“What are those?” Patrick pointed to two frozen drinks on his tray.
“Piña coladas. Doused with a shot of spiced rum.”
Patrick smiled. Party house be damned. “We’ll take two of those.”
As they settled in the cabana, Clara wrapped the straps around her bag and set it gently by her side. “Rules don’t apply to you, do they?”
“What?” Patrick asked innocently.
“‘Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more . . .’”
“Clara, it’s the dead of summer. No one’s here.”
The cabana provided welcome shade and comfortable white furniture that didn’t ask for your skin as the price to sit down. Patrick kicked off his shoes and propped an orange pillow behind him; he wanted to appear casual, nonthreatening, to set the tone. His mother’s voice, Don’t be angry. He was doing his best, for the sake of the kids, if nothing else. He had to be what they needed right now.
Guncle with a “G.”
“Clara.” He realized suddenly he hadn’t formulated a plan. “What’s going on?”
Clara refused his gaze, focusing instead on the design in the outdoor rug.
“Something’s happening. You’re in a lot of pain.”
Clara frowned. They sat in silence until Patrick couldn’t take it anymore. There were other things he had hoped to accomplish with his day.
“Something prompted your visit. You love these kids. But you’re not spontaneous.”
Clara gritted her teeth, then relented. “Darren and I are getting a divorce.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Clara. I’m so sorry.”
“He was having an affair. Multiple affairs, it seems.” She looked over at the mountains as if it were no big deal, but the betrayal clearly stung.
“Monogamy is dead,” Patrick observed—casually, he thought, but it clearly hit Clara like a slap across the face. He apologized immediately. “Sorry. That was payback for something. This mess.”
Clara chewed on her lip and it scared Patrick, the acceptance, the defeat. Clara spent her life raging for everyone, every person maligned by someone else, but she couldn’t summon the fight for herself? He sat perfectly still. Only after what seemed like an interminable silence did he inch forward, placing his hand gently on his sister’s knee.
“You don’t deserve this,” he added.
“No. No, I don’t.”
“We’re a fine trio, you, Greg, and me. Law of averages, you’d think there’d be a happily ever after for one of us.”
Clara’s lips vibrated, and she emitted a sound like a hum.
“And your children, stepchildren. They’re Darren’s. You’re worried about losing them.” In an instant, everything was clear—this was transference, pure and simple.
“No,” Clara objected sharply. “That’s not what’s going on.” She leaned in to prosecute her case, but the waiter arrived with their drinks, cutting her short. He placed the drinks in front of them, each on a cocktail napkin, then produced a small tray of pool snacks.
“Is there a room number for the charge?”
“There is,” Patrick began, producing his credit card before Clara could object. “But this is my treat.” He looked at his sister, who kept her intense focus on the ground. “Keep it open.”
“Thank you.” The waiter smiled and bowed awkwardly, as if he were leaving an audience with the queen of England. Patrick reached for his drink and nudged the other toward Clara.
“Down the hatch,” he said, then took a sip and let the slush coat his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose to combat the inevitable brain freeze, then placed his drink on a side table. “I don’t understand. You’ve been in Palm Springs this whole time?”
Clara nodded.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“You kicked me out.”
“No I didn’t.” Did he? The last few days were already a blur. “You skulked away in the middle of the night.”
“See? This is part of the problem. Seven a.m. is not the middle of the night!” Clara kicked her legs out in front of her, studying how they looked in her culottes.
“You got some color,” Patrick observed.
“My legs look thinner.” Clara was impressed with what some sunshine could do.
“Guncle Rule: If you can’t tone it, tan it.”
Clara frowned.
“That one’s a freebie for you.” Patrick smiled, delighted to be under her skin. “‘Not a suitable environment’? I have to tell you, that one hurt.”
Clara sipped her piña colada. She raised an eyebrow—it was surprisingly exactly what she needed. She took another swig of the drink before setting it on the table and pushing it an arm’s length away. She was here to set the example, after all.
“And did you think about Greg? Serving him with papers in recovery? Risking a setback for him because you and I can’t handle ourselves properly?”
Three kids ran by on the pool deck and together they shouted, “Slow down, it’s slippery,” each equally surprised by the other.
Clara responded, “Greg’s mess is Greg’s mess.” She reached for her drink inadvertently before trying to pass it off as a casual gesture. “They’re not dealing with their grief. Greg thought you could help them. We all wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.” She leaned back in her chair. “For god’s sake, there’s another video of them on the internet. Laughing.”
Patrick crept his fingers into the sun and waited to feel a familiar sizzle. He bit his lip to keep from smiling. His posting the video had done exactly what he had hoped: gotten a rise out of his sister. “You’d rather see them cry?”
Clara didn’t have the words to explain how they should be, but she knew precisely how they shouldn’t.
“They’re playing a role, Clara. Inventing versions of themselves to mask who they truly are right now because everyone has told them to be strong. And that’s okay. That’s part of it. Part of grieving. Part of growing up.”
“And who is going to prevent them from getting lost in these roles? From losing a sense of themselves?”
“I am,” Patrick said matter-of-factly.
“You are.”
“What do you think
