine said, in her tone now a kind of pleading. What the fuck was happening? “She was asking me about my family.”

He nodded curtly. “She likes family. She likes new generations.”

“Oh, well. I mean, your eldest brother is married, isn’t he? And Breege is practically engaged, your mother said.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said grimly. “All doing their duty.”

“Well, then.”

“No, no, my mother is delighted with you,” he said, giving her a strange, unreadable smile. “I can see it very clearly. She’s looking forward to the day.”

Catherine took a breath; raggedly, it found its way through her, and raggedly, it pushed out again. What was happening could not, surely, be happening, she told herself; they were eighteen years old — well, James was nineteen, but nineteen was young, too young — and they had met not even two months ago — and she did not, did not think of him that way — so this could not be happening, could not — but what had she stumbled into, what had she caused? This! This! This! was beating inside of her, a pummeling in her blood; and what was that way he was, now, looking at her? What was that look in the blueness of his eyes? It looked like anger, looked almost like hatred, but he could not, surely, hate her — not if he was bringing this up with her, not if he was trying to haul this future down on top of her; but was that what he was doing? Was that possible? Was this some kind of hallucination, some voodoo?