Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence by David Samuel Levinson Page A

Street organized a free concert in Danvers Park. Catherine usually looked forward to the event, though Wyatt did not. He whined and complained, reminding her, in case she’d forgotten, that it often rained, that the bands were no good. Yet in the end he always relented. Later, at home, she’d remind him that he liked to put her through the same exasperating routine every summer. “You always have a ball in spite of yourself,” she’d say.
    â€œTo spite you,” he’d correct, laughing, which made her laugh as well.
    This summer, because of the intense heat, the event had been postponed, which was fine by Catherine, who had skipped last year’s. Without Wyatt—well, there had been no going without him. Still, when she saw Henry, whom she ran into slinking back from Antonia’s as she was fetching the morning paper, the concert was all he could talk about, which she found odd, since there were far more important things to discuss, like the incident at the cafe. When she told him the concert was canceled, Henry’s face reflected his disappointment, and he said, “Oh, that’s a shame. Antonia was looking forward to it.”
    â€œSpeaking of Antonia,” she said. “How is she?”
    â€œHow should she be?” he asked, the words clipped, as if Catherine had no business caring. “I’m sorry,” he added, softening. “She’s fine, considering. You were there. You must have seen everything.”
    She thought again about the fracas in the cafe, about the stranger with the green eyes. She wondered if he weren’t looking for Antonia at this very moment, and her heart expanded at the thought. She had seen the love in the stranger’s face, the fierce sorrow, and the memory vibrated through her. Her skin tingled with the idea that Henry had a rival in the town and that this rival was more handsome and younger than he was. She was thrilled to see Henry on the verge of defeat and only wished she could have been there when Antonia had told him about the man, how much she had loved him, how much she still did. “I never loved you the way I love him, Henry,” Antonia might have said. “You’ve been wonderful, but what we have isn’t real. It never was.”
    â€œYes,” Catherine said. “I did. I saw it all.”
    â€œThen I guess you saw him spit at me,” he said. “It’s the second time in my life.” She waited for him to invoke Wyatt’s name, but he didn’t. “I’d take an angry, embittered writer over an angry, estranged father any day of the week,” he said. “My God, but Linwood Lively’s a menace.”
    â€œHer father? I thought . . .” she said, deflating. This news of Henry’s changed the valence of everything. “What kind of person makes such a scene?”
    â€œI don’t think I need to answer that,” he said. “It’s probably the same kind of person who paints on walls.” He glanced back at the cottage. “I don’t know how he found Antonia here, but now that he has, we’ll just have be a lot more cautious. You saw what he was capable of last night. I’m not unconvinced that he didn’t do that terrible thing to your cottage.”
    â€œDo you really believe it could have been her father? The world is chock-full of mean people,” she said pointedly. The barbed reference seemed to have missed Henry completely, for he simply rolled his shoulders, shrugging. Yes, the world is full of mean people, Catherine thought, casting her eyes past him to the cottage. Though the words had been washed away, Catherine still saw them whenever she shut her eyes. “Who is she, Henry? Who is Wren? Why would Linwood Lively have written her name on my cottage?” she asked slowly, gauging his face for a reaction.
    He simply rolled his shoulders again, his expression blank. “I have no idea,” he said.
    She allowed