"No," said Margo softly but firmly, "call him
now"
"What?"
"It's only 10:20; call him now. Before you lose your nerve."
"What could I say? It's so embarrassing."
"Just tell him you had a lovely evening. Let him make the next move. At the worst you'll have kept the door open."
Sheila took a deep breath. "This is wrong," she said aloud to herself.
"Where's he staying?" Margo asked.
"The Sheraton Commander."
In an instant, Margo was leafing through the phonebook. She found the number, scratched it on a piece of paper, and handed it to Sheila.
"Come on honey, call," she said.
"I can't."
"Then I will."
"Please, Margo."
"All right, Sheila, it's your life. I don't want to play Mephistopheles. Be unhappy on your own terms." She started to scrunch the paper into a ball. Then Sheila blurted out.
"Wait. I-I'U do it."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the
buttons on the telephone.
"Sheraton Commander. Good evening."
"Uh—" Sheila's voice was suddenly dry and
slightly hoarse. "Uh—may I speak to . . . Gavin
Wilson, please?"
"Ringin' Dr. Wilson's room. . . ."
Sheila gave an anguished look at Margo, who nodded to assure her she was doing the right thing.
The next moments seemed endless. Then the operator returned to the line.
''No answer in Dr. Wilson's room. Would you like to leave a message, dear?"
"Uh—no, thank you." Sheila let the receiver slide from her hand back onto the phone.
Thank God.
J
ean-Claude was seated in his usual spot on the beach. Today studying Initiation a la Geographic. He had been there since early morning, having risen before the rest of the family and, in Sheila's absence, made coffee, drunk a cup and left the rest for Bob.
Jessica appeared on the quiet seashore some time later, carrying her paperback of Anna Karenina (with the new television-series cover), and walked to a dune far down the beach. They sat like book-ends for two hundred yards of silent sand and driftwood.
The sun was nearing its meridian when an unwelcome shadow cut off Jessie's reading light.
"Whatcha doing, Jess?"
She looked up. It was that philistine Davey Ackerman.
''Reading," she replied. "And I'd be grateful if you'd quit blocking my sun."
"I got something to tell you, Jess," he said.
"It couldn't be anything I could possibly want to hear. Buzz off."
"What'll you do if I tell you a secret? If it's good, will you like me more?"
130
^'If d have to be a really great secret/'
*'This one'll really shake you up."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah."
She closed her Anna Karenina and looked at Davey with her customary disdain. "What?" she said.
"Walk with me to the cove."
"Why?"
"Because it's gotta be in private, Jess. Where no one can even see us. I could get killed if anyone found out."
The thought of a man risking his life just to impart something to her piqued Jessie's interest. She stood up.
"Okay," she said, brushing the sand off her shorts. "This better be worth it."
They walked till they had rounded a dune in the cove and were absolutely invisible save for the low-flying gulls.
"Well?" asked Jessica impatiently.
"Okay, listen," he said, taking a deep breath to summon up his courage. "I heard my parents talking last night, see?"
"Yeah?"
"They were whispering kind of loud. About your parents . .."
Jessie grew slightly anxious. She had lately noticed a slight coolness between Bob and Sheila, but had refused to ascribe any importance to it. Not them, she had told herself. They're happy.
"What about my parents?" she asked, unconsciously biting her nail.
"Well, it was about the French kid, actually."
"What?"
"He's your father's."
''What are you talking about?" demanded Jessie, frightened that she might have understood.
''He's your father's kid. Your father is his father," Davey blurted nervously. "You get it?"
"You're a filthy har."
"No, I swear. He is. I heard my parents. I mean, they're so freaked you can't imagine."
"Davey, you're a dirty little bastard I" Jessie shouted, on the verge of tears.
"Cool it, Jess," he pleaded. Her unexpected tantrum was upsetting him. He had hoped for something more like gratitude. But she turned away.
"Come back," he shouted.
She had started running down the beach.
"What was he like, Mom?" Paula asked, as Sheila unpacked her briefcase, piling Gavin Wilson's three books on her desk.