Barefoot: A Novel

reading voice. No, Melanie thought. Not possible. But yes— Peter was sitting next to Blaine on the blue sofa, reading. Melanie stopped in her tracks. Peter’s overnight bag sat open behind the sofa; he was wearing his light-green pajamas. Had he slept here? Not possible. Melanie had stood at the window until the cab whisked him away.

Melanie approached the sofa. Peter’s voice was engaging and whimsical as he recited the names of the ducklings: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack. . . . For someone who claimed he had never wanted children, he was doing a remarkable job.

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Melanie said.

He looked up, as though astonished to find her there. “Good morning!” he said. “We’re reading.”

“I told you . . . you said that . . . I thought . . .”

“No hotel rooms,” Peter said. “Every room on the island, booked.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“So did I. But it was true. Because of the heat wave on the East Coast, I guess. So I came back. The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” Melanie said.

Blaine’s facial expression was pained; he looked like he was going to burst. “I want Peter to finish reading,” he said. “Please?”

“By al means,” Peter said. He smiled triumphantly at Melanie and continued regaling Blaine with the plight of the Mal ard family.

Melanie stormed out to the shower.

When Melanie emerged, clean and dressed and ready to take Peter to the airport—because this was where they were going, most immediately, before Josh showed up—Blaine was at the kitchen table eating his Cheerios. It might have been any other morning, except for the presence of Peter’s overnight bag, which was as unsettling as a dead animal in the room. Melanie smiled at Blaine; the poor child had been through enough this summer, he did not need to witness the decaying insides of Melanie’s marriage.

“Where’s Peter?”

“At the beach,” Blaine said. “He wanted to see it. And he was wearing his bathing suit. He’s going swimming. I wanted to go with him but he said I had to stay put.”

Melanie sank into a kitchen chair. It was seven-fifteen. She could take the Yukon to the beach, pick up Peter, bring him back to shower and change and get him out of here. But could she do it in forty-five minutes? Would Peter sense urgency and wonder about it, and resist? Would Vicki or Brenda wonder why Melanie was so eager to get Peter out of the house by eight o’clock?

She took a breath. This is all going to blow up in my face.

“Blow up?” Blaine said.

“Did I say that aloud?” Melanie asked.

“What’s going to blow up?” Blaine said.

“Nothing,” Melanie said. “Nothing.”

B e careful. That was the best advice his father had to offer, and the more Josh considered things, the more he realized these were the only words anybody could offer to someone in Josh’s position. Josh wrote the words in his journal: Be careful.

Melanie had pul ed a no-show again last night—so that was twice now. Josh had only waited around until ten- thirty, and he, pointedly, did not drive past Number Eleven on his way home. He had better things to do with his evening hours than track Melanie down. Maybe tonight he would be the one to stay home. Or better stil , maybe he’d cal up Zach and some of his other buddies from high school and go to the Chicken Box. Drink beer, check out the summer girls, dance. But as ever, Josh gave Melanie the benefit of the doubt. She was pregnant after al and, hence, legitimately tired. Or maybe there had been some kind of medical emergency—maybe she had pains, maybe something happened with Vicki.

Melanie wouldn’t stand him up on purpose; she wasn’t like that.

Josh pul ed up in front of Number Eleven. He smel ed bacon and his stomach rumbled. The paper cup of pebbles was in the middle of the flagstone walk. Josh picked it up on his way in.

“Hel o?” Josh said. He set the cup of pebbles in its customary place high up on the windowsil , out of Porter’s reach.

“Hi, Josh,” Vicki said. Her back was to him, she was at the stove, but her voice sounded different. It sounded strained, stressed, stretched. Josh looked over and saw a man at the kitchen table eating a stack of blueberry pancakes.

“Hi,” Josh said. Porter was in his high chair with his bowl of mush, and Blaine was in the seat next to the unfamiliar man, rol ing a Matchbox car along the edge of the table.

The man seemed eager to stand. He bumped the table, and his napkin slid off his lap to the floor as he reached over Blaine and Porter to shake Josh’s hand. The man had extremely long arms.

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing? I’m Peter Patchen.”

“Josh Flynn,” Josh said.

He was grateful that his name came automatical y, because shortly thereafter, Josh’s mind switched over to white noise. Peter Patchen. Peter Patchen.

“Hungry?” Vicki said.

“Ummmm,” Josh said. “Ahhhh. Actual y, not real y.”