A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [32]
Even now, in the dining room of the inn, Harrison experienced a slight aftershock of the quake he had felt that afternoon. First the bewilderment. Then the stunning surprise. Finally, his outrage at Stephen, even though Harrison knew Stephen’s betrayal to have been unwitting: Harrison had never spoken to Stephen of his missed opportunity—a missed opportunity being, by definition, a nonstory.
Harrison, stunningly preoccupied, could not get into the crouch, could not get loose, as the new pitcher threw his first pitch. Strike one. Harrison glanced from Stephen to Nora and back again, a comic-book swivel, Harrison’s intuition confirmed when he saw Stephen glance over at the hillock and smile. How had Harrison not seen that smile before? Surely, it was not the first of the game?
The batter swung at a bad pitch—strike two—which should have lifted Harrison up onto his toes, ready for a grounder and a third out. The batter swung at the third pitch, high and outside, improbably making contact and sending it on a hop to Harrison, who booted it behind the first baseman, a senior, who in turn had to run for it, trying to field it as it ricocheted against a wooden fence.
Man on second.
Harrison, glancing at Stephen, saw a puzzled look on his friend’s face. Harrison turned away, furious. North Fenton’s pitcher was at the plate, an easy out by all accounts, though now it was a ground ball right through the legs of Kidd’s pitcher. Harrison fielded it but was slow to get it out of his glove, and the runner beat the throw. When Harrison glanced up, he saw that the runner from second had scored.
0-7.
Harrison’s memory could not retrieve the rest of the game, though he recalled that afterward, as they picked up their bats and helmets and ate the brownies and drank the lemonade a team parent had brought, he saw Stephen walk to where Nora reclined. She stood up and brushed the back of her skirt. Stephen hovered over her and spoke. Of the pitiful game? Of his own beautiful but wasted play? Nora looked up once and smiled. And though the pair did not touch, Harrison knew, by the way Nora let Stephen stand so close to her, that they had touched, had perhaps even kissed. Was it possible they were already lovers?
Harrison felt a brief touch on his left shoulder and looked up. Nora moved into view. “The fly appears not merely to have alighted on the fruit,” she said. “Nor . . . nor even to have inadvertently drowned. But . . . it would seem from the insect’s supine and slightly sensual posture . . . to have wallowed in the viscous syrup of the dressing.” She had on a slim black skirt and a white blouse through which Harrison could see her camisole. He stood, but she waved him down and sat across from him. “This . . . this is not, strictly speaking, a crime,” she added. “Nor can this event entirely obliterate the sense of well-being I had earlier on the porch. Not in the way blocked plumbing can, for example. But I wonder if it isn’t, if it isn’t a harbinger of the weekend to come. ‘Well-being’ a fruit one can peel away, layer by layer.”
Harrison smiled at the baroque apology.
“I’m joking,” Nora said, “but I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the fly.”
“Don’t be,” Harrison said, “if the result is that charmingly obscene image.”
“Judy brought the plate to me for my inspection.” Nora had on pearl earrings and, unlike earlier this morning, a suggestion of makeup. Her lips looked glossy. Her eyes were darker, more defined.
“Judy is very honest, then, and you should employ her forever. She was apologetic enough for both of you.”
“Judy