“I’m sure I would,” I said. My tone indicated I had something on my mind.
He stood up and exhaled hard, taking one step toward me.
“You know, it really bothered me to see you kneeling at the cove. As if you were worshipping Ellen like a goddess.”
“Far from it,” I said. “She was as human as I am.”
“Why now? Why are you torturing me with her now? Don’t I have enough on my mind?”
“I don’t think I’m torturing you,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
“You act as if I had something to do with her death. And that insults me. Believe me, I know the syndrome. A couple grows apart, and suddenly the husband is vilified. My office receives a hundred calls a year from women saying their husbands committed terrible crimes. They think he’s the Marshfield serial killer or a trucker murdering women on I-95. You’re such a cliché.”
“I still hear the sound of those crabs eating her flesh,” I said.
“So do I,” he said. “And the difference between you and me is that I loved her. She was my college girlfriend. Do you know what it was like for me to see her like that? I lost her when she went to Cancún.”
“Who did she go with?” I asked.
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “It was half my lifetime ago.”
And half of what would have been hers, I thought. I caught him gazing at me, almost dispassionately, as if taking my measure.
“You know, Claire,” he said. “I don’t need this swirling around right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rumors. Innuendo.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“People hinting that I had something to do with what happened to Ellen,” he said.
“Who is hinting about that?” I asked.
He didn’t quite answer but went on, “I am in the middle of a campaign. I expect my wife and friends to protect my reputation, not cast doubts.”
“What friends aren’t protecting you?” I asked.
He stopped talking, just gave me a long curious stare; again, I had the feeling he was assessing me.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” I said.
“I’m not hungry anymore,” he said.
“Okay.”
“It’s clear you don’t appreciate me or my work,” he continued. “Nate, the great scientist and environmentalist—you admire him even though you couldn’t wait to leave him and marry me. But your actual, current, working-his-fingers-to-the-bone husband, who only wants justice for two girls Jackson raped with a pipe wrench—you don’t care, it makes no difference to you. You can only think of Ellen.”
Interesting, his choice of words: fingers-to-the-bone.
At one time I would have turned myself inside out, saying I was sorry for giving him the wrong idea. By that Sunday morning, I was past apologies. Even so, I had to play my part, at least a little, to get what I wanted out of this week.
“Griffin, I admire you so much,” I said without inflection, just as if I were reading a script. “You care so deeply about your cases, all the victims. You’re just so amazing, so caring.”
“Other people think that,” he said. “You don’t.”
He filled his travel mug with coffee, then turned to look at me. “Maybe while I’m on the boat, you can reflect on what I said.”
“I thought I was going with you,” I said. “And the boys.”
“No,” he said. “I really think it would be to your benefit to give some thought about being more protective of your husband, instead of undermining him.”
Outside, tires crunched on the driveway.
Griffin checked his watch. “Seven fifteen, and they’re right on time.”
We both walked to the door, saw his two sons getting out of Ford’s black Porsche. They house-sat in a guest cottage on the estate of one of Griffin’s biggest political donors. It was thirty miles away, so they’d gotten up very early to get here.
Although they were twins, only Ford looked like Griffin. At twenty-one, he had his father’s height and build, the same cockiness, the same white streak in his dark hair. Alexander was taller but fair like Margot, less athletic, and sensitive. They walked into the kitchen dressed to go out on the boat: khaki shorts, polo shirts, ball caps. Alexander’s was from the Hawthorne Yacht Club; Ford’s was his college baseball team’s, worn backward.
“Well, you two are up with the sun!” Griffin said, smiling as if we hadn’t been fighting at all. He opened his arms, and both boys hugged him. “Isn’t this great!”
“You mentioned sailing, Dad,” Ford said. “Are we still on for that? And a photo op for the campaign?”
“Absolutely, we absolutely are on,” Griffin said.
“Hi, Claire,” Alexander said.
“Good morning,” I said. “Looks like a great day to be on the water.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Griffin asked, then gestured toward me and said sweetly, “It’s too bad Claire isn’t feeling up to joining us.”
“Are you okay?” Alexander asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“She’s just tired out,” Griffin said. “A bundle of nerves, getting ready for her exhibition. She’ll be the toast of the town once everyone sees her latest work. We’re proud of her, aren’t we, guys?”
Ford gravitated toward the stove. Although I had turned off the burner, the bacon was still sizzling in the skillet.
“Did you hear me?” Griffin asked. “Are you proud of your stepmother?”
“Griffin,” I said, “that’s okay.”
“I asked a question,” Griffin said.
“Definitely,” Alexander said quickly. “Your stuff is so cool, Claire.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ford use the spatula to take a slice of bacon out of the pan. He blew on it to cool it off, then bit it in half, crunching away. Griffin glared at him.
“I know the three of you will have a great time sailing,” I said, feeling the air fill with electricity.
“I never thought I could do it,” Griffin said. “Never.”
“What, Dad?” Ford asked.
“Raise a couple of animals.”
“Griffin—” I said.
Griffin crossed the kitchen in two steps and slapped the cap off Ford’s head; it landed in the bacon grease. “Eating straight out of the pan. Wearing caps in the house.” He turned toward Alexander, but he was already holding his yacht club cap in his hands. His face was pure white. The reaction seemed to please Griffin. He clapped Alexander on the shoulder.
“Let’s go,” Griffin said. “I want to catch the tide.”
“Should Alexander and I follow you in my car?” Ford asked.
“Alexander will ride with me. Why don’t you go home and try to get the bacon grease out of your hat? Try soaking it.”
“But Dad . . . ,” Ford said. Where Alexander had gone pale, Ford’s face had turned crimson.
“See you later. We’ll all meet at the yacht club for an early dinner,” Griffin said. Then he and Alexander walked into the garage, and I heard the barn doors swing open and Griffin’s car start up.