silences. Were these supposed to make her feel more inclined to make love with him? And the hypocrisy of it all. For in public—in front of the children and the Delstocks, in particular—he was all sweetness and light. Only the other night Abbie had been rhapsodizing about how lucky they were to be such a happy family. The happiest family she knew, she had boasted. Neither she nor anyone else had apparently noticed that her father had barely spoken a direct word to Sarah in more than a week.
And nobody, of course, saw how it was when they were alone, how he only ever broke the silence if he was lucky enough to have spotted something to criticize. Otherwise he shuttered himself off behind his newspaper or his Architectural Digest —or that wretched biography of Le Cor-busier that he’d been trying to read for the last six months—and behaved as if she existed only in the coldest, most remote margins of his consciousness.
Of course, Sarah knew she was actually at its very center. And she also knew that it made him seethe if she inhabited her exile blithely, as if she had no inkling of his rage and resentment or simply didn’t care. Perhaps, again, this was how it was with all marriages. Each partner found an appropriate weapon and learned how best to use it. His was icy silence. Hers—and she knew it was the more potent—was pretending not to notice.
Anyway, this time Sarah had been determined to hold out for as long as she could. She felt guilty about what had happened that morning. It was, after all, the poor man’s birthday and though he hadn’t apologized (for he never did), it must have been hard for him to suspend his sulk like that and come on to her when she stepped out of the shower. But the stubborn streak in her, that notorious Davenport obstinacy that had helped make her father’s fortune, had clicked in and told her not to succumb. All he wanted, after all, was to fuck her and why the hell should she let him after all those days of being ignored?
It would resolve itself, no doubt, as it always did. Eventually, the tension would become so unbearable that she would crumble and cry and blame herself, telling him he ought to go out and find someone else, someone younger and sexier and more normal. And she would sob and so, probably, would he. And they would have sex. And it would be tragic and desperate and seismic.
She could see the others now, way ahead across the rippling grass. There was a stand of aspen where some were taking shade while the others watered the horses in a rocky pool of the stream below. The pale stems of the trees seemed almost aglow against the hazed blue of the distant mountains.
Tom Bradstock and Delroy were down with the horses talking with Jesse and the two women from Santa Fe. Benjamin, wearing his new hat, was sitting in the shade, talking with Maya and Karen. Jesse saw Sarah and called out and the others turned to look and everyone waved. Except Benjamin, who just sat there and stared, as if assessing her, for such a long time that even at a distance she felt disconcerted and self-conscious. She wondered what he thought of what he saw and whether he still loved her. For in spite of how he hurt her and punished her, she had no doubt about her feelings for him. She loved him and always would.
SEVEN
T y and his band had been playing for almost an hour and Abbie still couldn’t get over how awesome they were. The place was totally rocking. All the tables and chairs had been cleared in the big dining room, the band was at one end, the bar at the other, and everyone who could still stand was dancing—kids, parents, grandparents, not to mention the staff. Nobody was dancing with anybody in particular, just with whoever happened to be in front of them at the time. Even though all the doors and windows to the deck were wide open, the place felt like an oven and they were all drenched with sweat, but nobody seemed to care.
The band was called Hell to Breakfast, a name Abbie
And nobody, of course, saw how it was when they were alone, how he only ever broke the silence if he was lucky enough to have spotted something to criticize. Otherwise he shuttered himself off behind his newspaper or his Architectural Digest —or that wretched biography of Le Cor-busier that he’d been trying to read for the last six months—and behaved as if she existed only in the coldest, most remote margins of his consciousness.
Of course, Sarah knew she was actually at its very center. And she also knew that it made him seethe if she inhabited her exile blithely, as if she had no inkling of his rage and resentment or simply didn’t care. Perhaps, again, this was how it was with all marriages. Each partner found an appropriate weapon and learned how best to use it. His was icy silence. Hers—and she knew it was the more potent—was pretending not to notice.
Anyway, this time Sarah had been determined to hold out for as long as she could. She felt guilty about what had happened that morning. It was, after all, the poor man’s birthday and though he hadn’t apologized (for he never did), it must have been hard for him to suspend his sulk like that and come on to her when she stepped out of the shower. But the stubborn streak in her, that notorious Davenport obstinacy that had helped make her father’s fortune, had clicked in and told her not to succumb. All he wanted, after all, was to fuck her and why the hell should she let him after all those days of being ignored?
It would resolve itself, no doubt, as it always did. Eventually, the tension would become so unbearable that she would crumble and cry and blame herself, telling him he ought to go out and find someone else, someone younger and sexier and more normal. And she would sob and so, probably, would he. And they would have sex. And it would be tragic and desperate and seismic.
She could see the others now, way ahead across the rippling grass. There was a stand of aspen where some were taking shade while the others watered the horses in a rocky pool of the stream below. The pale stems of the trees seemed almost aglow against the hazed blue of the distant mountains.
Tom Bradstock and Delroy were down with the horses talking with Jesse and the two women from Santa Fe. Benjamin, wearing his new hat, was sitting in the shade, talking with Maya and Karen. Jesse saw Sarah and called out and the others turned to look and everyone waved. Except Benjamin, who just sat there and stared, as if assessing her, for such a long time that even at a distance she felt disconcerted and self-conscious. She wondered what he thought of what he saw and whether he still loved her. For in spite of how he hurt her and punished her, she had no doubt about her feelings for him. She loved him and always would.
SEVEN
T y and his band had been playing for almost an hour and Abbie still couldn’t get over how awesome they were. The place was totally rocking. All the tables and chairs had been cleared in the big dining room, the band was at one end, the bar at the other, and everyone who could still stand was dancing—kids, parents, grandparents, not to mention the staff. Nobody was dancing with anybody in particular, just with whoever happened to be in front of them at the time. Even though all the doors and windows to the deck were wide open, the place felt like an oven and they were all drenched with sweat, but nobody seemed to care.
The band was called Hell to Breakfast, a name Abbie
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