“How did you find me?”
Patrick stood, leaving the backs of his thighs on the tacky chair. He ignored the smart of his legs and motioned for his sister to follow him. “Come.”
Clara drew her shoulders back. “I’m not doing this, Patrick. Not without my attorney present.”
She has an attorney. He motioned again, this time toward the back door.
“Oh, no,” Clara said, as if she’d seen one too many episodes of Dateline.
“I’m not kidnapping you, for heaven’s sake. You can follow me to a second location.”
“I said, not without my attorney.”
Patrick stared until Clara blinked, then marched deeper into the lobby toward the pool. He didn’t look back; he knew that she would follow, and lag no more than ten steps behind. She wasn’t the type to leave things unsaid.
“How did you find me?” Clara wanted an answer. They paused at the sliding doors that led outside.
“Like it was difficult. You would never stay anywhere without using points.”
Outside, only a few people were swimming. Families mostly, with kids. It was late July now, not exactly peak season. The city was dead. It was the hardest thing to get used to for a New England native, where the summer months counted for everything. Patrick surveyed the pool deck. A young man in a white polo shirt and shorts approached with a drink tray. Patrick removed his hat and sunglasses, then ran his hands through his hair. For once, he wanted to be his most recognizable. “Excuse me,” he said, stopping the pool attendant. He had an enviable tan. “I was wondering if we could use one of your cabanas.”
The young man looked back in the direction of the shaded tents. “Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more.” His face softened as recognition set in. Patrick could always sense the exact moment, the release of adrenaline perhaps, or the nerves kicking in. It was a subtle shift, but not an invisible one. A smile crept across the waiter’s face, his teeth sparkling white against his suntan. “But, I don’t see why not. Shall I bring you a couple of drink menus?”
“What are those?” Patrick pointed to two frozen drinks on his tray.
“Pi?a coladas. Doused with a shot of spiced rum.”
Patrick smiled. Party house be damned. “We’ll take two of those.”
As they settled in the cabana, Clara wrapped the straps around her bag and set it gently by her side. “Rules don’t apply to you, do they?”
“What?” Patrick asked innocently.
“‘Those are usually reserved for parties of six or more . . .’”
“Clara, it’s the dead of summer. No one’s here.”
The cabana provided welcome shade and comfortable white furniture that didn’t ask for your skin as the price to sit down. Patrick kicked off his shoes and propped an orange pillow behind him; he wanted to appear casual, nonthreatening, to set the tone. His mother’s voice, Don’t be angry. He was doing his best, for the sake of the kids, if nothing else. He had to be what they needed right now.
Guncle with a “G.”
“Clara.” He realized suddenly he hadn’t formulated a plan. “What’s going on?”
Clara refused his gaze, focusing instead on the design in the outdoor rug.
“Something’s happening. You’re in a lot of pain.”
Clara frowned. They sat in silence until Patrick couldn’t take it anymore. There were other things he had hoped to accomplish with his day.
“Something prompted your visit. You love these kids. But you’re not spontaneous.”
Clara gritted her teeth, then relented. “Darren and I are getting a divorce.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Clara. I’m so sorry.”
“He was having an affair. Multiple affairs, it seems.” She looked over at the mountains as if it were no big deal, but the betrayal clearly stung.
“Monogamy is dead,” Patrick observed—casually, he thought, but it clearly hit Clara like a slap across the face. He apologized immediately. “Sorry. That was payback for something. This mess.”
Clara chewed on her lip and it scared Patrick, the acceptance, the defeat. Clara spent her life raging for everyone, every person maligned by someone else, but she couldn’t summon the fight for herself? He sat perfectly still. Only after what seemed like an interminable silence did he inch forward, placing his hand gently on his sister’s knee.
“You don’t deserve this,” he added.
“No. No, I don’t.”