After he left, Abigail stepped into the water of the lap pool, donned her cap and the goggles, and began her slow, awkward crawl that kept pulling her to the left. As she swam, she tried to empty her mind of what was happening, but it wasn’t working.
Even though she’d decided earlier that morning that if she couldn’t talk Scottie into leaving her alone she would tell Bruce some version of the truth, she was beginning to wonder if maybe she should lie, after all. Scottie was messing with her life, and maybe she needed to protect herself. She imagined a conversation with Bruce, maybe over lunch.
I didn’t bring this up last night because I didn’t want to freak you out, she’d say. But there’s a guy here that I met out in California.
He was a pest, kept asking me if I was sure I was ready to get married, and maybe I talked with him too long, but he’s here now.
He must have become obsessed or something. I didn’t tell you last night because I didn’t want to wreck anything, but I think you need to know.
She imagined herself crying. And then she imagined Bruce springing into action, having Scottie removed from the premises.
No doubt Scottie would try to tell a different story, but Bruce would believe her, wouldn’t he? And maybe, in this case, lying would be the best thing to do for everyone involved. Maybe it would be the kindest thing to do for Bruce?
Her arm came down on the rope that separated the lanes—she was drifting left again—and she bobbed to the surface to take some deep breaths. The water was a perfect temperature, reminding her of the feel of Woodhouse Pond, her favorite swimming spot near Boxgrove. The man who’d also been doing laps had disappeared, and Abigail wondered if he’d swum through the connecting tunnel into the grotto. She decided to follow his lead, but after getting in a little more exercise. She even thought that when she got to the grotto she’d press that secret button and get herself a Bloody Mary, maybe even a pitcher. She picked up her pace, exhausting herself, and she felt good for the first time that morning. Even though she had slept with the stranger from California, that didn’t give him any kind of right to fly across the country to try to fuck up her marriage. The anger felt good, as though it were filling her, and she almost considered going straight to Bruce and telling him what was going on—the half-truth version —right away. She wanted it over and done with so she could really start her life. Instead, she crossed the lanes of the lap pool, then breaststroked her way through the tunnel and past the greenery and into the grotto. The water was lit from below and the ceiling was bowed, shaped like a planetarium, shimmering with light from the pool.
The man was settled to one side of the gently flowing waterfall, his head back along the pool’s stone rim, his long, muscular arms stretched out to either side. He seemed to be breathing hard, but nodded in her direction as she swam into the middle of the pool.
“I’m ordering a drink,” Abigail said to him. “What can I get you?”
He smiled and said, “What are you having?” His accent wasn’t American. She thought it was probably English even though there was a little bit of a lilt to it, as if he might be from the Caribbean.
“I can’t decide between some sort of healthy smoothie and a Bloody Mary, so I thought I might order both.”
“I can’t let you drink alone. I’ll have a Greyhound.”
“What’s that?” Abigail asked.
“Vodka and grapefruit juice. Get two of them. That way you’ll have three drinks.”
She got out of the pool and walked, dripping, to the button.
About five seconds after she pushed it, Brad entered the pool area; he must have been waiting just outside the door. “Can we get some drinks?” she asked, then gave her order.
The man’s name was Porter, and it turned out he was from Bermuda. After the drinks had arrived, she told him how she was on her honeymoon with Bruce, and he told her how he’d come here with a small group of insurance executives. The rest were sailing on the pond this morning.
“Not your thing?” Abigail asked.
“Actually, I grew up sailing, and didn’t want to see it done poorly by my colleagues. Besides, I’d been to this pool earlier and there was no way I wasn’t coming back before I left.”
“Has it been this quiet the whole time you’ve been here?”
He took a long sip of his Greyhound, some of the salt from the rim clinging to his upper lip.
“When did you get here?” he said. “Last night? There was a big group that left yesterday morning, but, yes, it’s quiet. Definitely quiet.”