Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence by David Samuel Levinson Page B

him to keep up his little charade and didn’t press him, although it was all too clear that he’d registered the name; she’d caught the flicker of surprise in his sleepy eyes. As she stood in her yard with him on this longest day of the year, she remembered being in Wyatt’s study in the cottage—she’d gone there to ask him about dinner that night—and glancing at his typewriter and the manuscript page, still spooled in it. Wyatt had become quite secretive about his work, telling her that he didn’t like talking about it because it took the power out of the story. But Wyatt had gone to use the bathroom and there was the typewriter, so inviting. She took a step closer to the desk, letting her eyes skim the page, and suddenly, now, she remembered one word, one word that stood out: Wren. At least, this is the word Catherine thought she remembered. But how could she be sure she’d seen the name when she couldn’t even tell the difference between an angry father and a valiant lover?
    â€œIf that’s everything,” Henry said, “I’m sort of in a hurry.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I mean no. If you have just another minute, I’d like to go over the lease.”
    â€œI don’t have a minute right now,” he said, “but why don’t you bring it with you tonight? Antonia is making dinner. Join us.”
    â€œThat’s very kind, but I already have plans,” she said.
    â€œThen I’ll see you later,” he said, already heading for the cottage.
    â€œHenry,” she said, somewhat hesitantly, “I don’t have to remind you, do I, that I’m doing you a favor? The least you can do is sign your copy of the lease. I think it’s best for both of us, just in case there are any misunderstandings.” She thought about the fire at his house and all the things that could go wrong. And probably would, she thought.
    â€œNo, you don’t have to remind me,” he said sharply. Then, “Leases are merely formalities between two parties who don’t trust each other. You trust me, don’t you, Catherine?”
    â€œI trust you to keep the cottage clean. I trust you to treat it with respect,” she said. “I trust you to take the trash out on time, but mostly I trust you not to smoke in it. That goes for Antonia as well.”
    â€œI see,” he said. “Well, I’m glad we understand each other.” And with that, he walked through the cottage door and shut it.
    Catherine went back into the house and began getting out of her shorts and T-shirt, then took a shower and dressed for work. As she did, she thought about the night before, the scene at the cafe, the look of pure terror on Antonia’s face. She pictured the way Henry had just rolled his shoulders moments ago; his nonchalance infuriated her. “I have no idea,” he’d said. He did have an idea, though, she thought; she’d seen the flicker of it in his eyes. How could he not understand the significance of someone, perhaps Antonia’s father, sneaking onto her property and vandalizing the cottage? How could he not see that this led back to Henry himself?
    Her anger continued to build as she dressed. She was already more than sick of Henry, of the way he expected the world to turn for him, thought that everything had to be done on his schedule, at his leisure. How hard was it to sign a lease? At the door, she turned and snatched her copy of the lease off the counter, then went to the cottage. She knocked on the door, then knocked again, calling out his name. As she’d anticipated, he didn’t come to the door. She noticed that his bicycle that usually rested against the fence was gone. This isn’t over, she thought, heading back into the house to phone him at the college. Yet as the phone rang, she realized she wanted to have this conversation with him face-to-face. This arrangement isn’t working, she