Indiscretion. Charles Dubow

know.”

      “You have something against Romans? Did a principe ever break your heart, or did you trip and fall on the Spanish Steps?”

      I am trying to be light, but I can tell, too late, she is not in the mood.

      She shakes her head silently.

      “Anything I can do?”

      She shakes her head again.

      “Right. Well, I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”

      “Thank you, Walter. I just feel like being alone. Maybe I’ll wander up later and see how the tennis is going.”

      “I hope so. You owe me a rematch.” She manages a smile at that. The week before she leveled me, 6–4, 6–4.

      We don’t see her again until evening. After tennis, I tiptoe up to her room and see that her door is closed. At seven she comes down. I am in the kitchen, putting hamburger patties into a cooler. We are going to a cookout on the beach. It’s a Labor Day weekend tradition. There will be about fifty people there. Ned, Harry, and I had gone to the beach earlier to build a bonfire, digging a pit in the sand, filling it with driftwood.

      “Sorry I didn’t make it to tennis,” she says as she enters. “I wouldn’t have been any fun.”

      “Feeling better?”

      “Yes, thanks.” She looks beautiful. A low-cut pink dress. She is not wearing a bra. The sides of her breasts peeking out from behind the fabric. I try not to stare.

      “You look lovely, but you might want to bring a sweater or something,” I suggest. “It can get pretty cold on the beach at night this time of year.”

      “I could really use a martini, Walter. Do you think you could make one for me?”

      “With pleasure,” I say, washing my hands and going to the bar. It is a form of communion. I drop the ice cubes into an old Cartier silver shaker that belonged to my grandfather. Add Beefeater gin and a dash of dry vermouth. I stir it, twenty times exactly, and pour it into a chilled martini glass, also silver, which I garnish with a lemon peel.

      “Hope you don’t mind drinking alone. I want to pace myself.”

      “Oh, you’re such a fuddy-duddy, Walter.” She takes a sip. “Perfect.”

      Ned and Cissy come in. “Priming the pump, eh?” says Ned.

      “Want one?” I ask.

      “No thanks. Plenty to drink at the beach.”

      “Sorry not to see you at tennis today,” Cissy says to Claire. “Everything all right?”

      She nods her head. “Yes, thanks. Just a bit tired, that’s all. You know how it is.”

      “Just as well, I suppose. You missed seeing my man get his big butt kicked by Harry.”

      “Harry had a hell of a serve today,” I put in. “He could do no wrong. Don’t feel too bad, Ned. Pete Sampras couldn’t have beaten him today.”

      “Yeah, well. I’ll get him the next time.”

      “You’ll have to wait until next summer then, won’t you?” pipes up Claire. “Unless you’re going to go all the way to Rome to play a few sets.”

      We all stare at Claire, surprised by her tone. Then Cissy says, “Look at it this way, Neddy. At least you’ll have a whole year to practice.”

      Everyone laughs at that. “C’mon, Claire, drink up,” says Ned.

      We take my car, Ned in the front with me, the women in back.

      “Aren’t we going with Harry and Maddy?” asks Claire.

      “They’re going to meet us there,” says Ned. “They are bringing their houseguests.”

      A Dutch couple. Wouter and Magda. He is in publishing. They have just dropped off their daughter at boarding school and are passing through on the way back to Amsterdam. Their English is flawless.

      The sun is setting low over the ocean when we drive up. A finger of brilliant orange extends from one end of the horizon to the other, as far up and down the beach as we can see. There’s already a good crowd. I recognize many of the faces, some from the club, others from Manhattan, the rest a scattering of literary types, friends of Harry and Maddy’s. The fire is roaring. Tables have been set up. There are hurricane lamps and coolers full of wine and beer. Liquor bottles, ice cubes, and mixers. Plastic cups. Several large trash bins. There are a few children. Labradors. By the lip of the parking lot, piles of shoes.

      “Can you make me another martini, Walter?” Claire asks. I notice she didn’t bring a sweater after all.

      “Of course. But remember the old rule about women’s breasts.”

      “You have such a dirty mind.” She winks at me. “Don’t worry, Walter. This is the last big party of the summer, right? Loosen up. Let’s have some fun.”

      There’s no shaker, but I still make her a drink. “Not my best effort, I’m afraid,” I say.

      “You’re very sweet, Walter. Thank you.” She gives me a little peck on the cheek.

      “After this, though, you’d better stick to wine.”

      “When will Harry and Maddy be here?”

      “Haven’t a clue. Soon enough, I should think.”

      I excuse myself to drop off the hamburger patties. When I look around, I notice that Claire has moved. She is talking to three young men. They are about her age, tanned, slim-hipped as soccer players. The sons of rich men. I should know. I was one of them once, lifetimes ago. She is laughing. I can tell she is mesmerizing them.

      Harry, Maddy, and Johnny arrive with Wouter and Magda. “Sorry we’re late,” Harry says when I see him. “We’re still packing up. A year’s a long time to be gone.”

      I am already planning on spending Christmas with them in Rome.

      By nine o’clock the first stage of the party is winding down. It gets dark quickly this time of year. Parents carry sleepy children to their cars. Tables are folded. Empty wine bottles clink in recycling bins. The fire remains high, still being stoked by those who aren’t ready to go yet. For the young the night is just getting started. Flames shoot up into the night. Faces flicker in the firelight. The sand begins to feel cool underfoot. I am about to put on my sweater, but I look around for Claire, worrying that she might be cold.

      She is still talking with one of the young men, holding a drink in one hand, rubbing a bare arm with her hand. I go up to her. “Sorry for interrupting. Claire, are you cold? Would you like my sweater?”

      Claire looks at me, her face luminous, eyes glazed. She is drunk.

      “Walt,” she says. “That’s so sweet. I’d like you to meet Andrew. His parents have a house out here. He’s going to business school.”

      We shake hands. Andrew is wondering about me and where I fit in. I am possibly too old to be a boyfriend but too young to be a father.

      “I’m staying with Walt. His parents have a house out here too, but they’re both dead and now Walt lives there all alone.”

      Ignoring her, I repeat, “Are you cold?”

      “No, I’m fine. Feel great.”

      “So you don’t need my sweater?”

      “I have a sweater if she gets cold,” Andrew says pointedly.

      She ignores him and asks me, “Have Harry and Maddy arrived?”

      “Yes. They’ve been here awhile.”

      She looks around and sees them. She frowns. “Oh yes, there they are.” She turns to Andrew. “I have to go say hi to some people. I’ll be right back.”