“Why are you kissing my mom again?” Huck asked, trying to open the fridge door for a juice box, shoving George in the kidney to get him to move.
Katie wiped her salty wet face with a dish towel. She then turned on the faucet and patted cool water on her cheeks to reduce the ruddiness that always erupted when tears came. She went to gather her notebooks.
With Huck ensconced with his Angry Birds games on an iPad and Cynthia on the back porch, George drove Katie to her new session in East Hampton. All four windows of his BMW were open and the afternoon foggy mist left a soft dew on Katie’s cheeks. She laid her head back and closed her eyes, content to be driven after all.
She turned her head lazily to look at George. He looked fit after his tennis match, and handsome in a starched white shirt that showed off his good tan. His blondish, graying hair was askew, flying around now with the wind from the open windows. She loved the way he always yanked his too-long bangs back with his fingers. His haircut was more French writer than American preppy, and it was one of the things she always remembered in her mind’s eye. His hair made him look cool, but responsible. A man you could count on with a bad-boy look. His wide shoulders gave him the air of a man who took care of himself, and who didn’t put up with anything he shouldn’t.
Katie knew her mother would like him (mostly his kindness and care).
Her friend Ashley back in San Francisco would be the only voice advising her not to get too wrapped up in George. She had called that morning to make sure. “Just because you’re in his family cottage and he’s a masterful lay doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well.” Katie laughed at the predictability of Ashley’s constant protective watch. “There you go again, just like we say . . .”
“I know,” Ashley answered. “Everyone’s advice is autobiographical.”
“Exactly. Just because you don’t trust men, doesn’t mean I have to be so cautious. Good sex and a nice cottage with a beat-up Volvo can also mean he’s generous and thoughtful. A masterful lay is a man who cares about a woman’s pleasure. And that he does—it’s all he focuses on. He says he can’t get turned on if I’m not, so . . . it’s not all bad.”
“Where’s your heart? That’s what I want to know. Does your heart stop when he walks in?” Katie could imagine Ashley’s image burning through the phones, all hunched over, one eyebrow cocked, waiting breathlessly for the answer to this key question.
Katie paused. “Well, yeah . . .” Yes, her heart fluttered, but sometimes it felt like nerves around the newness.
“Doesn’t sound like true love,” Ashley responded like a prosecutor.
“Well, I mean, c’mon. You told me to wait until summer was over, not to get too attached, take my time. Now you’re saying either I have to fall hard or leave town?”
“I’m asking a simple question. Are you really into him?”
“I’m into him,” Katie answered, trying to provide her friend the right answer, without annoying legal ammunition to be used later on. “But it makes me nervous sometimes.”
“Why, because you think he’s going to ditch you, too?”
“No, c’mon, I’m not that fucked up and scared of life. It’s something else. I don’t know. Maybe the newness of the East. Just, I’m totally responsible for Huck and my finances, and I can’t assume everything will be working here yet.”
“Okay, like I said, take your time to figure out where you are . . . in every which way.”
“Trying!” Katie yelled into the phone.
“Love you. Bye.”
As George drove and explained back road Hamptons savvy, she thought about what she’d divulged on the phone. She didn’t relay to Ashley that they’d only slept together a few times since she’d arrived in the Hamptons, not dozens a weekend like they had at the Portland Hilton.
The sex here was just as powerful, but much less frequent. Katie felt it wasn’t due to Huck asleep in the next room; they could have found stolen hours while he was at camp. It was some limbo George had manufactured “for her.” She and George had even had one surprisingly chaste dinner date with stolen kisses only. She’d been sure they would fall into bed afterwards. But one night he’d gone home early, reminding her he’d made a pact.
“I’m going to leave now,” George had said, at about eleven on a balmy, humid June night, after furiously kissing her on her porch. “Before it’s too difficult to leave, I have to go.”
“Huck’s asleep. You don’t have to,” Katie had said.