“He might. He doesn’t like to lose what belongs to him.”
“A woman doesn’t
“Tell Brian that. He’ll laugh in your face like he laughed in mine when I told him pretty much the same thing.”
“Stay, and he’ll keep on taking out his frustrations on you,” Shelby said. She couldn’t quite keep the anger she felt from threading her words. “Someday he’s liable to hurt you a lot worse than he did last night.”
“I know that, too. You don’t think I like being afraid, do you?”
“Then why don’t you leave?”
“I could tell you it’s because I still love him, that I keep hoping he’ll turn back into the man he used to be.”
“But it wouldn’t be the truth.”
“No. I don’t love him anymore, I’m scared to death of him.”
“Then get out before it’s too late.”
“And go where? I don’t have money of my own or anywhere to go.”
“There are battered women’s shelters.”
“I couldn’t stand a place like that. Besides, he’d find me and then things would be even worse—” She glanced up at the redwood-and-glass house on the bluff top, then gingerly eased herself off the shelf. “I’d better get back before he comes looking for me.” The faint, empty smile. “He’s liable to think I’m down here seducing your husband.”
“Claire …”
“Yes?”
“If your brother-in-law does leave today, think about going with him.”
“Oh, God, no, that’s the last thing I’d do. Brian wouldn’t allow it—it’d just set him off again if I tried.”
Shelby didn’t push it. Instead she said, “We’ll be here until New Year’s morning, if you want to talk again. Or need a ride anywhere for any reason.”
Claire blinked at her. “You’d do that for somebody you barely know?”
“My job is helping people in trouble.”
“Well … I appreciate it, I really do, but I’ll be all right. I can handle Brian when he’s sober. I won’t let him drink as much as he did yesterday.”
Famous last words. “The offer is good as long as we’re here.”
“Thanks.” Claire started away, stopped and looked back. “It’s helped, talking to you. I’m glad we met.”
Shelby watched her walk away along the beach in slow, stiff strides. My God, she thought, the things we do to each other, the things we do to ourselves.
N I N E
I KNEW IT,” MACKLIN SAID. “I knew Lomax was the kind of lowlife bastard who beats up on his wife. Didn’t I tell you there were bad vibes in that house?”
“Yes, you told me.”
“I didn’t like him the minute I laid eyes on him. Standing there with that gun in his hand— Christ! You don’t suppose he’d use it on her, do you?”
“He might, with enough provocation. He’s an angry, violent, abusive drunk. Unpredictable.”
“Paula knows it, too. Probably another reason why she left.”
“Probably.”
“Did you say anything to Claire about the gun?”
“No. What could I say?”
“Well, she should be aware of the risk.”
“She’s aware of it,” Shelby said. “She’s not stupid.”
“Then why doesn’t she hide the gun somewhere? Or get rid of it—throw it into the ocean?”
“She’s too afraid of doing anything that might set him off again. What she really needs to do is leave him and get a restraining order, but she’s like so many battered wives—she just doesn’t have the courage.”
They were standing on the platform at the bluff’s edge. Shelby hadn’t been in the cottage when he got back from Seacrest; he’d come down here looking for her, found her just climbing the steps from the beach. The look on her face prompted him to ask what was wrong and she’d told him. And in turn he’d told her about his brief encounter with Paula Decker in Seacrest.
He said, “You think Claire has been having an affair?”
“She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
“Paula called her a nasty little bitch.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Paula’s one herself. If Claire’s been sleeping with somebody else, she was driven to it. I wouldn’t blame her.”
“Neither would I. A woman trapped in a lousy marriage has a right to—”
He broke off. Subtle shift from the impersonal to the personal in what he’d been about to say. Shelby was also a woman trapped in what was becoming, or in her eyes might have already become, a lousy marriage. Different kind of lousy, sure—he’d never raised a hand to her and never would—but just as unhappy. He didn’t believe she’d cheat on him; he’d never once considered cheating on her. If she did, though, he couldn’t blame her any more than she blamed Claire Lomax. But he didn’t want to know. Ever. No matter what happened between them, he needed his bedrock beliefs intact, his memories untainted.
“Well, anyhow,” he said, “I don’t think we should have anything more to do with those people.”
“I feel the same way. But if Claire comes to me for help, I’m not going to turn my back on her.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
“Let’s go on up,” Shelby said. “It’s chilly out here.”
Macklin made lunch for them from his Seacrest purchases: cracked crab, pasta salad, sourdough French bread. They didn’t talk any more about the Lomaxes, or about much of anything else.
The afternoon passed in what seemed like stalled time. They played a couple of games of Scrabble, a board game they’d always enjoyed … he’d always enjoyed, anyway. Played mostly in silence. Shelby’s mind clearly wasn’t on it today, although she won the second game on the strength of a 66-point, triple-word, double-letter-V score with the word
She didn’t want to play a third. He suggested they take a nap together; the look she gave him quashed that idea. What would she like to do then? She said she didn’t know, what did he want to do? Paddy Chayefsky dialogue. I dunno, Marty, what do you feel like doing?
Oh yeah, they were having a great time. Some real spousal bonding going on here.
He sat there feeling frustrated and ineffectual as hell. What kind of man couldn’t amuse his wife or himself, just kept on finding ways to bore the crap out of both of them?
This was something else he hated about himself, this nagging feeling of inadequacy. He’d had plenty of self- confidence once because there’d been more than a few things he’d been good at. School subjects—English, American lit, history, even math. Cooking. Baseball.
God yes, baseball.
The game had come easy to him, every phase of it—hitting, base running, fielding. He’d had a .373 average his first year at UC Santa Cruz, fifteen home runs and a dozen stolen bases. Been just as good if not better on defense—covered more ground, caught more balls than any outfielder on any team he’d played with, from Little League to college. Pro potential, no question, until the home-plate collision that blew out his knee and left him unable to run with any speed.
One catch he’d made his first year in college was forever sharp in his memory. Ninth inning, two out, Cal Poly with the bases loaded, Santa Cruz up by a run. Towering drive by their cleanup hitter that he saw all the way, as soon as it left the aluminum bat with that booming metallic clang. Fast and easy backward glide to the warning track at the centerfield fence, and then up, up, he’d never jumped higher, must’ve been two feet off the ground when the ball smacked into the webbing of his glove, then his body slamming hard into the fence and the impact popping the ball out, but seeing that too as if it were happening in slow motion and snatching it in midair with his
