girls do these days. She wore revealing clothes, a slit of seductive bare midriff often flirting out between her T-shirt and low-riding jeans. Even her ponytail swished across her back in a provocative manner.

Of course Rob had tried things. Any boy would. It was up to the girl to put on the brakes. Not that I’d resisted Phil with much effort.

I rang the doorbell and a gonging arpeggio chimed throughout the house. As I waited, I tried to peer through one of the tall rectangular windows flanking the door. Maybe Lucille wasn’t home, which would be a relief. After several minutes, I started back toward my car just as Lucille opened the door.

Her face was devoid of expression, as if I’d roused her from sleep. I remembered her as tall, blonde, and robust—like one of the Nordic athletic beauties I’d seen on the ski slopes. But the woman who stood before me looked as though she were suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome. Her pale cheeks were gaunt; her frumpy hair drooped.

“Come in,” she said, barely moving her lips.

I tried to appear at ease as I stepped onto the black marble floor. I scanned the front hall with its graceful staircase curving up to the second floor. A crystal chandelier almost big enough to illuminate an auditorium sparkled overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of light across a floral arrangement sitting on a round table in the center of the room.

“This way,” Lucille said, pointing me toward the living room. My eyes took in the spacious area with its baby grand piano poised in one corner. An original Andy Warhol hung above the couch, and on another wall a painting by Joan Miro. Out the window stretched an Olympic-sized swimming pool with a diving board at one end, and behind that lay Lake Washington. I felt like a kid watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous on TV.

“Please, have a seat,” Lucille said, wringing her hands. “May I get you something?”

I sat on the far end of the couch. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Which wasn’t the least bit true.

Lucille perched on an armchair next to the couch. She chewed the cuticle around her thumb for a moment. “I assume you know why I asked you to come.”

“Yes, Rob told me.” Not that he’d said much. I’d been in a daze when we spoke, and I hadn’t thought to ask some pertinent questions.

“It’s a tragedy. My daughter’s life is ruined.”

“I’m sorry,” I automatically said, then realized it sounded like an apology. “It’s terrible for both kids. Their lives will never be the same.”

“But it’s a hundred times worse for the girl.”

I agreed with her, but I said nothing. On the way over, I’d decided to let Lucille do most of the talking.

“And what will our friends and neighbors think?” she said. “I’ll never be able to look them in the eye again.”

I heard elephant-sized footsteps on the staircase. A moment later, Joe, clad in a black suit and red silk tie, swaggered into the room. Not much taller than Lucille, he had a wrestler’s wide shoulders and a broad belly, dark wiry hair, and a brushy moustache.

“Do you remember my husband?” Lucille asked, her gaze lowered.

I said, “Yes, hello.” Joe’s cold eyes stared back without a show of recognition. I offered him my right hand, but he folded his arms across his chest.

“Joe came home early today. Unexpectedly.” She motioned for him to sit, but he remained standing with knees locked and feet spread wide.

“Is this the boy’s mother?” He directed his words to Lucille, as though I weren’t there.

“Yes.”

He spewed a blast of air in my direction. “You’ve got your nerve coming here.”

“Please, Joe,” she said. “I invited her over. We need a plan.”

“What we need is to put that juvenile delinquent son of hers in jail.”

Could that happen? No, Rob hadn’t done anything wrong. I shot to my feet. “My son has never been in trouble in his life.” That was a slight exaggeration, but I returned Joe’s ugly stare as if I were on the witness stand and my life depended on it.

“He raped my daughter.” He spit out his words like rotten meat. “I’ll prosecute, stick him behind bars where he won’t hurt anyone else.”

I was horrified. I felt like standing up to the bully and tossing the blame where half of it belonged—on Andrea. But I was unable to speak one word to a man who looked ready to punch me.

Lucille jumped to Joe’s side. “Please, darling,” she said, touching his wrist, then retreating. “Let’s not argue.”

He paid no attention. His face flushed purple; blood vessels coiled around his thick neck like serpents. He spun around and stomped across the floor, causing a glass-faced cabinet to shake.

Lucille and I stood listening to him pound up the staircase, cross the landing, then slam a door. I turned to Lucille and saw fear masking her face. What a horrible brute she’d married. I felt sorry for her, but that didn’t change things. The man had threatened to press charges, and he was an attorney, used to battling it out in the courtroom. Could he do that? Rob and Andrea were the same age, but what if Andrea claimed Rob had forced himself on her?

“I’m sorry,” Lucille said. She gnawed at her fingernail. “Joe gets a little excited sometimes, but his heart’s in the right place.”

A key rattled in the front door, and she went to open it. Not wishing to be caught alone if Joe returned, I followed her.

“Mom.” Andrea, one hand holding her abdomen, moved across the threshold like a woman five times her age. She looked as if she’d lost weight. Her jeans hung loosely on her hips, and her eyes were sunken.

“Baby, are you all right?” Lucille asked.

“Biology class.” Andrea’s voice shuddered. “We had to dissect a dead frog. The smell made me throw up.”

Her head jerked when she saw me. “Oh, hi,” she said.

I was unable to take my eyes off of her. Inside this young woman

Вы читаете A Portrait of Marguerite
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