The Final Judgment (34 page)

Hesitant, Caroline reached to cover his hand with hers. He turned to her then, looking into her face. Slowly, he reached out and touched her hair. There was no mistaking what she saw in his eyes. “Yes,” Caroline heard herself murmur. He could not seem to move. And then, gently and firmly, Caroline kissed him. She felt his lips against her face, her neck. Closing her eyes, she held him. Now it was all feeling. His mouth, slow and unhurried. His lean, hard body against hers. The way his hands seemed to belong wherever they touched. The beating of her own heart. He slid back from her, and then Caroline felt his fingers on the top button of her blouse. She opened her eyes. As he undid the first button, they gazed at each other. She lay there, silent, as. he did this. His eyes did not move until the blouse lay beside them. Caroline wore no bra. Gently, she took his head in her hands and cradled it between her breasts. After a time she felt his mouth on her nipples, her stomach. Felt him unzip her jeans. She arched her back, helping him. When she was naked, she lay there uncovered, watching as he undressed. His body was slim, muscular. He knelt, bowing his head. His mouth grazed her thighs, moving toward the center of her. Caroline closed her eyes again. Now it all felt new to her. His tongue. The feel of his body, different from Jackson’s, as she opened her legs for him. The wanting as he entered her. The urgency as she moved with him, this strange, blood-rushing need ... She could not stop now. With the first tremor of her body, Caroline cried out his name. For there was no one to hear her but him.

She lay in his arms, weak and shaken, the warm feel of his own release inside her.

Neither spoke. It was as if their minds were absorbing what their bodies already knew.

What does this mean? Caroline wondered. Anything? Or everything.”?

“Was this just another prfect hour.”?” she asked. Silent, Scott pulled her close.

They could not stop.

Sometimes all it needed was for Caroline to look at him. They would go to the boathouse, hardly saying a word, and stand inches apart as they undressed. She spent each night with him.

Each time only fed his hunger for her.

It was as if, some part of Caroline thought, he wished so desperately to talk to her—about what, she was not sure—that he could bear his silence only by making love with her. Sometimes, at night, she would hear him pacing in the next room, so as not to awaken her. Her senses were alive with some unspoken thing.

But when she tried to say this, Scott merely smiled. “I just wish ! were that interesting,” he said.

She could not bring herself to call Jackson—the thought of lying, or the truth, were both too painful. And the only truth she understood was that she had a lover who could make her feel what Jackson could not.

It wasn’t that she did not try to understand: the Caroline who wanted Scott so desperately was not some other person. But her accustomed world seemed far away. In this new world, Caroline was alone: not even Scott-especially not Scott—could help her. Even the world of Martha’s Vineyard was divided: quite deliberately, it seemed, Scott deflected any suggestion of spending time with Betty and Larry. His only interest was in Caroline herself.

Why did she want him, Caroline wondered, and what did she want from him’?.

That Betty and Larry said nothing only increased her isolation: their silence told her that the change in her, her nocturnal comings and goings, were so marked that it made them cautious and confused. Perhaps only her mother, Caroline told herself miserably, might have understood.

And yet with Scott—moment to moment—Caroline felt happy.

One morning, she awakened to find him still asleep, the smile of some pleasant dream playing on his mouth. She watched until he awoke.

“You were smiling,” she told him.

The waking Scott smiled again. “Was I? I must have been teaching you how to sail.”

She kissed his forehead. “No,” she said. “I was teaching you how to drive.”

Caroline was still smiling when she crossed ‘the threshold of her father’s home.

On the kitchen table was a note in Betty’s coiled cursive.

Father called, it said. When you get the chance, please call him.

When Caroline called her father, his tone was careful, neutral; he asked about her sailing, her plans for the remaining weeks, what she had heard from Jackson. Only at the end did he mention that he was coming earlier than planned—the next day, to be precise. When Caroline put down the phone, she went to find Betty. She was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee. Glancing up at Caroline, she studied her expression and then said, “So he told you he’s coming early.” Caroline stared at her. “What’s this about’?” Betty exhaled. “Caroline, we haven’t said a word to him. He’s called several times lately, asking to talk to you, and each time one of us covered for you. But Father’s not a fool.” I1 am twenty-two.” Betty nodded in acknowledgment. I understand. But you have to imagine this from his point of view—a daughter who’s been stable and predictable, with a boyfriend at home, suddenly can’t be found at pretty much any hour of the night. Don’t you think maybe you’d be a little concerned?”

“It’s my life, isn’t it’?” ‘etty’s brow knit. “Even Larry and I have worried a little—we don’t know this boy at all, you hardly seem to know him except to spend the night with, and even when you’re with us now, you’re not.” Betty paused, voice soft- 32O

ening. “Would you mind terribly, Caroline, telling me a little about what’s going on?” Caroline felt her defensiveness die. She sat in the canvas chair next to Betty, gazing at the morning sunlight on the water. “I wish I knew.” Betty sipped her coffee. “Well, he is attractive.” Caroline shook her head. “It’s not just sex.” She paused, trying to find words. “It’s like I know so much more about him than what he tells me.” Betty seemed to reflect. “Has it occurred to you,” she said finally, “that maybe there’s nothing more to him than what he tells you—a redderless guy without any deep interests but sailing? And that for reasons you haven’t coped with, you’re projecting your own needs on someone who’s a pretty blank screen?” Though Betty’s voice was not unkind, Caroline found that the words stung. “I don’t think I need a shrink, Betty.”

“Really.” Betty’s voice was level and unimpressed. “How are things with Jackson?” Caroline looked away. “I don’t think I can talk about it now.” Betty considered her. “Then let me make one request, as your older sister: that you think about it. And that, while Father’s here, you cool things off with Scott a little. There’s no point in upsetting Father over something you don’t understand yourself.” It was good advice, Caroline knew, and Scott did not disagree. “Do what you need to do,” he said. “Honestly, I understand.”

“But we’ve only got four weeks left. And he’s staying for a week.” Scott shrugged. “He’s been your father for twenty-two years. And, pretty clearly, the main influence in your life.” He took her hand. “I don’t expect you to rock that boat, and I really don’t want you to. Certainly not on my account.”

Why, Caroline wondered, did his understanding make her feel so diminished? Perhaps, she reflected, it bespoke the limits of her importance to him. Or perhaps it was simply that—like Betty—Scott accepted so easily that Caroline’s first obligation was to put Channing Masters at ease. She did not take Betty’s advice.

For the first few days, Caroline spent most of her time with her father, doing many of the things—sailing, hiking, riding rented bikes—that she usually did with Scott. Even in his early fifties, Channing Masters was vigorous and fit, and he took keen pleasure in being outdoors in the company of his youngest daughter, his unspoken favorite. Whatever his concerns were, he kept them to himself, as if the time that Caroline gave him was reassurance enough. Her occasional absentmindedness seemed not to bother him. He was himself sometimes distracted by memories of Nicole, Caroline sensed; when he lapsed into silence, gazing at the water, Caroline could almost feel the hurt her mother had inflicted on him. As for Caroline, her pretense of normality seemed to satisfy him that nothing was so wrong that she need confront it. Caroline found that she disliked herself for this. But not nearly as intensely as she missed Scott. On the third night of her father’s visit, she came to the boathouse. As she approached the porch, Scott startled awake. He sat bolt upright, staring around him. And then she saw him freeze. “Caroline?” he asked. His voice was tight. “It’s me,” she answered. In the dark, she saw the shadow of his body relax. She went to the side of his bed, placing the kit that held her diaphragm on the nightstand. “I just missed you,” she said. Gratefully, Scott reached for her. But it was not the same. Caroline was used to bringing

the rhythm of their days to their nights alone; now their lovemaking felt furtive, hurried, something divorced from the rest of her life. Some childish part of her imagined her father breaking in on them: in an odd, chilling moment, she recalled the image of her mother turning to face Caroline as she lay beneath Paul Nerheim. Scott seemed to sense this. Gently, he said, “It’s a little like high school, isn’t it? Sneaking down to the family room after the folks have gone to bed.” Caroline lay in the dark, listening to the waves splash beneath them, feeling the cool breeze across her naked skin. “Have you missed me at all?” Scott was quiet for a time. “Quite a lot, actually.” He paused, as if trying for a certain fatalism. “It’s just that you’ve got a father to pacify, and I can’t treat that like a tragedy—’Romeo and Juliet at the Beach.” Especially when all that’s at stake is your time until law school.” Why, Caroline thought, did she imagine a bitterness buried beneath the offhand realism? And who might he be bitter at? “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” He kissed her neck. “Don’t worry about me, Caroline. I’ve got no need to be a character in your family minidrama. Even if it’s a bit part.” In the darkness, she could not see his face. The next morning, she told her father that she would be sailing with a friend. Channing raised his eyebrows in pleasant inquiry. “Oh,” he asked. “Who?”

“The caretaker from next door. He’s quite a good sailor.”

“Does he have a name?” Caroline smiled. “Yes,” she said, and went to find Scott. When Scott opened the door, he did not smile at all. “How did you explain me?” he asked. “There’s nothing to explain. Are you coming, or am I going out alone?” Scott gave her an inscrutable look, hesitant, and then took his jacket from the peg beside the door. With a kind

of rueful affection, he asked, “Are you familiar with the term ‘willful’7” Why, Caroline wondered, did so many moments—even words—now summon images of her mother? Seeing her expression, Scott’s smile vanished. “I guess you are,” he said. For the next two days, without explaining herself to anyone, Caroline spent time with Scott. He seemed almost to stand outside their time together, watching her. “Has it occurred to you,” he said softly, “that you’re using me?” They were drinking beer beside the boat, after a long day’s sail. “Using you for what?” she said. “To define your own territory.” Caroline gave him a long, level look. Quietly, she said, “When you can think of something better I can use you for, Scott, please let me know.” Their time, Caroline thought with sudden pain, was running out. That night, she came to him again. She left before dawn, lost in the feel of him, the chaos of her own thoughts. And then she noticed the dim light on the porch of the Masters house. She stopped on the beach, gazing up. Her father’s shadow stood in the semidark, still and silent, watching her. For a moment, in unspoken acknowledgment, neither moved. And then Caroline resumed her walk, crossing the beach and climbing the stairs to the bluff, to face him. She could feel her heart race. But when she reached the bluff, the light was off, and he was gone.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, her father was silent. Caroline sipped her coffee, trying to look composed. She had not slept. Larry seemed quite oblivious, chatting on about his thesis. But Betty, Caroline saw, kept looking from her father to her. When Caroline rose to help clear the dishes, her father raised a hand. “Caroline,” he said. “A word with you, please.” Larry glanced at him, newly aware. Betty touched Larry’s arm and motioned him to the kitchen. “Yes?” Caroline said. Her father folded his hands in front of him. His voice was quite calm. “I couldn’t help but notice that you spend a good deal of time with the boy next door, as it were. Before I go, I rather think I’d like to meet him.” Their eyes locked. “Why, Father?”

“Because it seems polite to acknowledge your friends. And because, curiously, Betty and Larry claim not to know him.” His gaze grew pointed. “Which strikes me, whoever is at fault, as more than a little uncivilized. Wouldn’t you agree?” Caroline felt cornered; her father knew, or guessed, who was “at fault,” and she had no excuse for Scott’s reclusiveness. The subtext of the night before lay silently between them. Caroline shrugged. “All that I can do, Father, is ask”

“Dinner?” Scott raised his eyebrows. “What are this man and I going to say to each other? And why does it matter to you?”

“Because he knows how it is with us.” Scott shook his head. “But aren’t you the one you have to answer to?” he asked. Caroline crossed her arms. “You’d think you were crossing the Rubicon instead of facing one middle-aged man across the dinner table.” She paused, hearing herself, and then said softly, “Sometimes people just do things for other people. Please, don’t embarrass me.” Folding his hands, Scott propped them beneath his chin and stared out at the ocean, pensive. “All right,” he answered. “If it really means that much to you.”

The first hour had a deceptive calm. To Caroline, Scott seemed another person—respectful to her father; amiable and pleasant to Betty and Larry; attentive to Caroline without overdoing it, so that the impression left was that he valued her. He helped Betty in the kitchen, talked to Larry about academic politics. He seemed wholly at ease, as if a polite dinner with a privileged family was second nature to him. Caroline saw Larry and Betty warm to him, and him to them. If he minded Channing Masters’ inquiries about his back-ground—and Caroline was quite certain that he did mind—he gave little sign. With cocktails over, they sat down at the dinner table. “Is it true,” Scott was asking Larry, “about publish or perish?”