Suddenly, I do feel a second’s qualm.DoI really want to know? Do I really want to knownow? He’s right. This isn’t the best time. But I’ve waited so long, wondered so long—not to mention the tiny part of me that wants it to be now in sheer defiance of Tom Aldiss, who also kept me in the dark.
I am turning to follow him when Jack touches my arm. His eyes are the gray of soft flannel and worry. He wants to know if I’m okay, or want him to come along. The sun glances off his chestnut hair, the tip of his straight nose, his light beard. Knowing he’s here is all I need.
Managing a small smile, I shake my head and set off. I’m safe with Paul. Years of childhood memories tell me that. I catch up with him in an instant, and we walk silently along the path for a bit. Funny, but I feel no rush now. Paul was always measured. He’ll take his time, but I can trust what he says.If there isn’t trust, what is there?And he is, truly, all I have left of my parents’ generation.
We follow the path as it curves along the shoreline. Finally, he stops in the shade of a weeping willow. His hands are in his pockets, drawing back his suit jacket in what should be a relaxed pose. But he is tense. I see it in his face, his ramrod-straight back, even the set of his loafered feet.
He is about to speak. I can still stop him.
No. I cannot.
As he looks toward the waves, the past arrives. “I’ve known Tom for forty years. We met at a law conference in Boston and his mind was the best legal one there. People were always drawn to him for that. I was no exception. I want to say he was drawn to mine thesame way,” he slips me a self-deprecating smile, “but he was more interested in the fact that I lived in Westerly. He vacationed here as a child, and it was where he wanted to settle. Our forming a law firm was a natural offshoot of that. We rented space and hired associates and were just getting off the ground when he signed papers to build the house.”
He darts me another glance to check that I’m still with him, willing to let him set the pace. And honestly, I thought he would blurt out a name as soon as we were far enough from the others. Yes, I’m impatient. But I understand his wanting to start the story at the beginning on this day of remembrance. Besides, there is something about his voice—a personal, heart-felt shade—that, while not quite hypnotic, slows me down.
“He was dating your mother then,” he continues. “The house was not yet finished when they got married, so the wedding was in Newport.” He smiles at that. “It was an extravaganza. Tom had lots of friends and even more acquaintances, and he wanted them all there. Ellie didn’t know them. But she did know me. I was her fallback. She kept coming to talk with me when the rush of faces got too much.”
“Was the marriage doomed from way back then?” I ask.
“Oh, no.” His eyes are sincere. “She was good with company after she got to know people. Once the house was done, they entertained often. Bless her, she always included me.”
“You were her rock,” I say, understanding it even more these last two days.
“Your Dad was too, in his way,” Paul insists. “He was solid. Predictable. She knew what she had to do to please him.”
“And when he started having affairs?” I ask. I understand Paul wanting to lead me gently toward my mother’s infidelity. But I also want to think she was provoked.
He raises one foot to the stone wall, leans an elbow on his knee, and circles one set of fingers with the other as he slides me a look of regret. “Not good. She was hurt. Angry.”
“Was he—”shaggingis the word I almost say before filtering the thought, “having an affair with Elizabeth then?”
“No. I know there was some history, but Eleanor was okay with Elizabeth. The two of them had an understanding. I’m not entirely sure what it was, but they were comfortable with each other. Living so close may have helped. Each could see what the other was doing, and Elizabeth had her own marriage to protect. Besides, your mother knew that Elizabeth didn’t suffer fools lightly and would have no qualms telling Tom, even during a family event, when he was being a prick.” His eyes widen. “Sorry.”
His gallantry is sweet in an old-school way. “Don’t apologize. He was one sometimes.” Thinking of that, I wonder how far his prick-ness went. “Was he ever physically abusive to Mom?”
“Not to my knowledge. But he was demanding.”
This I knew. I had seen it for myself—demanding husband, demanding father—which brought me back to why we are talking now, Paul and me, about who was unfaithful and with whom.
I refocus. “So my father had affairs.”
“Yes.”
“Mom knew.”
“Yes.”
“Did she have more than one herself?”
Removing his foot from the wall, Paul straightens. “No. There was only ever one. It was meaningful.”
Something about his quiet intensity, the way his eyes hold mine, starts my heart thumping—and not because I’m about to learn what I’ve been waiting for ages to hear. I have a sudden horrendous thought that the answer won’t be at all what I thought.
“How do you know?” I whisper, afraid to breathe.
Willows are notoriously messy. This one has dropped silver-backed leaves along the sea wall. Paul picks one up and rubs its slender length with thumb and forefinger.
“Paul?”
