Indiscretion. Charles Dubow

older but more serene. Around her neck she wore a small gold cross. They were more like two old friends chatting than mother and daughter. When Claire left, her mother embraced her but said nothing.

      All that was years before. Now Claire was a member of that tribe of independent females, working without guarantees or guidance in the city, hoping to find love and, if not love, success or something like it. She was not promiscuous but she was available, which explains Clive and the men who had come before him and would no doubt follow.

      The traffic had been worse than Claire expected. When she arrives at Clive’s house they are already late for dinner. “You took your bloody time getting here,” he says, offering her a perfunctory kiss. He is already dressed, a glass of champagne in his hand. He does not offer her one. “Sorry, traffic,” she says, hurrying into the bedroom to shower quickly and change.

      Five minutes later she is rushing down the front steps, carrying her shoes while Clive waits in his car, the motor already running. “All right?” he says, barely waiting for her to close her door before accelerating down the drive, spitting gravel over the grass. She will swipe lipstick across her mouth and brush her hair in the car. “I told you it was silly to drive out,” he says. “I would have been happy to collect you at the station.” She ignores Clive’s rudeness. It is not him she has come to see.

      When they arrive at the Winslows’, it is still light. In the west the sky is turning a startling mix of orange and purple. Harry greets them at the door. He is unconcerned about the time. “Come on in,” he says, his hair still wet from the shower. His light blue shirt clinging damply. His nose is sunburned. “Look at that sunset,” he says, presenting it like a gift.

      Claire offers him her cheek and feels his lips lightly brush her skin. “Thank you so much for having us,” she says. “I was so happy when Clive told me.”

      “Our pleasure,” responds Harry. “You made a big impression on Maddy. Let me get you guys something to drink.”

      The house is more magical to her than before. There is no crush of party guests talking, laughing, flirting. Tonight it has reverted to its own quiet, private self, a house where a family lives, where secrets are shared and kept. On the wall she sees a small painting she hadn’t noticed before. A seascape. On a faded, elaborately carved frame a tiny brass nameplate with the name of the artist. Winslow Homer. She is surprised and impressed. Claire wishes she could inspect everything, study the photographs, learn the language.

      Harry is at the bar. We have a running joke. Whenever one of us or, as it happened once, all of us find ourselves in Venice, we go to the famed Harry’s Bar right off St. Mark’s and swipe an ashtray or coaster to bring back to the bar here. On the wall is a photograph of Harry standing proprietarily in front of the frosted double doors, grinning madly. Maddy took the picture on their honeymoon.

      “Wonderful day today,” he says. “Ned rented a boat in Montauk and we each caught a shark. Jesus, it was incredible.”

      He uncorks a bottle of wine, wincing. “Cut the hell out of my hand, though.” Harry holds up his palm. Claire and Clive can see it is red and blistered. Calmly, gently, Claire reaches out and takes his hand and holds it in her own, running her fingers over the ravaged skin.

      “It must hurt very much,” she says.

      “Oh, it looks worse than it is.” His hand escapes to the glass. “Most of the red is iodine.”

      “What did you do with the shark?” asks Clive.

      “Going to have it mounted. Hang it on the wall over there. It’ll be quite the conversation piece. You know what people are like out here. It’ll drive ’em nuts,” he adds, laughing.

      They walk outside to the porch. On the lawn Ned is throwing gentle spirals to a little blond boy. Claire recognizes him as the boy with the flashlight from the night of the party. They stop when they see them, and the boy waves.

      “That’s Johnny,” says Harry. “Johnny, come here and say hello to our guests.”

      The boy runs to them, his tanned legs long and skinny like a colt’s. Claire sees he has his mother’s blue eyes above a sun-freckled nose.

      “How do you do?” he says in a soft voice, putting out his hand the way he has been taught. But he is a shy boy. He does not look them in the eye.

      “How do you do, mate?” says Clive.

      “Hello, Johnny,” says Claire, squatting so she is at eye level with the boy. “I’m Claire. How old are you?”

      I am studying her. She is good with children. It is obvious. I imagine she must have worked as an au pair during college. She would have been their best friend.

      “Eight.” His voice is nearly inaudible, but at least he is looking directly into Claire’s eyes. “But I’m almost nine.”

      “Almost nine? That makes you very grown-up. I’m twenty-six. What do you like to do? I like to sail and read books.”

      “My daddy writes books.”

      “I know. I read his book. It was wonderful.”

      Johnny smiles. Harry puts his hand on his son’s shoulder. “All right, buddy. It’s time for your supper. What do you say?”

      “Good night. It was nice to meet you.”

      He goes into the house. Claire watches him go, already in love. He is my godson.

      Ned comes up. Despite his size, he is surprisingly quick. I have seen him play tennis. He can still beat men years younger and many pounds lighter. “Hey there.” To Harry he says, “He’s getting a good arm. He’ll make the team yet.”

      Harry smiles abstractedly. Claire senses he is thinking about something else. “Hockey players can do everything football players do, but we do it on ice and backwards,” he says. Then to Claire and Clive, “You should see Johnny’s slap shot.”

      “Only girls slap.” Ned grins.

      They speak in the shorthand of their youth. The two ex-jocks. Members of DKE. Harry was on the hockey team. In his senior year, he was captain.

      I remember long, cold nights in Ingalls Rink, huddling under a blanket with Maddy, sharing my flask of bourbon, watching Harry skate. He was good, very good. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. His hair was longer then, blonder. He would look up at her every time he scored a goal, seeking her approval, knowing in his heart that he already had it. Already they were inseparable.

      Madeleine Wakefield was the most beautiful woman at school. She was the most beautiful woman anywhere she went. Men hovered around her but she had become inured to such attentions. Magazine editors and photographers had asked her to model, but she always said no. To her, beauty was nothing earned. It was a fact, like being left-handed, and it was nothing she ever thought about. While the other girls would dress up for parties, borrowing clothes from roommates, pulling earrings that their mothers had given them for a special night from the backs of their drawers, Maddy never tried. Her normal costume was an old shirt of her father’s, a baggy sweater, blue jeans. Still, wherever she went, the men would forget their dates and stare at her, although few of them were bold enough to approach her, sensing there was something different about her, incapable of knowing the true self beneath that beauty.

      I knew, of course. We had always talked about going to Yale together, but after her girls’ school in Maryland and my prep school in Massachusetts, the reality was almost better than the dream. She had a car back then. A vintage red MG convertible that had been a present from her grandmother, with the plates MWSMG. Freshman year had been a blur of weekends in Manhattan, nightclubs, and bleary last-minute dashes up I-95 to make it, hungover and hilarious, to classes on Monday morning.

      And then, in our sophomore year, she fell in love with Harry. We were in different residential colleges. He in Davenport, Maddy and I in Jonathan Edwards. We had seen him, of course. In Mory’s, where he was usually surrounded by his friends, drinking beer or celebrating his latest victory. He was popular and, honestly, it is