“Patrick, you’re an actor. Enough with the psychobabble.”
Patrick let it go. He would never make her understand the bravery of the arts. The importance of exploring the human condition, particularly for gay people, who did so with gusto, and with the very tool that they were first rejected for: their large, beautiful hearts.
“Men are impossible. You know that? You, Greg, Darren, Grant one day, probably. The whole lot of you. I swear if I get through this divorce alive I’m going to shack up with a woman.” She watched as a father lifted his young daughter out of the shallow end and tossed her a few feet in the air; the girl squealed with delight. Later she might allow herself to think not all men were the devil, but she didn’t have time for such naiveté now.
“Is that a coming-out?” Patrick asked, needling her. “Should I call GLAAD? We could issue a press release?”
“Fuck off.”
A breeze swept through the cabana and Patrick raised his shirt a few times to feel it against his skin. “I handled it. With Greg, by the way.” He glanced down at the sweat forming on his piña colada’s plastic cup—no hotel served glass by the pool—and watched as one bead of moisture slalomed through the others. That was him, he thought, finding a way through.
Clara took a handful of pool snacks, these Japanese-looking crackers shellacked with a luminescent glaze. She ate two, then timidly placed the rest on her napkin. They were not at all to her liking.
“You’re not going to do this, Clara. You’re not dragging Greg out of rehab. You’re not dragging Maisie and Grant in front of a judge just because your life is in transition. It’s not who you are.”
She did not like hearing her motives belittled.
“Contact the court and withdraw your petition. Right now.”
“And if I don’t?”
Don’t be angry. “You want me to threaten you?”
Clara continued to glare.
“Fine. I will have an army of attorneys bury you so deep in a legal avalanche, those kids will be in college before you dig yourself out from under it. I have the resources. You do not.” Patrick held his sister’s eye until she looked away. When she did, his heart broke for her. “I don’t want things to be this way,” he said softly.
Clara twisted and squirmed, exhausted. She was done with the heat, done with her family, done with this hotel, done with the fight. Patrick was right about resources, and they both knew he had the resolve and the spite to employ them. It was five more weeks until Maisie and Grant would be home with their father. Back in Connecticut, where she could look in on them more carefully. Away from Patrick’s influence. Under hers. Was it worth winning a battle only to lose the war? “Fine.”
“Clara, you have such a tremendous heart.”
She winced. “But?”
Patrick took a sharp breath. “But nothing. I know you only wanted to help.”
Clara sat silently.
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief. He downed the rest of his drink, then ate the slice of pineapple off the rim. “I’m sorry I threatened you. This was bound to get heated, but still. Now come to the house. Let’s get your luggage and you’ll stay with us for a few more days and get in some good time with the kids.”
Clara turned her attention to the little girl in the pool. Her laughter was a trigger, it made Clara envy how simple things used to be.
“Clara?”
“I’ll see them in a few weeks.”
“You will,” Patrick agreed. “But you should also see them now.”
Clara’s eyes started to water. She could not say goodbye to them a second time. “It’s time for me to go home.”
A large gust of wind took Patrick’s cap; he caught it just before it was lost. He placed it back on his head and held it on tight with both hands. “Remember that story Dad used to tell? About the Siamese twins who were drafted?”
“In the Civil War?” Clara closed her eyes behind her sunglasses, grateful for the change of subject. “Only one was drafted.”
“Yeah.” Patrick chuckled, the thought of it absurd. “I used to wonder why he made up such ridiculous stories, and now I find myself doing it all the time.”
“He didn’t make it up.”
“It’s true?” Patrick raised an eyebrow, impressed. Really. Which one of his own oddball rules would stick with the kids into adulthood? He looked up at the mountains, framed by the cabana’s curtains, hoping he was doing some good. The peaks looked fake in the moment, the way they often did in summer, too crisp, too clear, a facade propped up by two-by-fours in a bit of Hollywood magic. “You’ll call your attorneys?” He nudged his sister’s bag, and with it presumably her cell phone, closer to her.
“In a minute,” she said. She tilted her head toward the sky and let her hair fall down her back. “First I’m going to finish my drink.”
Patrick wasn’t used to waiting on others, but so be it. Liquid courage, he thought. “You’ll forgive me if I sit here while you do.”
Patrick vowed not to say another word, but he moved over to Clara and sat next to her, placing his arm around her shoulders. She let him, too, without flinching or pulling away. They sat like that in silence, the only sound the occasional splash of pool water followed by a child laughing.
NINETEEN
Patrick ripped off his sleep mask and tossed the covers back in one fluid motion. The room was dark, quiet. Too quiet. His noise machine had stopped . . . noising. The air-conditioning was not humming. What time is it? He strained to
