The Safekeep(41)

The heat drew into the evening. Frogs from the low canals tottered onto land, onto the estate. The dinner scratched by in increments, each of them painful, each of them slow. And though the air was light and the candles burned lovely, Isabel sat, locked in her body, waiting for it to end. Johan did not seem to notice. He sat close to Isabel, legs wide in his chair, and talked. The same stories as the other night: his mother, his colleague Willy, the boat. About the food he said again and again, “I’m picky, you know. I’m very picky. But this is almost good, I’ll give you that. Very well done, very well done.”

Eva had made some sort of sweet loaf in the oven. Had made some sort of potato dish, fried and shredded. Had glazed carrots with honey. It was good, it was very good. Isabel tasted little of it. On the other side of the table, Eva spoke up only to say: “Isabel is a very talented cook, it’s true.” And Johan said, “Is she?” And Eva said, “The best I know, really.”

She kept saying things like that, breathless and in between sips of wine. “Doesn’t Isabel look lovely tonight?” To which Johan said, “Very,” with a low-eyed glance at Isabel. Eva said, “Haven’t you always admired how well she keeps the garden?” And Johan said, “Now that you mention it…” Eva said, “You know what I’ve always admired about Isabel?” And Johan said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me,” and Eva said: “Her honesty.”

Isabel ran hot. She went inside to refill the carafe of water. Out of view, she wet her hand under the tap, held it to her cheek—her other cheek. Let it be over, she thought. Let it be over. Let it be over. Let it be—

She returned and Johan rose from his seat. He was arranging his jacket over his arm, then said, “Shall we go for a walk, Isabel?”

Eva was still in her seat, collecting the plates, stacking them. She didn’t look up at her, kept her face tilted away.

Isabel said, “I—I should. Help clear the table.”

“Eva said she didn’t mind.” Johan held out his elbow for Isabel to take. “Didn’t you, Eva?”

“Don’t mind at all,” Eva said on a fluttery sound, an imitation of a laugh. She still wasn’t looking up. “Go, go, you two! Go, have fun.”

“Eva,” Isabel said.

Eva slowed in her cleaning. A trembling misery. A certainty, too. She said, “Go.”

The night had got away from Isabel. Her mouth opened on a silent word, closed. She was tired. She took Johan’s arm. He made a pleased sound, gestured to say: let’s. He guided them down the path. The muscle of his arm pushed against the seam of his shirt: chosen a size too small. His cologne, this close, was so strong she thought she could taste it.

He picked a path by a reed-flanked canal. The stalks were yellow and high, and swayed slowly against the blazing sunset. Johan said, “Your friend adores you.”

Isabel could not answer. She could only hum, a broken little “Hm.”

They walked on. Then he said, “You look lovely tonight. Your hair like this.” He reached across her to push her plait back over her shoulder. To push a strand behind her ear. She moved her face away from the touch. He took it as shyness and tutted, indulgent. “Though I do prefer you in a dress,” he said, and put his hand over hers where she held him—his arm. The press of his hand was heavy.

“Let’s go back,” she said.

“In a little while,” he said, and guided her all around the pasture, trapped at his side.

By the time they got back to the house the night had settled darker than before. The garden table had been cleared. Eva wasn’t there. Isabel made to pull her hand from him, to say her good night, but he wouldn’t let her go. She said, “Johan,” and he said, “Isabel,” like it was a game. He walked her backward a few steps. Her back against one of the trees. He pressed his body close, purposefully. She could feel him through his trousers—the shape of him, raised and excited. She gasped, and again he misunderstood, leaned his face to hers, said, “I like you, Isabel.” He huffed, something like a laugh. “You play these games…”

“Johan,” she said once more, and knew how it sounded: breathless, pleading. She had been on edge all night. She had sat with her heart beating fast, had flushed, had gone wet and wanting at someone else’s nearness—the memory of Eva’s hands in her hair, how she had pulled. The pooling shadow of a look when Isabel had said, You can. You will.

Her desire got tangled and Johan’s hand on her ribs made her arch, crossed wires, and then he kissed her. She let it happen a moment, and then turned away from it. His tongue had been heavy in her mouth. He kissed her jaw, her neck. She panted under him. One light upstairs was on, and when Isabel looked up, the curtains drew close—quick as anything.

She pushed him off. “I have—” She pushed him again. “I have a guest, Johan.”

He slumped away, slumped next to her—shoulder against the tree trunk. “What,” he said, looked at her with a smile. “She can’t see anyway. She won’t mind.”

Isabel smoothed down her shirt. She wanted to wash out her mouth. She wanted to be back in the house. “Good night,” she said.

Johan groaned. “Isabel!” he said. He had two hands in his pockets, the fabric tight over his crotch. She walked away, dizzy. He said it again: “Isabel!” and laughed. “Are you walking away! Really!”